Through The Grand Canyon From Wyoming to Mexico

Dedication

To The Many Friends Who "Pulled" For Us, If Not With Us During The One Hundred One Days Of Our River Trip This Volume Is Respectfully Dedicated

Foreword

It is a dogged courage of which the author of this book is the serene possessor — shared equally by his daring brother; and evidence of this bravery is made plain throughout the following pages. Every youth who has in him a spark of adventure will kindle with desire to battle his way also from Green River to the foot of Bright Angel Trail; while every man whose bones have been stiffened and his breath made short by the years, will remember wistfully such wild tastes of risk and conquest that he, too, rejoiced in when he was young.

Whether it deal with the climbing of dangerous peaks, or the descent (as here) of some fourteen hundred miles of water both mysterious and ferocious, the well-told tale of a perilous journey, planned with head and carried through with dauntless persistence, always holds the attention of its readers and gives them many a thrill. This tale is very well told. Though it is the third of its kind, it differs from its predecessors more than enough to hold its own: no previous explorers have attempted to take moving pictures of the Colorado River with themselves weltering in its foam. More than this: while the human race lasts it will be true, that any man who is lucky enough to fix upon a hard goal and win it, and can in direct and simple words tell us how he won it, will write a good book.

Perhaps this planet does somewhere else contain a thing like the Colorado River — but that is no matter; we at any rate in our continent possess one of nature's very vastest works. After The River and its tributaries have done with all sight of the upper world, have left behind the bordering plains and streamed through the various gashes which their floods have sliced in the mountains that once stopped their way, then the culminating wonder begins. The River has been flowing through the loneliest part which remains to us of that large space once denominated "The Great American Desert" by the vague maps in our old geographies. It has passed through regions of emptiness still as wild as they were before Columbus came; where not only no man lives now nor any mark is found of those forgotten men of the cliffs, but the very surface of the earth itself looks monstrous and extinct. Upon one such region in particular the author of these pages dwells, when he climbs up out of the gulf in whose bottom he has left his boat by the River, to look out upon a world of round gray humps and hollows which seem as if it were made of the backs of huge elephants. Through such a country as this, scarcely belonging to our era any more than the mammoth or the pterodactyl, scarcely belonging to time at all, does the Colorado approach and enter its culminating marvel. Then, for 283 miles it inhabits a nether world of its own. The few that have ventured through these places and lived are a handful to those who went in and were never seen again. The white bones of some have been found on the shores; but most were drowned; and in this water no bodies ever rise, because the thick sand that its torrent churns along clogs and sinks them. This place exerts a magnetic spell. The sky is there above it, but not of it. Its being is apart; its climate; its light; its own. The beams of the sun come into it like visitors. Its own winds blow through it, not those of outside, where we live. The River streams down its mysterious reaches, hurrying ceaselessly; sometimes a smooth sliding lap, sometimes a falling, broken wilderness of billows and whirlpools. Above stand its walls, rising through space upon space of silence. They glow, they gloom, they shine. Bend after bend they reveal themselves, endlessly new in endlessly changing veils of colour. A swimming and jewelled blue predominates, as of sapphires being melted and spun into skeins of shifting cobweb. Bend after bend this trance of beauty and awe goes on, terrible as the Day of Judgment, sublime as the Psalms of David. Five thousand feet below the opens and barrens of Arizona, this canyon seems like an avenue conducting to the secret of the universe and the presence of the gods.

Is much wonder to be felt that its beckoning enchantment should have drawn two young men to dwell beside it for many years; to give themselves wholly to it; to descend and ascend among its buttressed pinnacles; to discover caves and waterfalls hidden in its labyrinths; to climb, to creep, to hang in mid-air, in order to learn more and more of it, and at last to gratify wholly their passion in the great adventure of this journey through it from end to end? No siren song could have lured travellers more than the siren silence of the Grand Canyon: but these young men did not leave their bones to whiten upon its shores. The courage that brought them out whole is plain throughout this narrative, in spite of its modesty.

OWEN WISTER

Preface

This is a simple narrative of our recent photographic trip down the Green and Colorado rivers in rowboats — our observations and impressions. It is not intended to replace in any way the books published by others covering a similar journey. Major J. W. Powell's report of the original exploration, for instance, is a classic, literary and geological; and searchers after excellence may well be recommended to his admirable work.

Neither is this chronicle intended as a handbook of the territory traversed — such as Mr. F. S. Dellenbaugh's two volumes: "The Romance of the Grand Canyon," and "A Canyon Voyage." We could hardly hope to add anything of value to his wealth of detail. In fact, much of the data given here — such as distances, elevations, and records of other expeditions — is borrowed from the latter volume. And I take this opportunity of expressing our appreciation to Mr. Dellenbaugh for his most excellent and entertaining books. We are indebted to Mr. Julius F. Stone, of Columbus, Ohio, for much valuable information and assistance. Mr. Stone organized a party and made the complete trip down the Green and Colorado rivers in the fall and winter of 1909, arriving at Needles, California, on November 27, 1909. He freely gave us the benefit of his experience and presented us with the complete plans of the boats he used.

One member of this party was Nathan Galloway, of Richfield, Utah. To him we owe much of the success of our journey. Mr. Galloway hunts and traps through the wilds of Utah, Colorado, and Arizona, and has a fame for skill and nerve throughout this entire region. He makes a yearly trip through the upper canyons, usually in a boat of his own construction; and in addition has the record of being the only person who has made two complete trips through the entire series of canyons, clear to Needles. He it is who has worked out the type of boats we used, and their management in the dangerous waters of the Colorado.

We have tried to make this narrative not only simple, as we say, but truthful. However, no two people can see things in exactly the same light. To some, nothing looks big; to others, every little danger is unconsciously magnified out of all proportion. For instance, we can recall rapids which appeared rather insignificant at first, but which seemed decidedly otherwise after we had been overturned in them and had felt their power — especially at the moment when we were sure we had swallowed a large part of the water that composed them.

The reader will kindly excuse the use of the first person, both singular and plural. It is our own story, after all, and there seems to be no other way than to tell it as you find it here.

Appendix

LIST of ILLUSTRATIONS

The Grand Canyon near the mouth of Ha Va Su Creek

After a difficult picture. E.C.Kolb on rope.

In the Grand Canyon near the Little Colorado.

The start at Green River, Wyoming.

Fire Hole Chimneys.

A typical butte formation.

Boats and crew. Photo taken in the Grand Canyon.

Skeleton found in the Grand Canyon.

Insider of the first canyons.

Tilted rocks at Kingfisher Canyon.

Results, two weeks after finish of trip.

Immense rocks had fallen from the cliff.

Ashley Falls, looking down-stream.

James Fagan

Hubert Lauzon. Photo 1920.

The rocks were dark red; ocasional pines grew on the ledges, making a charming combination of colour.

We stopped at one hay ranch close to the Utah-Colorado line.

Remarkable entrance to Lodore Canyon.

The river cut a channel under the walls at Lower Disaster Falls.

Everything was wet.

A Colorado River salmon.

Lodore Canyon as seen from Brown's Park.

The Canyon was gloomy and darkened with shreds of clouds.

It took nine loads to empty one boat.

An upright log was found wedged between the boulders.

Echo Cliffs. This was the end of Lodore.

End of Echo Cliffs. The mouth of the Yampa River is on the right.

Marvels of erosion.

Here was one end of the rainbow of rock that began on the other side of the mountains.

Pat Lynch: the Canyon hermit.

Each bed was placed in a rubber and a canvas sack.

Now for a fish story.

The center of three symmetrical formations in the Double Bow Knot.

The Buttes of the Cross.

The Land of Standing Rocks was like a maze.

Rocks overhanging the Colorado's Gorge.

Thirteen hundred feet above the Green River.

The junction of the Green and Grand Rivers.

Looking west into Cataract Canyon.

Charles Smith and his boat.

A narrow channel at Rapid No. 22.

Developing tests.

Rapid No. 22 in Cataract Canyon.

The "Edith" in a cataract.

A seventy-five foot drop in three-fourths of a mile.

Camp in the heart of Cataract Canyon.

Lower Cataract Canyon. Boats tandem.

Beginnings of a natural bridge. Glen Canyon.

Pictographs in Glen Canyon.

Cliff ruins near San Juan River.

Rainbow Natural Bridge, looking south.

Rainbow Natural Bridge, looking north.

Upper Marble Canyon.

Glen Canyon near Navajo Mountain.

Placer dredge at Lees Ferry.

Badger Creek Rapid.

Bands of marble in Marble Canyon.

A peaceful camp in Marble Canyon.

Ernest V. Kolb. Photo 1920.

The Soap Creek Rapid; a little above lowest stage. Photo published by permission of Julius F. Stone.

It was too good a camp to miss.

Arch in Marble Canyon.

Walls of Marble Canyon.

Approaching the Grand Canyon.

End of Marble Canyon, from the mouth of the Little Colorado.

Cataracts of the Little Colorado River.

End of the Hance Trail. Small white line is an intrusion of quartz in the algonkian.

Below the Sockdologer.

The Rust Tramway. Span four hundred and fifty feet.

Bright Angel Creek and Canyon.

Leaving home, Dec. 19, 1911.

A composite picture of Marble Canyon walls and a Grand Canyon rapid.

The "Edith" (on left of central rock) in Granite Falls.

Rough water in Hermit Creek Rapid.

Type of rapid in the granite near Bass Trail.

The inner plateau, thirteen hundred feet above the river.

Bert Lauzon, above Separation Rapid.

The break in the "Edith".

Merry Christmas! The repair was made with bilge boards, canvas, paint, and tin.

Pulling clear of a rock.

A shower bath.

Grand Canyon at the mouth of Ha Va Su Canyon. Medium high water. Frontispiece shows the same place in low water.

Morning revealed a little snow on the top.

New Year's Eve was spent in this section between the highest sheer walls in the lower gorge.

Lava Falls; Lava on left; warm springs on right.

Swift water in Tapeets Creek Rapid.

Lauzon, equiped with a life preserver on a rope, on guard below a rapid.

In the last granite gorge.

Captain Burro; a Ha Va Supai.

The last portage. The rocks were ice-filmed. Note potholes.

Mooney Falls; Ha Va Su Canyon.

Watching for the signal fire. Mrs Emery and Edith Kolb.

The Granite Gorge near Bright Angel Trail.

The Grand Canyon from the head of Bright Angel Trail.

The Cork Screw; lower end of Bright Angel Trail.

Zoroaster Temple from the end of Bright Angel Trail.

Winter in the Grand Canyon, from the rim.

Winter in the Grand Canyon, from the river.

A vaquero in the making.

Cliff swallows' nest. From Wyoming to Mexico.

Steam vents beside Volcanic Lake, Mexico.

Cocopah Mountain, Mexico.

Ten miles from the Gulf of California. Coming up on a twenty-foot tide.

Sunset on the lower Colorado River.

THROUGH THE GRAND CANYON

FROM WYOMING TO MEXICO

CHAPTER I Preparations At Green River City, Wyoming

Early in September of 1911 my brother Emery and I landed in Green River City, Wyoming, ready for the launching of our boats on our longplanned trip down the Green and Colorado rivers.

For ten years previous to this time we had lived at the Grand Canyon of Arizona, following the work of scenic photography. In a general way we had covered much of the country adjacent to our home, following our pack animals over ancient and little-used trails, climbing the walls of tributary canyons, dropping over the ledges with ropes when necessary, always in search of the interesting and unusual.

After ten years of such work many of our plans in connection with a pictorial exploration of the Grand Canyon were crowned with success. Yet all the while our real ambition remained unsatisfied.

We wanted to make the "Big Trip" — as we called it; in other words, we wanted a pictorial record of the entire series of canyons on the Green and Colorado rivers.

The time had come at last, after years of hoping, after long months of active preparation.

We stood at the freight window of the station at Green River City asking for news of our boats. They had arrived and could be seen in their crates shoved away in a corner. It was too late to do anything with them that day; so we let them remain where they were, and went out to look over the town. Green River City proved to be a busy little place noisy with switch engines, crowded with cattle-men and cowboys, and with hunting parties outfitting for the Jackson Hole country. A thoroughly Western town of the better sort, with all the picturesqueness of people and surroundings that the name implies.

It was busier than usual, even, that evening; for a noisy but good-natured crowd had gathered around the telegraph office, eager for news of a wrestling match then taking place in an Eastern city. As we came up they broke into a cheer at the news that the American wrestler had defeated his foreign opponent. There was a discussion as to what constituted the "toe-hold," three boys ran an impromptu foot-race, there was some talk on the poor condition of the range, and the party began to break up.

The little excitement over, we returned to the hotel; feeling, in spite of our enthusiasm, somewhat lonesome and very much out of place. Our sleep that night was fitful and broken by dreams wherein the places we had known were strangely interwoven with these new scenes and events. Through it all we seemed to hear the roar of the Rio Colorado.

We looked out of the window the next morning, on a landscape that was novel, yet somehow familiar. The river, a quarter of a mile away, very clear and unruffled under its groves of cottonwood, wound through low barren hills, as unlike as could be to the cliffs and chasms we knew so well. But the colours — gray, red, and umber, just as Moran has painted them — reassured us. We seemed not so far from home, after all.

It was Wyoming weather, though; clear and cold, after a windy night. When, after breakfast, we went down to the river, we found that a little ice had formed along the margin.

The days of final preparation passed quickly — with unpacking of innumerable boxes and bundles, checking off each article against our lists; and with a long and careful overhauling of our photographic outfit. This last was a most important task, for the success of our expedition depended on our success as photographers. We could not hope to add anything of importance to the scientific and topographic knowledge of the canyons already existing: and merely to come out alive at the other end did not make a strong appeal to our vanity. We were there as scenic photographers in love with their work, and determined to reproduce the marvels of the Colorado's canyons, as far as we could do it. In addition to three film cameras we had 8x10 and 5x7 plate cameras; a plentiful supply of plates and films; a large cloth dark-room; and whatever chemicals we should need for tests. Most important of all, we had brought a motion-picture camera. We had no real assurance that so delicate an apparatus, always difficult to use and regulate, could even survive the journey — much less, in such inexperienced hands as ours, reproduce its wonders. But this, nevertheless, was our secret hope, hardly admitted to our most intimate friends — that we could bring out a record of the Colorado as it is, a live thing, armed as it were with teeth, ready to crush and devour. There was shopping to do; for the purchases of provisions, with a few exceptions, had been left to the last. There were callers, too — an embarrassing number of them. We had camped on a small island near the town, not knowing when we did so that it had recently been put aside for a public park. The whole of Green River City, it seemed, had learned of our project, and came to inspect, or advise, or jeer at us. The kindest of them wished us well; the other sort told us "it would serve us right"; but not one of our callers had any encouragement to offer. Many were the stories of disaster and death with which they entertained us. One story in particular, as it seems never to have reached print — though unquestionably true — ought to be set down here.

Three years before two young men from St. Louis had embarked here, intending to follow the river throughout its whole course. They were expert canoeists, powerful swimmers, and equipped with a steel boat, we were told, built somewhat after the style of a canoe. They chose the time of high water — not knowing, probably, that while high water decreases the labour of the passage, it greatly increases the danger of it. They came to the first difficult rapid in Red Canyon, seventy odd miles below Green River City. It looked bad to them. They landed above it and stripped to their underclothing and socks. Then they pushed out into the stream.

Almost at once they lost control of the boat. It overturned; it rolled over and over; it flung them off and left them swimming for their lives. In some way, possibly the currents favouring, they reached the shore. The boat, with all its contents, was gone. There they were, almost naked, without food, without weapons, without the means of building a fire; and in an uninhabited and utterly inhospitable country.

For four days they wandered, blistered by the sun by day; nearly frozen at night, bruised by the rocks, and torn by the brambles. Finally they reached the ranch at the head of the canyons and were found by a half-breed Indian, who cared for them. Their underwear had been made into bindings for their lacerated feet; they were nearly starved, and on the verge of mental collapse. After two weeks' treatment in the hospital at Green River City they were partially restored to health. Quite likely they spent many of the long hours of their convalescence on the river bank, or on the little island, watching the unruffled stream glide underneath the cotton woods. Such tales as this added nothing to our fears, of course — for the whole history of the Colorado is one long story of hardship and disaster, and we knew, even better than our advisors, what risks lay before us. We told our newfound friends, in fact, that we had lived for years on the brink of the Grand Canyon itself, a gorge deeper and more awful, even, than Lodore; with a volume of water ten times greater. We knew, of course, of the river's vast length, of the terrible gorges that confined it, of the hundreds of rapids through which a boat would have to pass.

We knew, too, how Major Powell, undismayed by legends of underground channels, impassable cataracts, and whirlpools; of bloodthirsty tribes haunting its recesses, — had passed through the canyons in safety, measuring and surveying as he went. We also knew of the many other attempts that had been made — most of them ending in disaster or death, a very few being successful.

Well, it had been done*; it could be done again — this was our answer to their premonitions.

* The various expeditions which are credited with continuous or complete journeys through all the canyons and the dates of leaving Green River, Wyoming, are as follows : Major Powell, 1st journey. May 24, 1869.

Major Powell, 2nd journey. May 22, 1871. Discontinued at Kanab

Canyon in the Grand Canyon.

Galloway. Sept. 20, 1895 and 1896.

Flavell. Aug. 27, 1896.

Stone. Sept. 12, 1909.

Kolb. Sept. 8, 1911.

For a more complete record of the earlier parties see appendix.

We had present worries enough to keep us from dwelling too much on the future. It had been our intention to start two weeks earlier, but there had been numerous unavoidable delays. The river was low; "the lowest they had seen it in years" they told us, and falling lower every day. There were the usual difficulties of arranging a lot of new material, and putting it in working order. At last we were ready for the boats, and you may be sure we lost no time in having them hauled to the river, and launching them. They were beauties — these two boats of ours — graceful, yet strong in line, floating easily, well up in the water, in spite of their five hundred pounds weight. They were flat-bottomed, with a ten-inch rake or raise at either end; built of white cedar, with unusually high sides; with arched decks in bow and stern, for the safe storing of supplies. Sealed air chambers were placed in each end, large enough to keep the boats afloat even if filled with water. The compartment at the bow was lined with tin, carefully soldered, so that even a leak in the bottom would not admit water to our precious cargoes. We had placed no limit on their cost, only insisting that they should be of materials and workmanship of the very best, and strictly in accordance with our specifications. In every respect but one they pleased us. Imagine our consternation when we discovered that the hatch covers were anything but water-tight, though we had insisted more upon this, perhaps, than upon any other detail. Loose boards, with cross-pieces, fastened with little thumbscrews — there they were, ready to admit the water at the very first upset. There was nothing to be done. It was too late to rebuild the hatches even if we had had the proper material. Owing to the stage of water it was imperative that we should start at once. Bad as it would be to have water in our cargo, it would be worse to have too little water in the rock-obstructed channels of Red Canyon, or in the "flats" at Brown's Park for instance. Certainly the boats acted so beautifully in the water that we could almost overlook the defective hatches. Emery rowed upstream for a hundred yards, against a stiff current, and came back jubilant.

"They're great — simply great!" he exclaimed.

We had one real cause for worry, for actual anxiety, though; and as each hour brought us nearer to the time of our departure, we grew more and more desperate. What about our third man ?

We were convinced that a third man was needed; if not for the duties of camp making, helping with the cooking and portaging; at least, for turning the crank of the motion-picture camera. Emery and I could not very well be running rapids, and photographing ourselves in the rapids at the same time. Without a capable assistant, therefore, much of the real purpose would be defeated.

Our first move, accordingly, had been to secure the services of a strong, level-headed, and competent man. Friends strongly advised us to engage a Canadian canoe-man, or at least some one familiar with the management of boats in rough water. It was suggested, also, that we might secure the help of some one of the voyagers who had been members of one of the previous expeditions.

But —we may as well be frank about it — we did not wish to be piloted through the Colorado by a guide. We wanted to make our own trip in our own way. If we failed, we would have no one but ourselves to blame; if we succeeded, we would have all the satisfaction that comes from original, personal exploration. In other words, we wanted a man to execute orders, not to give them. But that man was hard to find!

There had been many applicants; some of them from distant parts of the country. One by one they were sifted out. At length we decided on one man; but later he withdrew. We turned elsewhere, but these applications were withdrawn, until there remained but a single letter, from a young man in San Francisco. He seemed in every way qualified. We wrote accepting his application, but while waiting to hear from us a civil service position had been offered and accepted. "He was sorry"; and so were we, for his references proved that he was a capable man. Later he wrote that he had secured a substitute. We replied on the instant, by wiring money for transportation, with instructions for the new man to report at once at Green River. We took very much for granted, having confidence in our friends' sincerity and knowledge of just what was required.

The time had passed, two days before; but — no sign of our man! We wrote, we telegraphed, we walked back and forth to every train; but still he did not come. Had this man, too, failed us?

Then "Jimmy" came — just the night before we were to leave. And never was a man more heartily welcome!

With James Fagen of San Francisco our party was complete. He was an Irish-American, aged 22 years, a strong, active, and willing chap. To be sure, he was younger, and not so experienced at "roughing it" as we had hoped. But his good qualities, we were sure, would make up for what was lacking. Evening found us encamped a half mile below the town, near the county bridge. Our preparations were finished — even to the final purchase of odds and ends; with ammunition for shot-gun and rifle. We threw our sleeping-bags on the dry ground close to the river's edge, and, all our anxieties gone, we turned our faces to the stars and slept.

At daybreak we were aroused by the thunder of hoofs on the bridge above us, and the shouts of cowboys driving a large herd of half-broken horses. We tumbled into our clothes, splashed our faces with ice-cold water from the river, and hurried over to the hotel for a last breakfast. Then we sat down — in the little hotel at Green River City — as others had done before, to write last messages to those who were nearest and dearest to us. A telegram to our parents in an Eastern city; and another to Emery's wife and little girl, at Bright Angel, more than eight hundred miles down this self-same river — these, somehow, took longer to write than the letters themselves. But whatever we may have felt, we finished this final correspondence in silence, and hurried back to the river. Something of a crowd had gathered on the bridge to wish us bon voyage. Shouting up to them our thanks for their hospitality, and telling them to "look pleasant," we focused the motion-picture camera on them, Emery turning the crank, as the boat swung out into the current.

So began our journey, on Friday, September the 8th, 1911, at 9.30 a.m., as entered in my journal.

CHAPTER II Interesting Sights Of Southern Wyoming

All this preparation — and still more, the vexatious delays — had been a heavy tax upon us. We needed a vacation. We took it — six pleasant care-free days — hunting and fishing as we drifted through the sixty miles of southern Wyoming. There were ducks and geese on the river to test our skill with the shot-gun. Only two miles below Green River City Emery secured our first duck, a promise of good sport to follow. An occasional cottontail rabbit was seen, scurrying to cover through the sage-brush, when we made a detour from the boats. We saw many jack-rabbits too — with their long legs, and exaggerated ears — creatures swifter, even, than the coyotes themselves. We saw few people, though an occasional rancher hailed us from the shore. Men of the open themselves, the character of our expedition appealed to them. Their invitations to "come up to the ranch, and spend the evening" were always hearty, and could seldom be refused if the day was nearly gone. The Logan boys' ranch, for instance, was our first camp; but will be one of the last to be forgotten. The two Logan boys were sturdy, companionable young men, full of pranks, and of that bubbling, generous humour that flourishes in this Western air. We were amused by their kindly offer to allow Jimmy to ride "the little bay" — a beautiful animal, with the shifty eye of a criminal. But Jimmy, though city-bred, was not to be trapped, and declined; very wisely, as we thought. We photographed their favourite horses, and the cabin; also helped them with their own camera, and developed some plates in the underground storm-cellar, — a perfect dark-room, as it happened. We took advantage of this pleasant camp to make a few alterations about our boats. Certain mechanical details had been neglected in our desire to be off, our intention being to look after them as occasion demanded. Our short run had already shown us where we were weak or unprepared. The rowlocks needed strengthening. One had come apart in our first brush with a little riffle. The rowlocks were of a little-used type, but very serviceable in dangerous waters. Inside the usual rowlock a heavy ring was hung, kept in place by strong set-screws, but allowing full play in every direction. These rings were slipped over the oars; then the usual leather collar was nailed on the oar, making it impossible for the rings to become separated from the oars. The holes for the set-screws were too shallow, so we went over the entire lot to deepen them. We foresaw where a break might occur, and hung another lock of the open type on a cord, beside each oar, ready for instant use in case of emergency.