Dellenbaugh Butte, Green River near the San Rafael.
Photograph by E.O. BEAMAN, U.S. Colo. Riv. Exp.
In many places we would lower a boat by lines near the shore, with two men in her, and when a rock appeared they fended her off, or jumped into the water and eased the craft along, touching bottom where they could. This worked very well for this place and the stage of water, though on this river one must ever be ready to adapt himself to differing conditions. Rapids were very numerous, but we succeeded in passing them in one way or another without seriously injuring the boats. The walls grew to magnificent proportions. At one camp we could see, on the very top of the cliff opposite, an object that from our position was the counterpart of a log cabin. Tall pines grew around it and the deception was complete. The cliff being twenty-four hundred feet high, the “cabin” must, in reality have been of huge size; but we applied the name “Log-Cabin Cliff” to the place. At a heavy descent, where the Emma Dean of the first expedition was swamped, we took no chances and made a careful let-down; a little farther on we did the same thing again. This method of passing a rapid is not romantic, but our object was not to perform spectacular feats but to accomplish the work in hand; so wherever there was any doubt as to the safety of running a rapid we adopted the prudent course. It was difficult to decide sometimes just where to draw the line; in one rapid we tried to go through, the Nell struck a rock, knocking Thompson out and nearly capsizing, but no real harm was done. The walls increased to nearly three thousand feet, and the rapids followed each other in quick succession every day. At one point we saw, a couple of thousand feet above on the right a gigantic example of the natural arches. Beyond this the walls began to grow somewhat lower. Our life through this gorge, as well as through some others, might be described by the monotonous phrase, “Got up, ran rapids, went to bed.” There was no time to do anything else. At night we were always sleepy and tired. Fortunately there were here fine places to camp—plenty of room, with smooth sand to sleep on. As soon as we halted for the night we would don our dry clothes from the rubber bags, and, when supper was over, would prepare a bed. If any kind of boughs or willows were to be had, we cut a quantity and, laying them in regular order near together, formed a sort of mattress which was very comfortable. If these were not to be had, the softest spot of sand was the next choice. In putting the river suit on in the morning, there was often something of a shock, for it was not always thoroughly dry. At length the welcome end of Desolation came, indicated by a lowering of the walls and a break, where we were surprised to see a solitary lame horse, but the next canyon, Gray, formed immediately. This was at first called Lignite Canyon, but was afterwards renamed on account of the grey colour of the walls; an unusual feature. The work here was similar to that in Desolation, and we were not sorry when we came to the foot of it, there going into camp to await the return of Powell. One of our flags was planted at the end of an island below the canyon mouth, so that he might see it. Opposite our camp was a very striking pinnacle then called Cathedral Butte, but later changed to Gunnison. Here we took the boats out and gave them a good overhauling, which they badly needed. The descent through Desolation and Gray had been nearly six hundred feet.
Gunnison Butte.
Head of Gunnison Valley and foot of Gray Canyon.
Powell Expedition of 1871 repairing boats.
Photograph by E.O. BEAMAN, U.S. Colo. Riv. Exp.
Fishing one evening, Hillers thought his hook had caught in a snag, but he was greatly surprised after carefully pulling in his line, to find on the end of it a sluggish fish four feet long, and as large around as a stovepipe. We were to wait here till the 3d of September for Powell, but on the 29th of August three shots were heard in the valley outside; the Major’s signal. W. C. Powell and I were sent to investigate. We found him, with a companion, on the other bank, opposite the flag we had put up. Arriving near our station, a man was sent to take their horses down to their camp, about five miles below, and they went with us on the boats. Hamblin, the man with Powell, was not altogether comfortable in some of the swift places. As we cleared the high butte marking the end of Gray Canyon, we perceived, stretching away to the westward from it, a beautiful line of azure-blue cliffs, wonderfully buttressed and carved. At first these were called the Henry Cliffs, but afterward Henry was applied to some mountains and the cliffs were called Azure. At the camp we found another man, like the first a Mormon and, as we learned later by intimate acquaintance, both of fine quality and sterling merit. The supplies Powell had brought were three hundred pounds of flour, some jerked beef, and about twenty pounds of sugar, from a town on the Sevier called Manti, almost due west of our position about eighty miles in an air line. The pack-train having failed to reach the mouth of the Dirty Devil, these additional rations were to carry us on to the next station, the Crossing of the Fathers; but they were not enough. The other man with Hamblin was a cousin of the same name, and when they rode away one evening as the sun was going down, we were sorry to part with them. Their course lay through a wild, desolate country, but we learned later that they had no trouble, though the day after leaving us they ran upon a large camp of Utes. Fortunately the Utes were friendly.
Labyrinth Canyon, Trinalcove.
Photograph by E.O. BEAMAN, U.S. Colo. Riv. Exp.
For our part, we pushed off in our boats and headed for the Crossing of the Fathers with some misgivings on the food question. A large amount of mail had been brought in, and we enjoyed the newspapers, although they were weeks old. Some monthly magazines were a great boon. For a time the stream was placid, allowing us to tie the boats together and drift again for a little while. Thompson and the Major read aloud from Whittier, the men sang “Sweet Evelina,” and all appreciated the opportunity for this brief relaxation. Here and there evidences of crossings were noted, for it was in this valley that Gunnison went over on the trip that proved fatal to him, and here for years the Old Spanish Trail, which Wolfskill inaugurated, led many eastward and westward, while Utes and other Amerinds had used it long before that. Indeed, as before mentioned, it was for a long time the first locality, coming up from the Grand Wash, where the stream could easily be crossed; a distance of about six hundred miles. Many strangely eroded cliffs and buttes appeared as we descended, and one of these, near the mouth of the San Rafael, was named after me. At one place we saw some springs bubbling up from the bottom of an inlet, one of which was remarkable because of its size and power. Its jet was five or six inches in diameter, and rose six or eight inches above the surface, the water being two or three feet in depth. They were called Undine Springs. At the San Rafael a heavy rainstorm came up, and presently we detected a loud roaring we could not account for. At last, however, it was discovered to arise from the accumulated rain-water which was pouring over a near-by cliff in a muddy torrent. The whole country was extremely bare and barren, mostly rock, and the rain gathered as on the roof of a house. The river had narrowed up before we reached the San Rafael and had entered low, broken walls. The current was rather swift, but there were no rapids. As we went on, the sight of the rain cascades falling with varying volume and colour, some chocolate, some amber, was very beautiful. They continued for a time after the rain had ceased, and then, as if the flood-gates had been closed, they vanished, to reappear every time it began to rain afresh. Before long the cliffs had reached one thousand feet in altitude, and we were fairly within Labyrinth Canyon, which begins its existence at the mouth of the San Rafael. Many of the rain cascades in the afternoon of this day were perfectly clear, and often fell several hundreds of feet, vanishing in spray, and presenting varied and exquisite effects in combination with the rich tones of the wet brown sandstone, and the background of dark grey sky. They ever increased in number, and directly opposite that night’s camp one fell straight down for about two hundred feet, disappeared in mist to gather again on a ledge below, and shot out once more, a delicate silvery thread against the dark mass of the cliff. The next day we passed a group of three canyons entering at one point, to which the name Trinalcove was given, as they appeared from the river like alcoves rather than canyons. The river was now very winding with walls frequently vertical. There were no rapids, though the water as a rule moved somewhat swiftly. The days were growing short, and the night air had an autumnal chill about it that made the camp-fire comforting. At the end of sixty-two miles the walls broke up into buttes and pinnacles, thousands of them, suggesting immense organs, cathedrals, and almost anything the imagination pictured. One resembling a mighty cross lying down was in consequence called the “Butte of the Cross.”[[1]] This was practically the end of Labyrinth Canyon, and sweeping around a beautiful bend, where the rocks again began to come together, we were in the beginning of the next canyon of the series, two years before named Stillwater. At the suggestion of Beaman, the bend was called Bonito. On leaving our camp at this place the walls rapidly ran up, the current grew swifter, but the river remained smooth. The canyon was exceedingly “close,” the rocks rising vertically from the edge of the water. There were few places where a landing could be made, but luckily no landing was necessary, except for night. The darkness fell before we found a suitable camp-ground. Some of our supplies had now to be used with caution, for it became evident that we would run short of food before we could get any more.