But we come out on an exposed plateau, above the madly rushing Colorado River but below the main masses of the ravine. Between wall and wall of the Cañon rise gigantic isolated rocks as if there were a city built in the trough of the river. Rim to rim the gap is sixteen miles across—so there is "verge enough and ample space" for adamantine temples, pavilions and towers. The plateau is bowlder-strewn and only enlivened by the irislike yucca stems and by small pink cactus and prickly pear. On our left is an appalling great red fortress of stone whose sheer wall cuts across the life light of the zenith; on our right and below us is the rock cleavage of the hidden Colorado River; whilst above us in a seraphically serene noonday bask the domes of isolated rocks fantastically named and yet happily named too—the Temple of Shiva, the Temple of Isis, the Temple of Buddha.
On the left as we walk on, comes into view, far aloft, a cream-colored sky castle, all happy in the sun. But, lowering the eyes, there resumes its sway the fortress whose great wall we are turning, and we begin to see its vast, blood-red and green base. We walk into a cold shadow which seems as substantial as the rocks themselves, and we cross the broad stony scarp of precipitous cliffs, going downward, till we come right under what seems an ancient castle—out of fairyland or the England of the Mort d'Arthur, a quadrilateral of blood in a hideous pool of darkness.
But no giant sallied forth with blood-stained ax. No one is at home in any fortress, castle, tower, or temple—no more than in the rooms of the stone and mud-closed caves of the cliff dwellers. Not even a tourist—no, not a mule. Only certainly wild asses in great numbers wherever there is any pasture, uncatchable donkeys who sneeze at you at the most unexpected moments.
Ewart and I sat by a spring at noon and rested and talked whilst the tumbling water spoke to us also, and we boiled a pot over dry weeds and bits of cactus later on and had our lunch. It was a happy moment—there was a sense of escape, as if we had gone to Southern California or Mexico and got away from the rigorous winter of the exalted deserts of the South.
"By George!" Ewart cried, "I nearly took a toss up above. What have you on your boots; I have nails."
I had rubber on mine.
"Yes, I could not get a foothold on that ice; I was reduced to hands and knees."
"Curious, they say they have had no human accidents here. The last accident was when eight horses yoked together and laden with T. N. T. went over the brink and fell a sheer five hundred feet."
"I did not hear of that."
"Yes, one of the horses was new to the Cañon and proved unruly. He fouled his neighbor and he slipped over the side, pulling all seven horses after him."