First through the Grand Canyon

by John Wesley Powell

I supposed, before starting, that I could get a good view of the great mountain from this point; but it is like climbing a chair to look at a castle. I wish to discover some way by which it can be ascended, as it is my intention to go to the summit before I return to the settlements. There is a cliff near the summit, and I do not see the way yet. Now down I go, sliding on the cinders, making them rattle and clang.

The Indians say we are to have a short ride to-day, and that we will reach an Indian village, situated by a good spring. Our way is across the spurs that put out from the great mountain, as we pass it to the left.

Up and down we go, across deep ravines, and the fragments of lava clank under our horses’ feet; now among cedars, now among pines, and now across mountain side glades. At one o’clock we descend into a lovely valley, with a carpet of waving grass; sometimes there is a little water in the upper end of it, and, during some seasons, the Indians we wish to find are encamped here. Chu-ar′-ru-um-peak rides on to find them, and to say we are friends, otherwise they would run away, or propose to fight us, should we come without notice. Soon we see Chu-ar′-ru-um-peak riding at full speed, and hear him shouting at the top of his voice, and away in the distance are two Indians, scampering up the mountain side. One stops; the other still goes on, and is soon lost to view. We ride up, and find Chu-ar′-ru-um-peak talking with the one who had stopped. It is one of the ladies resident in these mountain glades; she is evidently paying taxes, Godiva like. She tells us that her people are at the spring; that it is only two hours’ ride; that her good master has gone on to tell them we are coming, and that she is harvesting seeds.

We sit down and eat our luncheon, and share our biscuit with the woman of the mountains; then on we go, over a divide between two rounded peaks. I send the party on to the village, and climb the peak on the left, riding my horse to the upper limit of trees, and then tugging up afoot. From this point I can see the Grand Cañon, and know where I am. I can see the Indian village, too, in a grassy valley, embosomed in the mountains, the smoke curling up from their fires; my men are turning out their horses, and a group of natives stand around. Down the mountain I go, and reach camp at sunset.

After supper we put some cedar boughs on the fire, the dusky villagers sit around, and we have a smoke and a talk. I explain the object of my visit, and assure them of my friendly intentions. Then I ask them about a way down into the cañon. They tell me that years ago, a way was discovered by which parties could go down, but that no one has attempted it for a long time; that it is a very difficult and very dangerous undertaking to reach the “Big Water.” Then I inquire about the Shi′-vwits, a tribe that lives about the springs on the mountain sides and cañon cliffs to the southwest. They say that their village is now about thirty miles away, and promise to send a messenger for them to-morrow morning.

Having finished our business for the evening, I ask if there is a tu-gwi′-na-gunt in camp: that is, if there is any one present who is skilled in relating their mythology. Chu-ar′-ru-um-peak says To-mor′-ro-un-ti-kai, the chief of these Indians, is a very noted man for his skill in this matter; but they both object, by saying that the season for tu-gwi′-nai has not yet arrived. But I had anticipated this, and soon some members of the party come with pipes and tobacco, a large kettle of coffee, and a tray of biscuits, and, after sundry ceremonies of pipe lighting and smoking, we all feast, and, warmed up by this, to them, unusual good living, it is decided that the night shall be spent in relating mythology. I ask To-mor′-ro-un-ti-kai to tell us about the So′-kus Wai′-un-ats, or One Two Boys, and to this he agrees.

The long winter evenings of an Indian camp are usually devoted to the relation of mythological stories, which purport to give a history of an ancient race of animal gods. The stories are usually told by some old man, assisted by others of the party, who take secondary parts, while the members of the tribe gather about, and make comments, or receive impressions from the morals which are enforced by the story teller, or, more properly, story tellers; for the exercise partakes somewhat of the nature of a theatrical performance.

THE SO′-KUS WAI′-UN-ATS.

Tum-pwi-nai′-ro-gwi-nump, he who had a stone shirt, killed Si-kor′, the Crane, and stole his wife, and seeing that she had a child, and thinking it would be an incumbrance to them on their travels, he ordered her to kill it. But the mother, loving the babe, hid it under her dress, and carried it away to its grandmother. And Stone Shirt carried his captured bride to his own land.

In a few years the child grew to be a fine lad, under the care of his grandmother, and was her companion wherever she went.