[1] Actually a pinnacle and a butte—not a single mass.{See page 275}.
Bonito Bend, between Labyrinth and Stillwater Canyons.
Photograph by E.O. BEAMAN, U.S. Colo. Riv. Exp.
The Butte of the Cross, between Labyrinth and Stillwater Canyons.
Photograph by E.O. BEAMAN, U.S. Colo. Riv. Exp.
Long ago, no one knows how long, we might have been able to purchase of the natives who, a few miles below this camp, had tilled a small piece of arable land in an alcove. Small huts for storage were found there in the cliffs, and on a promontory, about thirty feet above the water, were the ruins of stone buildings, one of which, twelve by twenty feet in dimensions, had walls still standing about six feet high. The canyon here was some six hundred feet wide; the walls about nine hundred feet high, though the top of the plateau through which the canyon is carved is at least fifteen hundred feet above the river. We discovered the trail by which the old Puebloans had made their way in and out. Where necessity called for it, poles and tree-trunks had been placed against the rocks to aid the climbers. Some of our party trusted themselves to these ancient ladders, and with the aid of a rope also, reached the summit.
Beyond this place of ruins, the river flowed between walls not over four hundred and fifty feet apart at the top. The current was about three miles an hour, with scarcely a ripple, though it appeared much swifter because of the nearness of the cliffs. At the end of seven miles of winding canyon, there came a sharp turn to the east, which brought into view, at the other end, another canyon of nearly equal proportions and similar appearance. In the bottom of this flowed a river of almost the same size as the Green. The waters of the two came together with a good deal of a rush, the commingling being plainly visible. Neither overwhelmed the other; it was a perfect union, and in some respects it is quite appropriate that the combined waters of these streams should have a special name to represent them. The new tributary was Grand River, and when our boats floated on the united waters, we were at last on the back of the Dragon. Away sped the current of the Colorado, swirling along, spitefully lashing with its hungry tongue the narrow sand-banks fringing the rugged shores, so that we scarcely knew where to make a landing. Finally we halted on the right, constantly watching the boats’ lines lest the sand should melt away and take our little ships with it. Along the bases of the cliffs above the high waters were narrow strips of rocky soil, supporting a few stunted cottonwoods and hackberry trees, which, with some stramonium bushes in blossom, were the sum total of vegetation. In every way the Junction is a desolate place. It is the beginning of Cataract Canyon, and forty-one miles must be put behind us before we would see its end—forty-one miles of bad river, too. From a point not far up the Green, which we easily reached with a boat, a number climbed out by means of a cleft about fifty feet wide, taking the photographic outfit along. The country above was a maze of crevices, pinnacles, and buttes, and it seemed an impossibility for any human being to travel more than a few hundred yards in any direction. The character of the place may best be illustrated by stating that Steward, who had gone up by a different route, was unable to reach us, though we could talk to him across a fissure. Many of these breaks could be jumped, but some of them were too wide for safety. The surface was largely barren sandstone, only a patch of sand here and there sustaining sometimes a bush or stunted cedar. It is the Land of Standing Rocks, as the Utes call it.