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Title: Canyons of the Colorado
Author: Powell, John Wesley, 1834-1902
Language: English
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Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

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Formerly Director of the United States Geological Survey. Member of the
National Academy of Sciences, etc., etc.


First published 1895


On my return from the first exploration of the canyons of the Colorado,
I found that our journey had been the theme of much newspaper writing. A
story of disaster had been circulated, with many particulars of hardship
and tragedy, so that it was currently believed throughout the United
States that all the members of the party were lost save one. A good
friend of mine had gathered a great number of obituary notices, and it
was interesting and rather flattering to me to discover the high esteem
in which I had been held by the people of the United States. In my
supposed death I had attained to a glory which I fear my continued life
has not fully vindicated.

The exploration was not made for adventure, but purely for scientific
purposes, geographic and geologic, and I had no intention of writing an
account of it, but only of recording the scientific results. Immediately
on my return I was interviewed a number of times, and these interviews
were published in the daily press; and here I supposed all interest in
the exploration ended. But in 1874 the editors of Scribner's Monthly
requested me to publish a popular account of the Colorado exploration in
that journal. To this I acceded and prepared four short articles, which
were elaborately illustrated from photographs in my possession.

In the same year--1874--at the instance of Professor Henry of the
Smithsonian Institution, I was called before an appropriations committee
of the House of Representatives to explain certain estimates made by the
Professor for funds to continue scientific work which had been in
progress from the date of the original exploration. Mr. Garfield was
chairman of the committee, and after listening to my account of the
progress of the geographic and geologic work, he asked me why no history
of the original exploration of the canyons had been published. I
informed him that I had no interest in that work as an adventure, but
was interested only in the scientific results, and that these results
had in part been published and in part were in course of publication.
Thereupon Mr. Garfield, in a pleasant manner, insisted that the history
of the exploration should be published by the government, and that I
must understand that my scientific work would be continued by additional
appropriations only upon my promise that I would publish an account of
the exploration. I made the promise, and the task was immediately

My daily journal had been kept on long and narrow strips of brown paper,
which were gathered into little volumes that were bound in sole leather
in camp as they were completed. After some deliberation I decided to
publish this journal, with only such emendations and corrections as its
hasty writing in camp necessitated. It chanced that the journal was
written in the present tense, so that the first account of my trip
appeared in that tense. The journal thus published was not a lengthy
paper, constituting but a part of a report entitled "Exploration of the
Colorado River of the West and its Tributaries. Explored in 1869, 1870,
1871, and 1872, under the direction of the Secretary of the Smithsonian
Institution." The other papers published with it relate to the
geography, geology, and natural history of the country. And here again I
supposed all account of the exploration ended. But from that time until
the present I have received many letters urging that a popular account
of the exploration and a description of that wonderful land should be
published by me. This call has been voiced occasionally in the daily
press and sometimes in the magazines, until at last I have concluded to
publish a fuller account in popular form. In doing this I have revised
and enlarged the original journal of exploration, and have added several
new chapters descriptive of the region and of the people who inhabit it.
Realizing the difficulty of painting in word colors a land so strange,
so wonderful, and so vast in its features, in the weakness of my
descriptive powers I have sought refuge in graphic illustration, and for
this purpose have gathered from the magazines and from various
scientific reports an abundance of material. All of this illustrative
material originated in my work, but it has already been used elsewhere.

Many years have passed since the exploration, and those who were boys
with me in the enterprise are--ah, most of them are dead, and the living
are gray with age. Their bronzed, hardy, brave faces come before me as
they appeared in the vigor of life; their lithe but powerful forms seem
to move around me; and the memory of the men and their heroic deeds, the
men and their generous acts, overwhelms me with a joy that seems almost
a grief, for it starts a fountain of tears. I was a maimed man; my right
arm was gone; and these brave men, these good men, never forgot it. In
every danger my safety was their first care, and in every waking hour
some kind service was rendered me, and they transfigured my misfortune
into a boon.

To you--J. C. Sumner, William H. Dunn, W. H. Powell, G. Y. Bradley, O.
G. Howland, Seneca Howland, Prank Goodman, W. E. Hawkins, and Andrew
Hall--my noble and generous companions, dead and alive, I dedicate this



I. The Valley of the Colorado

II. Mesas and, Buttes

III. Mountains and Plateaus

IV. Cliffs and Terraces

V. From Green River City to Flaming Gorge

VI. From Flaming Gorge to the Gate of Lodore

VII. The Canyon of Lodore

VIII. From Echo Park to the Mouth of the Uinta River

IX. From the Mouth of the Uinta River to the Junction of the Grand and

X. From the Junction of the Grand and Green to the Mouth of the Little

XI. From the Little Colorado to the Foot of the Grand Canyon

XII. The Rio Virgen and the Uinkaret Mountains

XIII. Over the River

XIV. To Zuni

XV. The Grand Canyon





The Colorado River is formed by the junction of the Grand and Green.

The Grand River has its source in the Rocky Mountains, five or six miles
west of Long's Peak. A group of little alpine lakes, that receive their
waters directly from perpetual snowbanks, discharge into a common
reservoir known as Grand Lake, a beautiful sheet of water. Its quiet
surface reflects towering cliffs and crags of granite on its eastern
shore, and stately pines and firs stand on its western margin.

The Green River heads near Fremont's Peak, in the Wind River Mountains.
This river, like the Grand, has its sources in alpine lakes fed by
everlasting snows. Thousands of these little lakes, with deep, cold,
emerald waters, are embosomed among the crags of the Rocky Mountains.
These streams, born in the cold, gloomy solitudes of the upper mountain
region, have a strange, eventful history as they pass down through
gorges, tumbling in cascades and cataracts, until they reach the hot,
arid plains of the Lower Colorado, where the waters that were so clear
above empty as turbid floods into the Gulf of California.

The mouth of the Colorado is in latitude 31 degrees 53 minutes and
longitude 115 degrees. The source of the Grand River is in latitude 40
degrees 17' and longitude 105 degrees 43' approximately. The source of
the Green River is in latitude 43 degrees 15' and longitude 109 degrees
54' approximately.

The Green River is larger than the Grand and is the upper continuation
of the Colorado. Including this river, the whole length of the stream is
about 2,000 miles. The region of country drained by the Colorado and its
tributaries is about 800 miles in length and varies from 300 to 500
miles in width, containing about 300,000 square miles, an area larger
than all the New England and Middle States with Maryland, Virginia and
West Virginia added, or nearly as large as Minnesota, Wisconsin, Iowa,
Illinois, and Missouri combined.

There are two distinct portions of the basin of the Colorado, a desert
portion below and a plateau portion above. The lower third, or desert
portion of the basin, is but little above the level of the sea, though
here and there ranges of mountains rise to an altitude of from 2,000 to
6,000 feet. This part of the valley is bounded on the northeast by a
line of cliffs, which present a bold, often vertical step, hundreds or
thousands of feet to the table-lands above. On the California side a
vast desert stretches westward, past the head of the Gulf of California,
nearly to the shore of the Pacific. Between the desert and the sea a
narrow belt of valley, hill, and mountain of wonderful beauty is found.
Over this coastal zone there falls a balm distilled from the great
ocean, as gentle showers and refreshing dews bathe the land. When rains
come the emerald hills laugh with delight as bourgeoning bloom is spread
in the sunlight. When the rains have ceased all the verdure turns to
gold. Then slowly the hills are brinded until the rains come again, when
verdure and bloom again peer through the tawny wreck of the last year's
greenery. North of the Gulf of California the desert is known as
"Coahuila Valley," the most desolate region on the continent. At one
time in the geologic history of this country the Gulf of California
extended a long distance farther to the northwest, above the point where
the Colorado River now enters it; but this stream brought its mud from
the mountains and the hills above and poured it into the gulf and
gradually erected a vast dam across it, until the waters above were
separated from the waters below; then the Colorado cut a channel into
the lower gulf. The upper waters, being cut off from the sea, gradually
evaporated, and what is known as Coahuila Valley was the bottom of this
ancient upper gulf, and thus the land is now below the level of the sea.
Between Coahuila Valley and the river there are many low, ashen-gray
mountains standing in short ranges. The rainfall is so little that no
perennial streams are formed. When a great rain comes it washes the
mountain sides and gathers on its way a deluge of sand, which it spreads
over the plain below, for the streams do not carry the sediment to the
sea. So the mountains are washed down and the valleys are filled. On the
Arizona side of the river desert plains are interrupted by desert
mountains. Far to the eastward the country rises until the Sierra Madre
are reached in New Mexico, where these mountains divide the waters of
the Colorado from the Rio Grande del Norte. Here in New Mexico the Gila
River has its source.  Some of its tributaries rise in the mountains to
the south, in the territory belonging to the republic of Mexico, but the
Gila gathers the greater part of its waters from a great plateau on the
northeast. Its sources are everywhere in pine-clad mountains and
plateaus, but all of the affluents quickly descend into the desert
valley below, through which the Gila winds its way westward to the
Colorado. In times of continued drought the bed of the Gila is dry, but
the region is subject to great and violent storms, and floods roll down
from the heights with marvelous precipitation, carrying devastation on
their way. Where the Colorado River forms the boundary between
California and Arizona it cuts through a number of volcanic rocks by
black, yawning canyons. Between these canyons the river has a low but
rather narrow flood plain, with cottonwood groves scattered here and
there, and a chaparral of mesquite bearing beans and thorns. Four
hundred miles above its mouth and more than two hundred miles above the
Gila, the Colorado has a second tributary--"Bill Williams' River" it is
called by excessive courtesy. It is but a muddy creek. Two hundred miles
above this the Rio Virgen joins the Colorado. This river heads in the
Markagunt Plateau and the Pine Valley Mountains of Utah. Its sources are
7,000 or 8,000 feet above the sea, but from the beautiful course of the
upper region it soon drops into a great sandy valley below and becomes a
river of flowing sand. At ordinary stages it is very wide but very
shallow, rippling over the quicksands in tawny waves. On its way it cuts
through the Beaver Mountains by a weird canyon. On either side
grease-wood plains stretch far away, interrupted here and there by
bad-land hills.

The region of country lying on either side of the Colorado for six
hundred miles of its course above the gulf, stretching to Coahuila
Valley below on the west and to the highlands where the Gila heads on
the east, is one of singular characteristics. The plains and valleys are
low, arid, hot, and naked, and the volcanic mountains scattered here and
there are lone and desolate. During the long months the sun pours its
heat upon the rocks and sands, untempered by clouds above or forest
shades beneath. The springs are so few in number that their names are
household words in every Indian rancheria and every settler's home; and
there are no brooks, no creeks, and no rivers but the trunk of the
Colorado and the trunk of the Gila. The few plants are strangers to the
dwellers in the temperate zone. On the mountains a few junipers and
pinons are found, and cactuses, agave, and yuccas, low, fleshy plants
with bayonets and thorns. The landscape of vegetal life is weird--no
forests, no meadows, no green hills, no foliage, but clublike stems of
plants armed with stilettos. Many of the plants bear gorgeous flowers.
The birds are few, but often of rich plumage. Hooded rattlesnakes,
horned toads, and lizards crawl in the dust and among the rocks. One of
these lizards, the "Gila monster," is poisonous. Rarely antelopes are
seen, but wolves, rabbits, and sundry ground squirrels abound.

The desert valley of the Colorado, which has been described as distinct
from the plateau region above, is the home of many Indian tribes. Away
up at the sources of the Gila, where the pines and cedars stand and
where creeks and valleys are found, is a part of the Apache land. These
tribes extend far south into the republic of Mexico. The Apaches are
intruders in this country, having at some time, perhaps many centuries
ago, migrated from British America. They speak an Athapascan language.
The Apaches and Navajos are the American Bedouins. On their way from the
far North they left several colonies in Washington, Oregon, and
California. They came to the country on foot, but since the Spanish
invasion they have become skilled horsemen. They are wily warriors and
implacable enemies, feared by all other tribes. They are hunters,
warriors, and priests, these professions not yet being differentiated.
The cliffs of the region have many caves, in which these people perform
their religious rites. The Sierra Madre formerly supported abundant
game, and the little Sonora deer was common. Bears and mountain lions
were once found in great numbers, and they put the courage and prowess
of the Apaches to a severe test. Huge rattlesnakes are common, and the
rattlesnake god is one of the deities of the tribes.

In the valley of the Gila and on its tributaries from the northeast are
the Pimas, Maricopas, and Papagos. They are skilled agriculturists,
cultivating lands by irrigation. In the same region many ruined villages
are found. The dwellings of these towns in the valley were built chiefly
of grout, and the fragments of the ancient pueblos still remaining have
stood through centuries of storm. Other pueblos near the cliffs on the
northeast were built of stone. The people who occupied them cultivated
the soil by irrigation, and their hydraulic works were on an extensive
scale. They built canals scores of miles in length and built reservoirs
to store water. They were skilled workers in pottery. From the fibers of
some of the desert plants they made fabrics with which to clothe
themselves, and they cultivated cotton. They were deft artists in
picture-writings, which they etched on the rocks. Many interesting
vestiges of their ancient art remain, testifying to their skill as
savage artisans. It seems probable that the Pimas, Maricopas, and
Papagos are the same people who built the pueblos and constructed the
irrigation works; so their traditions state. It is also handed down that
the pueblos were destroyed in wars with the Apaches. In these groves of
the flood plain of the Colorado the Mojave and Yuma Indians once had
their homes. They caught fish from the river and snared a few rabbits in
the desert, but lived mainly on mesquite beans, the hearts of yucca
plants, and the fruits of the cactus. They also gathered a harvest from
the river reeds. To some slight extent they cultivated the soil by rude
irrigation and raised corn and squashes. They lived almost naked, for
the climate is warm and dry. Sometimes a year passes without a drop of
rain. Still farther to the north the Chemehuevas lived, partly along the
river and partly in the mountains to the west, where a few springs are
found. They belong to the great Shoshonian family. On the Rio Virgen and
in the mountains round about, a confederacy of tribes speaking the Ute
language and belonging to the Shoshonian family have their homes. These
people built their sheltering homes of boughs and the bast of the
juniper. In such shelters, they lived in winter, but in summer they
erected extensive booths of poles and willows, sometimes large enough
for the accommodation of a tribe of 100 or 200 persons. A wide gap in
culture separates the Pimas, Maricopas, and Papagos from the
Chemehuevas. The first were among the most advanced tribes found in the
United States; the last were among the very lowest; they are the
original "Digger" Indians, called so by all the other tribes, but the
name has gradually spread beyond its original denotation to many tribes
of Utah, Nevada, and California.

The low desert, with its desolate mountains, which has thus been
described is plainly separated from the upper region of plateau by the
Mogollon Escarpment, which, beginning in the Sierra Madre of New Mexico,
extends northwestward across the Colorado far into Utah, where it ends
on the margin of the Great Basin. The rise by this escarpment varies
from 3,000 to more than 4,000 feet. The step from the lowlands to the
highlands which is here called the Mogollon Escarpment is not a simple
line of cliffs, but is a complicated and irregular facade presented to
the southwest. Its different portions have been named by the people
living below as distinct mountains, as Shiwits Mountains, Mogollon
Mountains, Pinal Mountains, Sierra Calitro, etc., but they all rise to
the summit of the same great plateau region.

The upper region, extending to the headwaters of the Grand and Green
Rivers, constitutes the great Plateau Province. These plateaus are
drained by the Colorado River and its tributaries; the eastern and
southern margin by the Rio Grande and its tributaries, and the western
by streams that flow into the Great Basin and are lost in the Great Salt
Lake and other bodies of water that have no drainage to the sea. The
general surface of this upper region is from 5,000 to 8,000 feet above
sea level, though the channels of the streams are cut much lower.

This high region, on the east, north, and west, is set with ranges of
snow-clad mountains attaining an altitude above the sea varying from
8,000 to 14,000 feet. All winter long snow falls on its mountain-crested
rim, filling the gorges, half burying the forests, and covering the
crags and peaks with a mantle woven by the winds from the waves of the
sea. When the summer sun comes this snow melts and tumbles down the
mountain sides in millions of cascades. A million cascade brooks unite
to form a thousand torrent creeks; a thousand torrent creeks unite to
form half a hundred rivers beset with cataracts; half a hundred roaring
rivers unite to form the Colorado, which rolls, a mad, turbid stream,
into the Gulf of California.

Consider the action of one of these streams. Its source is in the
mountains, where the snows fall; its course, through the arid plains.
Now, if at the river's flood storms were falling on the plains, its
channel would be cut but little faster than the adjacent country would
be washed, and the general level would thus be preserved; but under the
conditions here mentioned, the river continually deepens its beds; so
all the streams cut deeper and still deeper, until their banks are
towering cliffs of solid rock. These deep, narrow gorges are called

For more than a thousand miles along its course the Colorado has cut for
itself such a canyon; but at some few points where lateral streams join
it the canyon is broken, and these narrow, transverse valleys divide it
into a series of canyons.

The Virgen, Kanab, Paria, Escalante, Fremont, San Rafael, Price, and
Uinta on the west, the Grand, White, Yampa, San Juan, and Colorado
Chiquito on the east, have also cut for themselves such narrow winding
gorges, or deep canyons. Every river entering these has cut another
canyon; every lateral creek has cut a canyon; every brook runs in a
canyon; every rill born of a shower and born again of a shower and
living only during these showers has cut for itself a canyon; so that
the whole upper portion of the basin of the Colorado is traversed by a
labyrinth of these deep gorges.

Owing to a great variety of geological conditions, these canyons differ
much in general aspect. The Rio Virgen, between Long Valley and the
Mormon town of Rockville, runs through Parunuweap Canyon, which is often
not more than 20 or 30 feet in width and is from 600 to 1,500 feet deep.
Away to the north the Yampa empties into the Green by a canyon that I
essayed to cross in the fall of 1868, but was baffled from day to day,
and the fourth day had nearly passed before I could find my way down to
the river. But thirty miles above its mouth this canyon ends, and a
narrow valley with a flood plain is found. Still farther up the stream
the river comes down through another canyon, and beyond that a narrow
valley is found, and its upper course is now through a canyon and now
through a valley. All these canyons are alike changeable in their
topographic characteristics.

The longest canyon through which the Colorado runs is that between the
mouth of the Colorado Chiquito and the Grand Wash, a distance of 217 1/2
miles. But this is separated from another above, 65 1/2 miles in length,
only by the narrow canyon valley of the Colorado Chiquito.

All the scenic features of this canyon land are on a giant scale,
strange and weird. The streams run at depths almost inaccessible,
lashing the rocks which beset their channels, rolling in rapids and
plunging in falls, and making a wild music which but adds to the gloom
of the solitude. The little valleys nestling along the streams are
diversified by bordering willows, clumps of box elder, and small groves
of cottonwood.

Low mesas, dry, treeless, stretch back from the brink of the canyon,
often showing smooth surfaces of naked, solid rock. In some places the
country rock is composed of marls, and here the surface is a bed of
loose, disintegrated material through which one walks as in a bed of
ashes. Often these marls are richly colored and variegated. In other
places the country rock is a loose sandstone, the disintegration of
which has left broad stretches of drifting sand, white, golden, and
vermilion. Where this sandstone is a conglomerate, a paving of pebbles
has been left,--a mosaic of many colors, polished by the drifting sands
and glistening in the sunlight.

After the canyons, the most remarkable features of the country are the
long lines of cliffs. These are bold escarpments scores or hundreds of
miles in length,--great geographic steps, often hundreds or thousands of
feet in altitude, presenting steep faces of rock, often vertical. Having
climbed one of these steps, you may descend by a gentle, sometimes
imperceptible, slope to the foot of another. They thus present a series
of terraces, the steps of which are well-defined escarpments of rock.
The lateral extension of such a line of cliffs is usually very
irregular; sharp salients are projected on the plains below, and deep
recesses are cut into the terraces above. Intermittent streams coming
down the cliffs have cut many canyons or canyon valleys, by which the
traveler may pass from the plain below to the terrace above. By these
gigantic stairways he may ascend to high plateaus, covered with forests
of pine and fir.

The region is further diversified by short ranges of eruptive mountains.
A vast system of fissures--huge cracks in the rocks to the depths
below--extends across the country. From these crevices floods of lava
have poured, covering mesas and table-lands with sheets of black basalt.
The expiring energies of these volcanic agencies have piled up huge
cinder cones that stand along the fissures, red, brown, and black, naked
of vegetation, and conspicuous landmarks, set as they are in contrast to
the bright, variegated rocks of sedimentary origin.

These canyon gorges, obstructing cliffs, and desert wastes have
prevented the traveler from penetrating the country, so that until the
Colorado River Exploring Expedition was organized it was almost unknown.
In the early history of the country Spanish adventurers penetrated the
region and told marvelous stories of its wonders. It was also traversed
by priests who sought to convert the Indian tribes to Christianity. In
later days, since the region has been under the control of the United
States, various government expeditions have penetrated the land. Yet
enough had been seen in the earlier days to foment rumor, and many
wonderful stories were told in the hunter's cabin and the prospector's
camp--stories of parties entering the gorge in boats and being carried
down with fearful velocity into whirlpools where all were overwhelmed in
the abyss of waters, and stories of underground passages for the great
river into which boats had passed never to be seen again. It was
currently believed that the river was lost under the rocks for several
hundred miles. There were other accounts of great falls whose roaring
music could be heard on the distant mountain summits; and there were
stories current of parties wandering on the brink of the canyon and
vainly endeavoring to reach the waters below, and perishing with thirst
at last in sight of the river which was roaring its mockery into their
dying ears.

The Indians, too, have woven the mysteries of the canyons into the myths
of their religion. Long ago there was a great and wise chief who mourned
the death of his wife and would not be comforted, until Tavwoats, one of
the Indian gods, came to him and told him his wife was in a happier
land, and offered to take him there that he might see for himself, if,
upon his return, he would cease to mourn. The great chief promised. Then
Tavwoats made a trail through the mountains that intervene between that
beautiful land, the balmy region of the great west, and this, the desert
home of the poor Numa. This trail was the canyon gorge of the Colorado.
Through it he led him; and when they had returned the deity exacted from
the chief a promise that he would tell no one of the trail. Then he
rolled a river into the gorge, a mad, raging stream, that should engulf
any that might attempt to enter thereby.



From the Grand Canyon of the Colorado a great plateau extends
southeastward through Arizona nearly to the line of New Mexico, where
this elevated land merges into the Sierra Madre. The general surface of
this plateau is from 6,000 to 8,000 feet above the level of the sea. It
is sharply defined from the lowlands of Arizona by the Mogollon
Escarpment. On the northeast it gradually falls off into the valley of
the Little Colorado, and on the north it terminates abruptly in the
Grand Canyon.

Various tributaries of the Gila have their sources in this escarpment,
and before entering the desolate valley below they run in beautiful
canyons which they have carved for themselves in the margin of the
plateau. Sometimes these canyons are in the sandstones and limestones
which constitute the platform of the great elevated region called the
San Francisco Plateau. The escarpment is caused by a fault, the great
block of the upper side being lifted several thousand feet above the
valley region. Through the fissure lavas poured out, and in many places
the escarpment is concealed by sheets of lava. The canyons in these lava
beds are often of great interest.

On the plateau a number of volcanic mountains are found, and black
cinder cones are scattered in profusion. Through the forest lands are
many beautiful prairies and glades that in midsummer are decked with
gorgeous wild flowers. The rains of the region give source to few
perennial streams, but intermittent streams have carved deep gorges in
the plateau, so that it is divided into many blocks. The upper surface,
although forest-clad and covered with beautiful grasses, is almost
destitute of water. A few springs are found, but they are far apart, and
some of the volcanic craters hold lakelets. The limestone and basaltic
rocks sometimes hold pools of water; and where the basins are deep the
waters are perennial. Such pools are known as "water pockets."

This is the great timber region of Arizona. Not many years ago it was a
vast park for elk, deer, and antelope, and bears and mountain lions were
abundant. This is the last home of the wild turkey in the United States,
for they are still found here in great numbers. San Francisco Peak is
the highest of these volcanic mountains, and about it are grouped in an
irregular way many volcanic cones, one of which presents some remarkable
characteristics. A portion of the cone is of bright reddish cinders,
while the adjacent rocks are of black basalt.  The contrast in the
colors is so great that on viewing the mountain from a distance the red
cinders seem to be on fire. From this circumstance the cone has been
named Sunset Peak. When distant from it ten or twenty miles it is hard
to believe that the effect is produced by contrasting colors, for the
peak seems to glow with a light of its own.

In centuries past the San Francisco Plateau was the home of
pueblo-building tribes, and the ruins of their habitations are widely
scattered over this elevated region. Thousands of little dwellings are
found, usually built of blocks of basalt. In some cases they were
clustered in little towns, and three of these deserve further mention.

A few miles south of San Francisco Peak there is an intermittent stream
known as Walnut Creek. This stream runs in a deep gorge 600 to 800 feet
below the general surface. The stream has cut its way through the
limestone and through series of sandstones, and bold walls of rock are
presented on either side. In some places the softer sandstones lying
between the harder limestones and sandstones have yielded to weathering
agencies, so that there are caves running along the face of the wall,
sometimes for hundreds or thousands of feet, but not very deep. These
natural shelves in the rock were utilized by an ancient tribe of Indians
for their homes. They built stairways to the waters below and to the
hunting grounds above, and lived in the caves. They walled the fronts of
the caves with rock, which they covered with plaster, and divided them
into compartments or rooms; and now many hundreds of these dwellings are
found. Such is the cliff village of Walnut Canyon. In the ruins of these
cliff houses mortars and pestles are found in great profusion, and when
first discovered many articles of pottery were found, and still many
potsherds are seen. The people were very skillful in the manufacture of
stone implements, especially spears, knives, and arrows.

East of San Francisco Peak there is another low volcanic cone, composed
of ashes which have been slightly cemented by the processes of time, but
which can be worked with great ease. On this cone another tribe of
Indians made its village, and for the purpose they sunk shafts into the
easily worked but partially consolidated ashes, and after penetrating
from the surface three or four feet they enlarged the chambers so as to
make them ten or twelve feet in diameter. In such a chamber they made a
little fireplace, its chimney running up on one side of the wellhole by
which the chamber was entered. Often they excavated smaller chambers
connected with the larger, so that sometimes two, three, four, or even
five smaller connecting chambers are grouped about a large central room.
The arts of these people resembled those of the people who dwelt in
Walnut Canyon. One thing more is worthy of special notice. On the very
top of the cone they cleared off a space for a courtyard, or assembly
square, and about it they erected booths, and within the square a space
of ground was prepared with a smooth floor, on which they performed the
ceremonies of their religion and danced to the gods in prayer and

Some twelve or fifteen miles farther east, in another volcanic cone, a
rough crater is found, surrounded by piles of cinders and angular
fragments of lava. In the walls of this crater many caves are found, and
here again a village was established, the caves in the scoria being
utilized as habitations of men. These little caves were fashioned into
rooms of more symmetry and convenience than originally found, and the
openings to the caves were walled. Nor did these people neglect the
gods, for in this crater town, as in the cinder-cone town, a place of
worship was prepared.

Many other caves opening into the canyon and craters of this plateau
were utilized in like manner as homes for tribal people, and in one cave
far to the south a fine collection of several hundred pieces of pottery
has been made.

On the northeast of the San Francisco Plateau is the valley of the
Little Colorado, a tributary of the Colorado River. This river is formed
by streams that head chiefly on the San Francisco Plateau, but in part
on the Zuni Plateau. The Little Colorado is a marvelous river. In
seasons of great rains it is a broad but shallow torrent of mud; in
seasons of drought it dwindles and sometimes entirely disappears along
portions of its course. The upper tributaries usually run in beautiful
box canyons. Then the river flows through a low, desolate, bad-land
valley, and the river of mud is broad but shallow, except in seasons of
great floods. But fifty miles or more above the junction of this stream
with the Colorado River proper, it plunges into a canyon with limestone
walls, and steadily this canyon increases in depth, until at the mouth
of the stream it has walls more than 4,000 feet in height.  The contrast
between this canyon portion and the upper valley portion is very great.
Above, the river ripples in a broad sheet of mud; below, it plunges with
violence over great cataracts and rapids.  Above, the bad lands stretch
on either hand. This is the region of the Painted Desert, for the marls
and soft rocks of which the hills are composed are of many
colors--chocolate, red, vermilion, pink, buff, and gray; and the naked
hills are carved in fantastic forms.  Passing to the region below,
suddenly the channel is narrowed and tumbles down into a deep, solemn
gorge with towering limestone cliffs.

All round the margin of the valley of the Little Colorado, on the side
next to the Zuni Plateau and on the side next to the San Francisco
Plateau, every creek and every brook runs in a beautiful canyon. Then
down in the valley there are stretches of desert covered with sage and
grease wood. Still farther down we come to the bad lands of the Painted
Desert; and scattered through the entire region low mesas or smaller
plateaus are everywhere found.

On the northeast side of the Little Colorado a great mesa country
stretches far to the northward. These mesas are but minor plateaus that
are separated by canyons and canyon valleys, and sometimes by low sage
plains. They rise from a few hundred to 2,000 or 3,000 feet above the
lowlands on which they are founded. The distinction between plateaus and
mesas is vague; in fact, in local usage the term mesa is usually applied
to all of these tables which do not carry volcanic mountains. The mesas
are carved out of platforms of horizontal or nearly horizontal rocks by
perennial or intermittent streams, and as the climate is exceedingly
arid most of the streams flow only during seasons of rain, and for the
greater part of the year they are dry arroyos. Many of the longer
channels are dry for long periods. Some of them are opened only by
floods that come ten or twenty years apart.

The region is also characterized by many buttes. These are plateaus or
mesas of still smaller dimensions in horizontal distance, though their
altitude may be hundreds or thousands of feet. Like the mesas and
plateaus, they sometimes form very conspicuous features of a landscape
and are of marvelous beauty by reason of their sculptured escarpments.
Below they are often buttressed on a magnificent scale. Softer beds give
rise to a vertical structure of buttresses and columns, while the harder
strata appear in great horizontal lines, suggesting architectural
entablature. Then the strata of which these buttes are composed are of
many vivid colors; so color and form unite in producing architectural
effects, and the buttes often appear like Cyclopean temples.

There is yet one other peculiarity of this landscape deserving mention
here. Before the present valleys and canyons were carved and the mesas
lifted in relief, the region was one of great volcanic activity. In
various places vents were formed and floods of lava poured in sheets
over the land. Then for a time volcanic action ceased, and rains and
rivers carved out the valleys and left the mesas and mountains standing.
These same agencies carried away the lava beds that spread over the
lands. But wherever there was a lava vent it was filled with molten
matter, which on cooling was harder than the sandstones and marls
through which it penetrated. The chimney to the region of fire below was
thus filled with a black rock which yielded more slowly to the
disintegrating agencies of weather, and so black rocks rise up from
mesas on every hand. These are known as volcanic necks, and, being of a
somber color, in great contrast with the vividly colored rocks from
which they rise and by which they are surrounded, they lend a strange
aspect to the landscape. Besides these necks, there are a few volcanic
mountains that tower over all the landscape and gather about themselves
the clouds of heaven. Mount Taylor, which stands over the divide on the
drainage of the Rio Grande del Norte, is one of the most imposing of the
dead volcanoes of this region. Still later eruptions of lava are found
here and there, and in the present valleys and canyons sheets of black
basalt are often found. These are known as coulees, and sometimes from
these coulees cinder cones arise.

This valley of the Little Colorado is also the site of many ruins, and
the villages or towns found in such profusion were of mueh larger size
than those on the San Francisco Plateau. Some of the pueblo-building
peoples yet remain. The Zuni Indians still occupy their homes, and they
prove to be a most interesting people. They have cultivated the soil
from time immemorial. They build their houses of stone and line them
with plaster; and they have many interesting arts, being skilled potters
and deft weavers. The seasons are about equally divided between labor,
worship, and play.

A hundred miles to the northwest of the Zuni pueblo are the seven
pueblos of Tusayan: Oraibi, Shumopavi, Shupaulovi, Mashongnavi,
Sichumovi, Walpi, and llano. These towns are built on high cliffs. The
people speak a language radically different from that of the Zuni, but,
with the exception of that of the inhabitants of Hano, closely allied to
that of the Utes. The people of Hano are Tewans, whose ancestors moved
from the Rio Grande to Tusayan during the great Pueblo revolt against
Spanish authority in 1680-96.

Between the Little Colorado and the Rio San Juan there is a vast system
of plateaus, mesas, and buttes, volcanic mountains, volcanic cones, and
volcanic cinder cones. Some of the plateaus are forest-clad and have
perennial waters and are gemmed with lakelets. The mesas are sometimes
treeless, but are often covered with low, straggling, gnarled cedars and
pifions, trees that are intermediate in size between the bushes of sage
in the desert and the forest trees of the elevated regions. On the
western margin of this district the great Navajo Mountain stands, on the
brink of Glen Canyon, and from its summit many of the stupendous gorges
of the Colorado River can be seen. Central in the region stand the
Carrizo Mountains, the Lukachukai Mountains, the Tunitcha Mountains, and
the Chusca Mountains, which in fact constitute one system, extending
from north to south in the order named. These are really plateaus
crowned with volcanic peaks.

But the district we are now describing, which stretches from the Little
Colorado to the San Juan, is best characterized by its canyons. The
whole region is a labyrinth of gorges. On the west the Navajo Creek and
its tributaries run in profound chasms. Farther south the Moencopie with
its tributaries is a labyrinth of gorges; and all the streams that run
west into the Colorado, south into the Little Colorado, or north into
the San Juan have carved deep, wild, and romantic gorges. Immediately
west of the Chusca Plateau the Canyon del Muerta and the Canyon de
Chelly are especially noticeable. Many of these canyons are carved in a
homogeneous red sandstone, and their walls are often vertical for
hundreds of feet. Sometimes the canyons widen into narrow valleys, which
are thus walled by impassable cliffs, except where lateral canyons cut
their way through the battlements.

In these mountains, plateaus, mesas, and canyons the Navajo Indians have
their home. The Navajos are intruders in this country. They belong to
the Athapascan stock of British America and speak an Athapascan
language, like the Apaches of the Sierra Madre country. They are a
stately, athletic, and bold people. While yet this country was a part of
Mexico they acquired great herds of horses and flocks of sheep, and
lived in opulence compared with many of the other tribes of North
America. After the acquisition of this territory by the United States
they became disaffected by reason of encroaching civilization, and the
petty wars between United States troops and the Navajos were in the main
disastrous to our forces, due in part to the courage, skill, and
superior numbers of the Navajos and in part to the character of the
country, which is easily defended, as the routes of travel along the
canyons present excellent opportunities for defense and ambuscade. But
under the leadership and by the advice of Kit Carson these Indians were
ultimately conquered. This wily but brave frontiersman recommended a new
method of warfare, which was to destroy the herds and flocks of the
Navajos; and this course was pursued. Regular troops with volunteers
from California and New Mexico went into the Navajo country and shot
down their herds of half-wild horses, killed hundreds of thousands of
sheep, cut down their peach orchards which were scattered about the
springs and little streams, destroyed their irrigating works, and
devastated their little patches of corn, squashes, and melons; and
entirely neglected the Navajos themselves, who were concealed among the
rocks of the canyons. Seeing the destruction wrought upon their means of
livelihood, the Navajos at once yielded.  More than 8,000 of them
surrendered at one time, coming in in straggling bands. They were then
removed far to the east, near to the Texas line, and established on a
reservation at the Bosque Redondo. Here they engaged in civilized
farming. A great system of irrigation was developed; but the
appropriations necessary for the maintenance of so large a body of
people in the course of their passage from savagery to civilization
seemed too great to those responsible for making grants from the
national treasury, and just before 1870 the Navajos were permitted to
break up their homes at the Bosque Redondo and return to the canyons and
cliffs of their ancient land. Millions were spent in conquering them
where thousands were used to civilize them, so that they were conquered
but not civilized. Still, they are making good progress, and have once
more acquired large flocks and herds. It is estimated that they now have
more than a million sheep. Their experience in irrigation at the Bosque
Redondo has not been wholly wasted, for they now cultivate the soil by
methods of irrigation greatly improved over those used in the earlier
time.  Originally they dwelt in hogans, or houses made of poles arranged
with much skill in conical form, the poles being covered with reeds and
the reeds with earth; now they are copying the dwelling places of
civilized men. They have also acquired great skill in the manufacture of
silver ornaments, with which they decorate themselves and the trappings
of their steeds.

Perhaps the most interesting ruins of America are found in this region.
The ancient pueblos found here are of superior structure, but they were
all built by a people whom the Navajos displaced when they migrated from
the far North. Wherever there is water, near by an ancient ruin may be
found; and these ruins are gathered about centers, the centers being
larger pueblos and the scattered ruins representing single houses. The
ancient people lived in villages, or pueblos, but during the growing
season they scattered about by the springs and streams to cultivate the
soil by irrigation, and wherever there was a little farm or garden
patch, there was built a summer house of stone. When times of war came,
especially when they were invaded by the Navajos, these ancient people
left their homes in the pueblos and by the streams and constructed
temporary homes in the cliffs and canyon walls. Such cliff ruins are
abundant throughout the region, intimately the ancient pueblo peoples
succumbed to the prowess of the Navajos and were driven out. A part
joined related tribes in the valley of the Bio Grande; others joined the
Zuni and the people of Tusayan; and stall others pushed on beyond the
Little Colorado to the San Francisco Plateau and far down into the
valley of the Gila.

Farther to the east, on the border of the region which we have
described, beyond the drainage of the Little Colorado and San Juan and
within the drainage of the Rio Grande, there lies an interesting plateau
region, which forms a part of the Plateau Province and which is worthy
of description. This is the great Tewan Plateau, which carries several
groups of mountains. The western edge of this plateau is known as the
Nacimiento Mountain, a long north-and-south range of granite, which
presents a bold facade to the valley of the Puerco on the west.
Ascending to the summit of this granite range, there is presented to the
eastward a plateau of vast proportions, which stretches far toward Santa
Fe and is terminated by the canyon of the Rio Grande del Norte. The
eastern flank of this range as it slowly rose was a gentle slope, but as
it came up fissures were formed and volcanoes burst forth and poured out
their floods of lava, and now many extinct volcanoes can be seen. The
plateau was built by these volcanoes--sheets of lava piled on sheets of
lava hundreds and even thousands of feet in thickness. But with the
floods of lava came great explosions, like that of Krakatoa, by which
the heavens were filled with volcanic dust. These explosions came at
different times and at different places, but they were of enormous
magnitude, and when the dust fell again from the clouds it piled up in
beds scores and hundreds of feet in thickness. So the Tewan Plateau has
a foundation of red sandstone; upon this are piled sheets of lava and
sheets of dust in many alternating layers. It is estimated that there
still remain more than two hundred cubic miles of this dust, now
compacted into somewhat coherent rocks and interpolated between sheets
of lava. Everywhere this dust-formed rock is exceedingly light. Much of
it has a specific gravity so low that it will float on water. Above the
sheets of lava and above the beds of volcanic dust great volcanic cones
rise, and the whole upper region is covered with forests interspersed
with beautiful prairies. The plateau itself is intersected with many
deep, narrow canyons, having walls of lava, volcanic dust, or tufa, and
red sandstone. It is a beautiful region. The low mesas on every side are
almost treeless and are everywhere deserts, but the great Tewan Plateau
is booned with abundant rains, and it is thus a region of forests and
meadows, divided into blocks by deep, precipitous canyons and crowned
with cones that rise to an altitude of from 10,000 to 12,000 feet.

For many centuries the Tewan Plateau, with its canyons below and its
meadows and forests above, has been the home of tribes of Tewan Indians,
who built pueblos, sometimes of the red sandstones in the canyons, but
oftener of blocks of tufa, or volcanic dust. This light material can be
worked with great ease, and with crude tools of the harder lavas they
cut out blocks of the tufa and with them built pueblos two or three
stories high. The blocks are usually about twenty inches in length,
eight inches in width, and six inches in thickness, though they vary
somewhat in size. On the volcanic cones which dominate the country these
people built shrines and worshiped their gods with offerings of meal and
water and with prayer symbols made of the plumage of the birds of the
air. When the Navajo invasion came, by which kindred tribes were
displaced from the district farther west, these Tewan Indians left their
pueblos on the plateau and their dwellings by the rivers below in the
depths of the canyon and constructed cavate homes for themselves; that
is, they excavated chambers in the cliffs where these cliffs were
composed of soft, friable tufa. On the face of the cliff, hundreds of
feet high and thousands of feet or even miles in length, they dug out
chambers with stone tools, these chambers being little rooms eight or
ten feet in diameter. Sometimes two or more such chambers connected.
Then they constructed stairways in the soft rock, by which their cavate
houses were reached; and in these rock shelters they lived during times
of war. When the Navajo invasion was long past, civilized men as Spanish
adventurers entered this country from Mexico, and again the Tewan
peoples left their homes on the mesas and by the canyons to find safety
in the cavate dwellings of the cliffs; and now the archaeologist in the
study of this country discovers these two periods of construction and
occupation of the cavate dwellings of the Tewan Indians.

North of the Rio San Juan another vast plateau region is found,
stretching to the Grand River. The mountains of this region are the La
Plata Mountains, Bear River Mountains, and San Miguel Mountains on the
east, and the Sierra El Late, the Sierra Abajo, and the Sierra La Sal on
the west, the latter standing near the brink of Cataract Canyon, through
which the Colorado flows immediately below the junction of the Grand and
Green. Throughout the region mountains, volcanic cones, volcanic necks,
and coulees are found, while the mountains themselves rise to great
altitudes and are forest-clad. Some of the plateaus attain huge
proportions, and between the plateaus labyrinthian mesas are found.
Buttes, as stupendous cameos, are scattered everywhere, and the whole
region is carved with canyons.

Grand River heads on the back of Long's Peak, in the Front Range of the
Rocky Mountains of central Colorado. At the foot of the mountain lies
Grand Lake, a sheet of emerald water that duplicates the forest standing
on its brink. Out of the lake flows Grand River, gathering on its way
the many mountain streams whose waters fill the solitude with perennial
music--a symphony of cascades. In Middle Park boiling springs issue from
depths below and gather in pools covered with con-fervae.  Leaving
Middle Park the river goes through a great range known as the Gore's
Pass Mountains; and still it flows on toward the Colorado, now through
canyon and now through valley, until the last forty miles of its course
it finds its way through a beautiful gorge known as Grand River Canyon.
In its principal course this canyon is a bright red homogeneous
sandstone, and the walls are often vertical and of great symmetry.
Farther down, its walls are rugged and angular, being composed of

The principal tributaries from the south are the Blue, which heads in
Mt. Lincoln, and the Gunnison, which heads in the Wasatch Mountains.
These streams are also characterized by deep canyons and plateaus, and
mesas abound on every hand. Between the Grand River and the White River,
farther to the east, the Tavaputs Plateau is found. It begins at the
foot of Gore's Pass Range and extends down between the rivers last
mentioned to the very brink of Green River, which is in fact the upper
Colorado. Between the Grand River and the foot of this plateau there is
a low, narrow valley with mesas and buttes. Then the country suddenly
rises by a stupendous line of cliffs 2,000 or 3,000 feet high. These
cliffs are composed of sand stones, limestones, and shales, of many
colors. The stratification in many places is minute, so that they have
been called the Book Cliffs.

From the cliffs many salients are projected into the valleys, and within
deep re-entering angles vast amphitheaters appear. About the projected
salients many towering buttes, with pinnacles and minarets, are found.
The long, narrow plateau is covered with a forest along its summit, and,
though it rises abruptly on the south side from Grand River Valley, it
descends more gently toward the White River, and on this slope many
canyons of rare beauty are seen. Plateaus and mesas and canyons and
buttes characterize the region north of White River and stretch out to
the Yampa. The Yampa itself has an important tributary from the
northwest, known as Snake River. Just below the affluence of the Snake
with the Yampa a strange phenomenon is observed. Right athwart the
course of the river rises a great dome-shaped mountain, with valley
stretches on every side, and through this mountain the river runs,
dividing it by a beautiful canyon, through which it flows to its
junction with the Green. This canyon is in soft, white sandstone,
usually with vertical walls varying from 500 to 2,000 feet in height,
and the river flows in a gentle winding way through all this stretch. To
the east of this plateau region, with its mesas and buttes and its
volcanic mountains, stand the southern Rocky Mountains, or Park
Mountains, a system of north-and-south ranges. These ranges are huge
billows in the crust of the earth out of which mountains have been
carved. The parks of Colorado are great valley basins enclosed by these
ranges, and over their surfaces moss agates are scattered. The mountains
are covered with dense forests and are rugged and wild. The higher peaks
rise above the timber line and are naked gorges of rocks. In them the
Platte and Arkansas rivers head and flow eastward to join the Missouri
River. Here also heads the Rio Grande del Norte, which flows southward
into the Gulf of Mexico, and still to the west head many streams which
pour into the Colorado waters destined for the Gulf of California.
Throughout all of this region drained by the Grand, White, and Yampa
rivers, there are many beautiful parks. The great mountain slopes are
still covered with primeval forests. Springs, brooks, rivers, and lakes
abound, and the waters are filled with trout. Not many years ago the
hills were covered with game--elk on the mountains, deer on the
plateaus, antelope in the valleys, and beavers building their cities on
the streams. The plateaus are covered with low, dwarf oaks and many
shrubs bearing berries, and in the chaparral of this region cinnamon
bears are still abundant.

From time immemorial the region drained by the Grand, White, and Yampa
rivers has been the home of Ute tribes of the Shoshonean family of
Indians. These people built their shelters of boughs and bark, and to
some extent lived in tents made of the skins of animals. They never
cultivated the soil, but gathered wild seeds and roots and were famous
hunters and fishermen. As the region abounds in game, these tribes have
always been well clad in skins and furs. The men wore blouse, loincloth
leggins, and moccasins, and the women dressed in short kilts. It is
curious to notice the effect which the contact of civilization has had
upon these women's dress. Even twenty years ago they had lengthened
their skirts; and dresses, made of buckskin, fringed with furs, and
beaded with elk teeth, were worn so long that they trailed on the
ground. Neither men nor women wore any headdress except on festival
occasions for decoration; then the women wore little basket bonnets
decorated with feathers, and the men wore headdresses made of the skins
of ducks, geese, eagles, and other large birds. Sometimes they would
prepare the skin of the head of the elk or deer, or of a bear or
mountain lion or wolf, for a headdress. For very cold weather both men
and women were provided with togas for their protection. Sometimes the
men would have a bearskin or elkskin for a toga; more often they made
their togas by piecing together the skins of wolves, mountain lions,
wolverines, wild cats, beavers, and otters. The women sometimes made
theirs of fawnskins, but rabbitskin robes were far more common. These
rabbitskins were tanned with the fur on, and cut into strips; then cords
were made of the fiber of wild flax or yucca plants, and round these
cords the strips of rabbitskin were rolled, so that they made long ropes
of rabbitskin coils with a central cord of vegetal fiber; then these
coils were woven in parallel strings with cross strands of fiber. The
robe when finished was usually about five or six feet square, and it
made a good toga for a cold day and a warm blanket for the night.

The Ute Indians, like all the Indians of North America, have a wealth of
mythic stories. The heroes of these stories are the beasts, birds, and
reptiles of the region, and the themes of the stories are the doings of
these mythic beasts--the ancients from whom the present animals have
descended and degenerated. The primeval animals were wonderful beings,
as related in the lore of the Utes. They were the creators and
controllers of all the phenomena of nature known to these simple-minded
people. The Utes are zootheists. Each little tribe has its Shaman, or
medicine man, who is historian, priest, and doctor. The lore of this
Shaman is composed of mythic tales of ancient animals. The Indians are
very skillful actors, and they represent the parts of beasts or
reptiles, wearing masks and imitating the ancient zoic gods. In temples
walled with gloom of night and illumed by torch fires the people gather
about their Shaman, who tells and acts the stories of creation recorded
in their traditional bible. When fever prostrates one of the tribe the
Shaman gathers the actors about the stricken man, and with weird
dancing, wild ululation, and ecstatic exhortation the evil spirit is
driven from the body. Then they have their ceremonies to pray for the
forest fruits, for abundant game, for successful hunting, and for
prosperity in war.



Green River has its source in Fremont's Peak, high up in the Wind River
Mountains among glacial lakes and mountain cascades. This is the real
source of the Colorado River, and it stands in strange contrast with the
mouth of that stream where it pours into the Gulf of California. The
general course of the river is from north to south and from great
altitudes to the level of the sea. Thus it runs "from land of snow to
land of sun." The Wind River Mountains constitute one of the most
imposing ranges of the United States. Fremont's Peak, the culminating
point, is 13,790 feet above the level of the sea. It stands in a
wilderness of crags. Here at Fremont's Peak three great rivers have
their sources: Wind River flows eastward into the Mississippi; Green
River flows southward into the Colorado; and Gros Ventre River flows
northwestward into the Columbia. From this dominating height many ranges
can be seen on every hand. About the sources of the Platte and the Big
Horn, that flow ultimately into the Gulf of Mexico, great ranges stand
with their culminating peaks among the clouds; and the mountains that
extend into Yellowstone Park, the land of geyser wonders, are seen. The
Yellowstone Park is at the southern extremity of a great system of
mountain ranges, the northern Rocky Mountains, sometimes called the
Geyser Ranges. This geological province extends into British America,
but its most wonderful scenery is in the upper Yellowstone basin, where
geysers bombard the heavens with vapor distilled in subterranean depths.
The springs which pour out their boiling waters are loaded with quartz,
and the waters of the springs, flowing away over the rocks, slowly
discharge their fluid magma, which crystallizes in beautiful forms and
builds jeweled basins that hold pellucid waters.

To the north and west of Fremont's Peak are mountain ranges that give
birth to rivers flowing into the great Columbia. Conspicuous among these
from this point of view is the great Teton Range, with its towering
facade of storm-carved rocks; then the Gros Ventre Mountains, the Snake
River Range, the Wyoming Range, and, still beyond the latter, the Bear
River Range, are seen. Far in the distant south, scarcely to be
distinguished from the blue clouds on the horizon, stand the Uinta
Mountains. On every hand are deep mountain gorges where snows accumulate
to form glaciers. Below the glaciers throughout the entire Wind River
Range great numbers of morainal lakes are found. These lakes are
gems--deep sapphire waters fringed with emerald zones. From these lakes
creeks and rivers flow, by cataracts and rapids, to form the Green. The
mountain slopes below are covered with dense forests of pines and firs.
The lakes are often fringed with beautiful aspens, and when the autumn
winds come their golden leaves are carried over the landscape in clouds
of resplendent sheen. The creeks descend from the mountains in wild
rocky gorges, until they flow out into the valley. On the west side of
the valley stand the Gros Ventre and the Wyoming mountains, low ranges
of peaks, but picturesque in form and forest stretch. Leaving the
mountain, the river meanders through the Green River Plains, a cold
elevated district much like that of northern Norway, except that the
humidity of Norway is replaced by the aridity of Wyoming. South of the
plains the Big Sandy joins the Green from the east. South of the Big
Sandy a long zone of sand-dunes stretches eastward. The western winds
blowing up the valley drift these sands from hill to hill, so that the
hills themselves are slowly journeying eastward on the wings of arid
gales, and sand tempests may be encountered more terrible than storms of
snow or hail. Here the northern boundary of the Plateau Province is
found, for mesas and high table-lands are found on either side of the

On the east side of the Green, mesas and plateaus have irregular
escarpments with points extending into the valleys, and between these
points canyons come down that head in the highlands. Everywhere the
escarpments are fringed with outlying buttes. Many portions of the
region are characterized by bad lands. These are hills carved out of
sandstone, shales, and easily disintegrated rocks, which present many
fantastic forms and are highly colored in a great variety of tint and
tone, and everywhere they are naked of vegetation. Now and then low
mountains crown the plateaus. Altogether it is a region of desolation.
Through the midst of the country, from east to west, flows an
intermittent stream known as Bitter Creek. In seasons of rain it carries
floods; in seasons of drought it disappears in the sands, and its waters
are alkaline and often poisonous. Stretches of bad-land desert are
interrupted by other stretches of sage plain, and on the high lands
gnarled and picturesque forests of juniper and pinon are found. On the
west side of the river the mesas rise by grassy slopes to the westward
into high plateaus that are forest-clad, first with juniper and pinon,
and still higher with pines and firs. Some of the streams run in canyons
and others have elevated valleys along their courses. On the south
border of this mesa and plateau country are the Bridger Bad Lands, lying
at the foot of the Uinta Mountains. These bad lands are of gray, green,
and brown shales that are carved in picturesque forms--domes, towers,
pinnacles, and minarets, and bold cliffs with deep alcoves; and all are
naked rock, the sediments of an ancient lake. These lake beds are filled
with fossils,--the preserved bones of fishes, reptiles, and mammals, of
strange and often gigantic forms, no longer found living on the globe.
It is a desert to the agriculturist, a mine to the paleontologist, and a
paradise to the artist.

The region thus described, from Fremont's Peak to the Uinta Mountains,
has been the home of tribes of Indians of the Shoshonean family from
time immemorial. It is a great hunting and fishing region, and the
vigorous Shoshones still obtain a part of their livelihood from mesa and
plain and river and lake. The flesh of the animals killed in fall and
winter was dried in the arid winds for summer use; the trout abounding
in the streams and lakes were caught at all seasons of the year; and the
seeds and fruits of harvest time were gathered and preserved for winter
use. When the seeds were gathered they were winnowed by tossing them in
trays so that the winds might carry away the chaff. Then they were
roasted in the same trays. Burning coals and seeds were mixed in the
basket trays and kept in motion by a tossing process which fanned the
coals until the seeds were done; then they were separated from the coals
by dexterous manipulation. Afterwards the seeds were ground on
mealing-stones and molded into cakes, often huge loaves, that were
stored away for use in time of need. Raspberries, chokecherries, and
buffalo berries are abundant, and these fruits were gathered and mixed
with the bread. Such fruit cakes were great dainties among these people.

In this Shoshone land the long winter night is dedicated to worship and
festival. About their camp fires scattered in forest glades by brooks
and lakes, they assemble to dance and sing in honor of their
gods--wonderful mythic animals, for they hold as divine the ancient of
bears, the eagle of the lost centuries, the rattlesnake of primeval
times, and a host of other zoic deities.

The Uinta Range stands across the course of Green River, which finds its
way through it by series of stupendous canyons. The range has an
east-and-west trend. The Wasatch Mountains, a long north-and-south
range, here divide the Plateau Province from what is known among
geologists as the Basin Range Province, on the west. The latter is the
great interior basin whose waters run into salt lakes and sinks, there
being no drainage to the sea. The Great Salt Lake is the most important
of these interior bodies of water.

The Great Basin, which lies to the west of the Plateau Province, forms a
part of the Basin Range Province. In past geological times it was the
site of a vast system of lakes, but the climate has since changed and
the water of most of these lakes has evaporated and the sediments of the
old lake beds are now desert sands. The ancient lake shores are often
represented by conspicuous terraces, each one marking a stage in the
height of a dead lake. While these lakes existed the region was one of
great volcanic activity and many eruptive mountains were formed. Some
burst out beneath the waters; others were piled up on the dry land.

From the desert valleys below, the Wasatch Mountains rise abruptly and
are crowned with craggy peaks. But on the east side of the mountains the
descent to the plateau is comparatively slight. The Uinta Mountains are
carved out of the great plateau which extends more than two hundred
miles to the eastward of the summit of the Wasatch Range. Its mountain
peaks are cameos, its upper valleys are meadows, its higher slopes are
forest groves, and its streams run in deep, solemn, and majestic
canyons. The snows never melt from its crowning heights, and an undying
anthem is sung by its falling waters.

The Owiyukuts Plateau is situated at the northeastern end of the Uinta
Mountains. It is a great integral block of the Uinta system. A beautiful
creek heads in this plateau, near its center, and descends northward
into the bad lands of Vermilion Creek, to which stream it is tributary.
"Once upon a time" this creek, after descending from the plateau, turned
east and then southward and found its way by a beautiful canyon into
Brown's Park, where it joined the Green; but a great bend of the
Vermilion, near the foot of the plateau, was gradually enlarged--the
stream cutting away its banks--until it encroached upon the little
valley of the creek born on the Owiyukuts Plateau. This encroachment
continued until at last Vermilion Creek stole the Owiyukuts Creek and
carried its waters away by its own channel. Then the canyon channel
through which Owiyukuts Creek had previously run, no longer having a
stream to flow through its deep gorge, gathered the waters of brooks
flowing along its course into little lakelets, which are connected by a
running stream only through seasons of great rainfall. These lakelets in
the gorge of the dead creek are now favorite resorts of Ute Indians.

South of the Uinta Mountains is the Uinta River, a stream with many
mountain tributaries, some heading in the Uinta Mountains, others in the
Wasatch Mountains on the west, and still others in the western Tavaputs

The Uinta Valley is the ancient and present home of the Uinta Indians, a
tribe speaking the Uinta language of the Shoshonean family. Their
habits, customs, institutions, and mythology are essentially the same as
those of the Ute Indians of the Grand River country, already described.
In this valley there are also found many ruins of ancient
pueblo-building peoples--of what stock is not known.

The Tavaputs Plateau is one of the stupendous features of this country.
On the west it merges into the Wasatch Mountains; on the north it
descends by wooded slopes into the Uinta Valley. Its summit is
forest-clad and among the forests are many beautiful parks. On the south
it ends in a great escarpment which descends into Castle Valley. This
southern escarpment presents one of the most wonderful facades of the
world. It is from 2,000 to 4,000 feet high. The descent is not made by
one bold step, for it is cut by canyons and cliffs. It is a zone several
miles in width which is a vast labyrinth of canyons, cliffs, buttes,
pinnacles, minarets, and detached rocks of Cyclopean magnitude, the
whole destitute of soil and vegetation, colored in many brilliant tones
and tints, and carved in many weird forms,--a land of desolation,
dedicated forever to the geologist and the artist, where civilization
can find no resting-place.

Then comes Castle Valley, to describe which is to beggar language and
pall imagination. On the north is the Tavaputs; on the west is the
Wasatch Plateau, which lies to the south of the Wasatch Mountains and is
here the west boundary of the Plateau Province; on the south are
indescribable mesas and mountains; on the east is Grand River, a placid
stream meandering through a valley of meadows. Within these boundaries
there is a landscape of gigantic rock forms, interrupted here and there
by bad-land hills, dominated with the towering cliffs of Tavaputs, the
bold escarpment of the Wasatch Plateau, and the volcanic peaks of the
Henry Mountains on the south. It is a vast forest of rock forms, and in
its midst is San Rafael Swell, an elevation crowned with still more
gigantic rock forms. Among the rocks pools and lakelets are found, and
little streams run in canyons that seem like chasms cleft to nadir hell.
San Rafael River and Fremont River drain this Castle land, heading in
the Wasatch Plateau and flowing into the Grand River. Along these
streams a few narrow canyon valleys are found, and in them Ute Indians
make their winter homes. The bad lands are filled with agates, jaspers,
and carnelians, which are gathered by the Indians and fashioned into
arrowheads and knives; along the foot of the canyon cliffs workshops can
be discovered that have been occupied by generations from a time in the
long past, and the chips of these workshops pave the valleys. South of
the Wasatch Plateau we have the Fish Lake Plateau, the Awapa Plateau,
and the Aquarius Plateau, which separate the waters flowing into the
Great Basin from the waters of the Colorado, which here constitute the
boundary of the Plateau Province. Awapa is a Ute name signifying "Many

All three of these plateaus are remarkable for the many lakelets found
on them. To the east are the Henry Mountains, a group of volcanic domes
that rise above the region. The rocks of the country are limestones,
sandstones, and shales, originally lying in horizontal altitudes; but
volcanic forces were generated under them and lavas boiled up. These
lavas did not, however, come to the surface, but as they rose they
lifted the sandstones, shales, and limestones, to a thickness of 2,000
or 3,000 feet or more, into great domes. Then the molten lavas cooled in
great lenses of mountain magnitude, with the sedimentary rocks domed
above them. Then the clouds gathered over these domes and wept, and
their tears were gathered in brooks, and the brooks carved canyons down
the sides of the domes; and now in these deep clefts the structure of
the mountains is revealed. The lenses of volcanic rocks by which the
domes were upheaved are known as "laccolites," _i. e.,_ rock lakes.

Looking southwestward from the Henry Mountains the Circle Cliffs are
seen. A great escarpment, several thousand feet in height and 70 or 80
miles in length, faces the mountain. It is the step to the long, narrow
plateau. The streams that come down across these cliffs head in great
symmetric amphitheaters, and when first seen from above they present a
vast alignment of walled circles. The front of the cliffs, seen from
below, is everywhere imposing. On the southwest the Escalante River
holds its course. It heads in the Aquarius Plateau and flows into the
Colorado. Its course, as well as that of all its many tributaries, is in
deep box-canyons of homogeneous red sandstone, often with vertical walls
that are broken by many beautiful alcoves and glens. Much of the region
is of naked, smooth, red rock, but the alcoves and glens that break the
canyon walls are the sites of perennial springs, about which patches of
luxuriant verdure gather.

The Kaiparowits Plateau is an elevated table-land on the southwestern
side of the Escalante River. It is long and narrow, extending from the
northwest to the southeast approximately parallel with the Escalante. It
rises above the red sandstone of the Escalante region from 2,000 to
4,000 feet by a front of storm-carved cliffs. From the southeastern
extremity of this plateau, at an altitude of 7,500 feet, an instructive
view is obtained. One of the great canyons of the Colorado River can be
seen meandering its way through the red-rock landscape. In the distance,
and to the north, the Henry Mountains are in view, and below, the
canyons of the Escalante and the red-rock land are in sight. Across the
Colorado are the canyons of the San Juan, and below the mouth of the San
Juan is the great Navajo Mountain. Still to the south the Grand Canyon
of the Colorado is in view, and in the west a vast mesa landscape is
presented with its buttes and pinnacles. Still to the southward Paria
River is seen heading in a plateau on the margin of the province and
having a course a little east of south into the Colorado.

The region of country which has been thus described, from the Tava-puts
Plateau to the Paria River, was the home of a few scattered Ute Indians,
who lived in very small groups, and who hunted on the plateau, fished in
the waters, and dwelt in the canyons. There was nominally but one tribe,
but as the members of this tribe were in very small parties and
separated by wide distances the tribal bonds were very weak and often
unrecognized. The chief integrating agency was religion, for they
worshiped the same gods and periodically joined in the same religious
ceremonies and festivals. A country so destitute of animal and vegetal
life would not support large numbers, and the few who dwelt here gained
but a precarious and scant subsistence. To a large extent they lived on
seeds and roots. The low, warm canyons furnished admirable shelter for
the people, and their habitual costumes were loincloths, paints, and
necklaces of tiny arrowheads made of the bright-colored agates and
carnelians strung on snakeskins.

When the Mormon people encroached on this country from the west, and
when the Navajos on the east surrendered to the United States, a few
recalcitrant Navajos and the Utes of this region combined. They had long
been more or less intimately associated, and a jargon speech had grown
up by which they could communicate. Finally, the greater number of these
Utes and renegade Navajos took up their homes permanently on the eastern
bank of the Colorado River between the Grand and the San Juan rivers.
The Navajos are the dominant race, yet they live on terms of practical
equality and affiliate without feuds. These are the great Freebooters of
the Plateau Province--the enemies of other tribes and of the white men.
In their canyon fortresses they have been able to hold their ground in
spite of their enemies on every hand.

Throughout the region and the plateaus by which it is surrounded and the
mountains by which it is interrupted, everywhere ruins of pueblos and
many cliff dwellings are found. None of these ancient pueblos are on a
large scale. The houses were usually one or two stories high and the
hamlets rarely provided shelter for more than two dozen people. Some of
the houses are of rather superior architecture, having well-constructed
walls with good geometric proportions. Their houses were plastered on
the inside, and sometimes on the outside, and covered with flat roofs of
sun-dried mud. The real home of the people in their waking hours was on
their housetops.

The rocks of the mountain are etched with many picture-writings
attesting the artistic skill of this people. The predominant form is the
rattlesnake, which is found in the crevices of the rocks on every hand.
It is inferred that the people worshiped the rattlesnake as one of their
chief deities, a god who carried the spirit of death in his mouth.



There is a great group of table-lands constituting a geographic unit
which have been named the Terrace Plateaus. They ex-tend from the Paria
and Colorado on the east to the Grand Wash and Pine Mountains on the
west, and they are bounded on the south by the Grand Canyon of the
Colorado, and on the north they divide the waters of the Colorado from
the waters of the Sevier, which flows northward and then westward until
it is lost in the sands of the Great Desert. It is an irregular system
of great plateaus with subordinate mesas and buttes separated by lines
of cliffs and dissected by canyons.

In this region all of the features which have been described as found in
other portions of the province are grouped except only the cliffs of
volcanic ashes, the volcanic cones, and the volcanic domes. The volcanic
mountains, cinder cones, and coulees, the majestic plateaus and
elaborate mesas, the sculptured buttes and canyon gorges, are all found
here, but on a more stupendous scale. The volcanic mountains are higher,
the cinder cones are larger, the coulees are more extensive and are
often sheets of naked, black rock, the plateaus are more lofty, the
cliffs are on a grander scale, the canyons are of profounder depth; and
the Grand Canyon of the Colorado, the most stupendous gorge known on the
globe, with a great river surging through it, bounds it on the south.

The east-and-west cliffs are escarpments of degradation, the
north-and-south cliffs are, in the main, though not always, escarpments
of displacement. Let us understand what this means. Over the entire
region limestones, shales, and sandstones were deposited through long
periods of geologic time to the thickness of many thousands of feet;
then the country was upheaved and tilted toward the north; but the
Colorado River was flowing when the tilting commenced, and the upheaval
was very slow, so that the river cleared away the obstruction to its
channel as fast as it was presented, and this is the Grand Canyon. The
rocks above were carried away by rains and rivers, but not evenly all
over the country; nor by washing out valleys and leaving hills, but by
carving the country into terraces. The upper and later-formed rocks are
found far to the north, their edges standing in cliffs; then still
earlier rocks are found rising to the southward, until they terminate in
cliffs; and then a third series rises to the southward and ends in
cliffs, and finally a fourth series, the oldest rocks, terminating in
the Grand Canyon wall, which is a line of cliffs. There are in a general
way four great lines of cliffs extending from east to west across the
district and presenting their faces, or escarpments, southward. If these
cliffs are climbed it is found that each plateau or terrace dips gently
to the northward until it meets with another line of cliffs, which must
be ascended to reach the summit of another plateau. Place a book before
you on a table with its front edge toward you, rest another book on the
back of this, place a third on the back of the second, and in like
manner a fourth on the third. Now the leaves of the books dip from you
and the cut edges stand in tiny escarpments facing you. So the
rock-formed leaves of these books of geology have the escarpment edges
turned southward, while each book itself dips northward, and the crest
of each plateau book is the summit of a line of cliffs. These cliffs of
erosion have been described as running from east to west, but they
diverge from that course in many ways. First, canyons run from north to
south through them, and where these canyons are found deep angles occur;
then sharp salients extend from the cliffs on the backs of the lower
plateaus. Each great escarpment is made up more or less of minor
terraces, or steps; and at the foot of each grand escarpment there is
always a great talus, or sloping pile of rocks, and many marvelous
buttes stand in front of the cliffs.

But these east-and-west cliffs and the plateaus which they form are
divided by north-and-south lines in another manner. The country has been
faulted along north-and-south lines or planes. These faults are breaks
in the strata varying from 1,000 or 2,000 to 4,000 or 5,000 feet in
verticality. On the very eastern margin the rocks are dropped down
several thousand feet, or, which means the same thing, the rocks are
upheaved on the west side; that is, the beds that were originally
horizontal have been differentially displaced, so that on the west side
of the fracture the strata are several thousand feet higher than they
are on the east side of the fracture. The line of displacement is known
as the Echo Cliff Fault. West of this about twenty-five miles, there is
another fault with its throw to the east, the upheaved rocks being on
the west. This fault varies from 1,500 to 2,500 feet in throw, and
extends far to the northward. It is known as the East Kaibab Fault.
Still going westward, another fault is found, known as the West Kaibab
Fault. Here the throw is on the west side,--that is, the rocks are
dropped down to the westward from 1,000 to 2,000 feet. This fault
gradually becomes less to the northward and is flexed toward the east
until it joins with the East Kaibab Fault. The block between the two
faults is the Kaibab Plateau. Going westward from 60 to 70 miles, still
another fault is found, known as the Hurricane Ledge Fault. The throw is
again on the west side of the fracture and the rocks fall down some
thousands of feet. This fault extends far northward into central Utah.
To the west 25 or 30 miles is found a fault with the throw still on the
west. It has a drop of several thousand feet and extends across the Rio
Colorado far to the southwest, probably beyond the Arizona-New Mexico
line. It also extends far to the north, until it is buried and lost
under the Pine Valley Mountains, which are of volcanic origin.

Now let us see what all this means. In order clearly to understand this
explanation the reader is referred to the illustration designated
"Section and Bird's-Eye View of the Plateaus North of the Grand Canyon."
Starting at the Grand Wash on the west, the Grand Wash Cliffs, formed by
the Grand Wash Fault, are scaled; and if we are but a few miles north of
the Grand Canyon we are on the Shiwits Plateau. Its western boundary is
the Grand Wash Cliffs, its southern boundary is the Grand Canyon, and
its northern boundary is a line of cliffs of degradation, which will be
described hereafter. Going eastward across the Shiwits Plateau the
Hurricane Cliffs are reached, and climbing them we are on the Uinkaret
Plateau, which is bounded on the south by the Grand Canyon and on the
north by the Vermilion Cliffs, that rise above its northern foot. Still
going eastward 30 or 40 miles to the brink of the Kanab Canyon, the West
Kanab Plateau is crossed, which is bounded by the Toroweap Fault on the
west, separating it from the Uinkaret Plateau, and by the Kanab Canyon
on the east, with the Grand Canyon on the south and the Vermilion Cliffs
on the north. Crossing the Kanab, we are on the East Kanab Plateau,
which extends about 30 miles to the foot of the West Kaibab Cliffs, or
the escarpment of the West Kaibab Fault. This canyon also has the Grand
Canyon on the south and the Vermilion Cliffs on the north. Climbing the
West Kaibab Fault, we are on the Kaibab Plateau. Now we have been
climbing from west to east, and each ascent has been made at a line of
cliffs. Crossing the Kaibab Plateau to the East Kaibab Cliffs; the
country falls down once more to the top of Marble Canyon Plateau.
Crossing this plateau to the eastward, we at last reach the Echo Cliff
Fault, where the rocks fall down on the eastern side once more; but the
surface of the country itself does not fall down--the later rocks still
remain, and the general level of the country is preserved except in one
feature of singular interest and beauty, to describe which a little
further explanation is necessary.

I have spoken of these north-and-south faults as if they were fractures;
and usually they are fractures, but in some places they are flexures.
The Echo Cliffs displacement is a flexure. Just over the zone of flexure
a long ridge extends from north to south, known as the Echo Cliffs. It
is composed of a comparatively hard and homogeneous sandstone of a later
age than the limestones of the Marble Canyon Plateau west of it; but the
flexure dips down so as to carry this sandstone which forms the face of
the cliff (presented westward) far under the surface, so that on the
east side rocks of still later age are found, the drop being several
thousand feet. The inclined red sandstone stands in a ridge more than 75
miles in length, with an escarped face presented to the west and a face
of inclined rock to the east. The western side is carved into beautiful
alcoves and is buttressed with a magnificent talus, and the red
sandstone stands in fractured columns of giant size and marvelous
beauty. On the east side the declining beds are carved into pockets,
which often hold water. This is the region of the Thousand Wells. The
foot of the cliffs on the east side is several hundred feet above the
foot of the cliffs on the west side. On the west there is a vast
limestone stretch, the top of the Marble Canyon Plateau; on the east
there are drifting sand-dunes.

The terraced land described has three sets of terraces: one set on the
east, great steps to the Kaibab Plateau; another set on the west, from
the Great Basin region to the Kaibab Plateau; and a third set from the
Grand Canyon northward. There are thus three sets of cliffs: cliffs
facing the east, cliffs facing the west, and cliffs facing the south.
The north-and-south cliffs are made by faults; the east-and-west cliffs
are made by differential degradation.

The stupendous cliffs by which the plateaus are bounded are of
indescribable grandeur and beauty. The cliffs bounding the Kaibab
Plateau descend on either side, and this is the culminating portion of
the region. All the other plateaus are terraces, with cliffs ascending
on the one side and descending on the other. Some of the tables carry
dead volcanoes on their backs that are towering mountains, and all of
them are dissected by canyons that are gorges of profound depth. But
every one of these plateaus has characteristics peculiar to itself and
is worthy of its own chapter. On the north there is a pair of plateaus,
twins in age, but very distinct in development, the Paunsagunt and
Markagunt. They are separated by the Sevier River, which flows
northward. Their southern margins constitute the highest steps of the
great system of terraces of erosion. This escarpment is known as the
Pink Cliffs. Above, pine forests are found; below the cliffs are hills
and sand-dunes. The cliffs themselves are bold and often vertical walls
of a delicate pink color.

In one of the earlier years of exploration I stood on the summit of the
Pink Cliffs of the Paunsagunt Plateau, 9,000 feet above the level of the
sea. Below me, to the southwest, I could look off into the canyons of
the Virgen River, down into the canyon of the Kanab, and far away into
the Grand Canyon of the Colorado. From the lowlands of the Great Basin
and from the depths of the Grand Canyon clouds crept up over the cliffs
and floated over the landscape below me, concealing the canyons and
mantling the mountains and mesas and buttes; still on toward me the
clouds rolled, burying the landscape in their progress, until at last
the region below was covered by a mantle of storm--a tumultuous sea of
rolling clouds, black and angry in parts, white as the foam of cataracts
here and there, and everywhere flecked with resplendent sheen. Below me
spread a vast ocean of vapor, for I was above the clouds. On descending
to the plateau, I found that a great storm had swept the land, and the
dry arroyos of the day before were the channels of a thousand streams of
tawny water, born of the ocean of vapor which had invaded the land
before my vision.

Below the Pink Cliffs another irregular zone of plateaus is found,
stretching out to the margin of the Gray Cliffs. The Gray Cliffs are
composed of a homogeneous sandstone which in some places weathers gray,
but in others is as white as virgin snow. On the top of these cliffs
hills and sand-dunes are found, but everywhere on the Gray Cliff margin
the rocks are carved in fantastic forms; not in buttes and towers and
pinnacles, but in great rounded bosses of rock.

The Virgen River heads back in the Pink Cliffs of the Markagunt Plateau
and with its tributaries crosses one of these plateaus above the Gray
Cliffs, carving a labyrinth of deep gorges. This is known as the Colob
Plateau. Above, there is a vast landscape of naked, white and gray
sandstone, billowing in fantastic bosses. On the margins of the canyons
these are rounded off into great vertical walls, and at the bottom of
every winding canyon a beautiful stream of water is found running over
quicksands. Sometimes the streams in their curving have cut under the
rocks, and overhanging cliffs of towering altitudes are seen; and somber
chambers are found between buttresses that uphold the walls.  Among the
Indians this is known as the "Rock Rovers' Land," and is peopled by
mythic beings of uncanny traits.

Below the Gray Cliffs another zone of plateaus is found, separated by
the north-and-south faults and divided from the Colob series by the Gray
Cliffs and demarcated from the plateaus to the south by the Vermilion
Cliffs. The Vermilion Cliffs that face the south are of surpassing
beauty. The rocks are of orange and red above and of chocolate,
lavender, gray, and brown tints below. The canyons that cut through the
cliffs from north to south are of great diversity and all are of
profound interest. In these canyon walls many caves are found, and often
the caves contain lakelets and pools of clear water. Canyons and
re-entrant angles abound. The faces of the cliffs are terraced and
salients project onto the floors below. The outlying buttes are many.
Standing away to the south and facing these cliffs when the sun is going
down beyond the desert of the Great Basin, shadows are seen to creep
into the deep recesses, while the projecting forms are illumined, so
that the lights and shadows are in great and sharp contrast; then a
million lights seem to glow from a background of black gloom, and a
great bank of Tartarean fire stretches across the landscape.

At the foot of the Vermilion Cliffs there is everywhere a zone of
vigorous junipers and pinons, for the belt of country is favored with
comparatively abundant rain. When the clouds drift over the plateaus
below from the south and west and strike the Vermilion Cliffs, they are
abruptly lifted 2,000 feet, and to make the climb they must unload their
burdens; so that here copious rains are discharged, and by such storms
the cliffs are carved and ever from age to age carried back farther to
the north. In the Pink Cliffs above and the Gray Cliffs and the
Vermilion Cliffs, there are many notches that mark channels running
northward which had their sources on these plateaus when they extended
farther to the south. The Rio Virgen is the only stream heading in the
Pink Cliffs and running into the Colorado which is perennial. The other
rivers and creeks carry streams of water in rainy seasons only. When a
succession of dry years occurs the canyons coming through the cliffs are
choked below, as vast bodies of sand are deposited. But now and then,
ten or twenty years apart, great storms or successions of storms come,
and the channels are flooded and cut their way again through the
drifting sands to solid rock below. Thus the streams below are
alternately choked and cleared from period to period.

To the south of the Vermilion Cliffs the last series or zone of plateaus
north of the Grand Canyon is found. The summits of these plateaus are of
cherty limestone. In the far west we have the Shiwits Plateau covered
with sheets of lava and volcanic cones; then climbing the Hurricane
Ledge we have the Kanab Plateau, on the southwest portion of which the
Uinkaret Mountains stand--a group of dead volcanoes with many black
cinder cones scattered about. It is interesting to know how these
mountains are formed. The first eruptions of lava were long ago, and
they were poured out upon a surface 2,000 feet or more higher than the
general surface now found. After the first eruptions of coulees the
lands round about were degraded by rains and rivers. Then new eruptions
occurred and additional sheets of lava were poured out; but these came
not through the first channels, but through later ones formed about the
flanks of the elder beds of lava, so that the new sheets are imbricated
or shingled over the old sheets. But the overlap is from below upward.
Then the land was further degraded, and a third set of coulees was
spread still lower down on the flanks, and on these last coulees the
black cinder cones stand. So the foundations of the Uinkaret Mountains
are of limestones, and these foundations are covered with sheets of lava
overlapping from below upward, and the last coulees are decked with

Still farther east is the Kaibab Plateau, the culminating table-land of
the region. It is covered with a beautiful forest, and in the forest
charming parks are found. Its southern extremity is a portion of the
wall of the Grand Canyon; its western margin is the wall of the West
Kaibab Fault; its eastern edge is the wall of the East Kaibab Fault; and
its northern point is found where the two faults join. Here antelope
feed and many a deer goes bounding over the fallen timber. In winter
deep snows lie here, but the plateau has four months of the sweetest
summer man has ever known.

On the terraced plateaus three tribes of Indians are found: the Shiwits
("people of the springs"), the Uinkarets ("people of the pine
mountains"), and the Unkakaniguts ("people of the red lands," who dwell
along the Vermilion Cliffs). They are all Utes and belong to a
confederacy with other tribes living farther to the north, in Utah.
These people live in shelters made of boughs piled up in circles and
covered with juniper bark supported by poles. These little houses are
only large enough for half a dozen persons huddling together in sleep.
Their aboriginal clothing was very scant, the most important being
wildcatskin and wolfskin robes for the men, and rabbitskin robes for the
women, though for occasions of festival they had clothing of tanned deer
and antelope skins, often decorated with fantastic ornaments of snake
skins, feathers, and the tails of squirrels and chipmunks. A great
variety of seeds and roots furnish their food, and on the higher
plateaus there is much game, especially deer and antelope. But the whole
country abounds with rabbits, which are often killed with arrows and
caught in snares. Every year they have great hunts, when scores of
rabbits are killed in a single day. It is managed in this way: They make
nets of the fiber of the wild flax and of some other plant, the meshes
of which are about an inch across. These nets are about three and a half
feet in width and hundreds of yards in length. They arrange such a net
in a circle, not quite closed, supporting it by stakes and pinning the
bottom firmly to the ground. From the opening of the circle they extend
net wings, expanding in a broad angle several hundred yards from either
side. Then the entire tribe will beat up a great district of country and
drive the rabbits toward the nets, and finally into the circular snare,
which is quickly closed, when the rabbits are killed with arrows.

A great variety of desert plants furnish them food, as seeds, roots, and
stalks. More than fifty varieties of such seed-bearing plants have been
collected. The seeds themselves are roasted, ground, and preserved in
cakes. The most abundant food of this nature is derived from the
sunflower and the nuts of the pinon. They still make stone arrowheads,
stone knives, and stone hammers, and kindle fire with the drill. Their
medicine men are famous sorcerers. Coughs are caused by invisible winged
insects, rheumatism by flesh-eating bugs too small to be seen, and the
toothache by invisible worms. Their healing art consists in searing and
scarifying. Their medicine men take the medicine themselves to produce a
state of ecstasy, in which the disease pests are discovered. They also
practice dancing about their patients to drive away the evil beings or
to avert the effects of sorcery. When a child is bitten by a rattlesnake
the snake is caught and brought near to the suffering urchin, and
ceremonies are performed, all for the purpose of prevailing upon the
snake to take back the evil spirit. They have quite a variety of mythic
personages. The chief of these are the Enupits, who are pigmies dwelling
about the springs, and the Rock Rovers, who live in the cliffs. Their
gods are zoic, and the chief among them are the wolf, the rabbit, the
eagle, the jay, the rattlesnake, and the spider. They have no knowledge
of the ambient air, but the winds are the breath of beasts living in the
four quarters of the earth.  Whirlwinds that often blow among the
sand-dunes are caused by the dancing of Enupits. The sky is ice, and the
rain is caused by the Rainbow God; he abraids the ice of the sky with
his scales and the snow falls, and if the weather be warm the ice melts
and it is rain. The sun is a poor slave compelled to make the same
journey every day since he was conquered by the rabbit. These tribes
have a great body of romance, in which the actors are animals, and the
knowledge of these stories is the lore of their sages.

Scattered over the plateaus are the ruins of many ancient stone pueblos,
not unlike those previously described.

The Kanab River heading in the Pink Cliffs runs directly southward and
joins the Colorado in the heart of the Grand Canyon. Its way is through
a series of canyons. From one of these it emerges at the foot of the
Vermilion Cliffs, and here stood an extensive ruin not many years ago.
Some portions of the pueblo were three stories high. The structure was
one of the best found in this land of ruins. The Mormon people settling
here have used the stones of the old pueblo in building their homes, and
now no vestiges of the ancient structure remain. A few miles below the
town other ruins were found. They were scattered to Pipe's Springs, a
point twenty miles to the westward. Ruins were also discovered up the
stream as far as the Pink Cliffs, and eastward along the Vermilion
Cliffs nearly to the Colorado River, and out on the margin of the Kanab
Plateau. These were all ruins of outlying habitations be-longing to the
Kanab pueblo. From the study of the existing pueblos found elsewhere and
from extensive study of the ruins, it seems that everywhere tribal
pueblos were built of considerable dimensions, usually to give shelter
to several hundred people. Then the people cultivated the soil by
irrigation, and had their gardens and little fields scattered at wide
distances about the central pueblo, by little springs and streams and
wherever they could control the water with little labor to bring it on
the land. At such points stone houses were erected sufficient to
accommodate from one to two thousand people, and these were occupied
during the season of cultivation and are known as rancherias. So one
great tribe had its central pueblo and its outlying rancherias.
Sometimes the rancherias were occupied from year to year, especially in
time of peace, but usually they were occupied only during seasons of
cultivation. Such groups of ruins and pueblos with accessory rancherias
are still inhabited, and have been described as found throughout the
Plateau Province except far to the north beyond the Uinta Mountains. A
great pueblo once existed in the Uinta Valley on the south side of the
mountains. This is the most northern pueblo which has yet been
discovered. But the pueblo-building tribes extended beyond the area
drained by the Colorado. On the west there was a pueblo in the Great
Basin at the site now occupied by Salt Lake City, and several more to
the southward, all on waters flowing into the desert. On the east such
pueblos were found among mountains at the headwaters of the Arkansas,
Platte, and Canadian rivers. The entire area drained by the Rio Grande
del Norte was occupied by pueblo tribes, and a number are still
inhabited. To the south they extended far beyond the territory of the
United States, and the so-called Aztec cities were rather superior
pueblos of this character. The known pueblo tribes of the United States
belong to several different linguistic stocks. They are far from being
one homogeneous people, for they have not only different languages but
different religions and worship different gods. These pueblo peoples are
in a higher grade of culture than most Indian tribes of the United
States. This is exhibited in the slight superiority of their arts,
especially in their architecture. It is also noticeable in their
mythology and religion. Their gods, the heroes of their myths, are more
often personifications of the powers and phenomena of nature, and their
religious ceremonies are more elaborate, and their cult societies are
highly organized. As they had begun to domesticate animals and to
cultivate the soil, so as to obtain a part of their subsistence by
agriculture, they had almost accomplished the ascent from savagery to
barbarism when first discovered by the invading European. All the
Indians of North America were in this state of transition, but the
pueblo tribes had more nearly reached the higher goal.

The great number of ruins found throughout the land has often been
interpreted as evidence of a much larger pueblo population than has been
found in post-Columbian time. But a careful study of the facts does not
warrant this conclusion. It would seem that for various reasons tribes
abandoned old pueblos and built new, thus changing their permanent
residence from time to time; but more frequent changes were made in
their rancherias. These were but ephemeral, being moved from place to
place by the varying conditions of water supply. Most of the streams of
the arid land are not perennial, but very many of the smaller streams of
the pueblo region discharge their waters into the larger streams in
times of great flood. Such floods occur now here, now there, and at
varying periods, sometimes fifty years apart. When dry years follow one
another for a long series, the channels of these intermittent streams
are choked with sand until the streams are buried and lost. Under such
circumstances the rancherias were moved from dead stream to living
stream. In rare instances pueblos themselves were removed for this
cause. Other pueblos, and the rancherias generally, were abandoned in
time of war; this seems to have been a potent cause for moving. When
pestilence attacked a pueblo the people would sometimes leave in a body
and never return. The cliff pueblos and dwellings, the cavate dwellings,
and the cinder-cone towns were all built and occupied for defensive
purposes when powerful enemies threatened. The history of some of the
old ruins has been obtained and we know the existing tribes who once
occupied them; others still remain enshrouded in obscurity.



In the summer of 1867, with a small party of naturalists, students, and
amateurs like myself, I visited the mountain region of Colorado
Territory. While in Middle Park I explored a little canyon through which
the Grand River runs, immediately below the now well-known watering
place, Middle Park Hot Springs. Later in the fall I passed through Cedar
Canyon, the gorge by which the Grand leaves the park. A result of the
summer's study was to kindle a desire to explore the canyons of the
Grand, Green, and Colorado rivers, and the next summer I organized an
expedition with the intention of penetrating still farther into that
canyon country.

As soon as the snows were melted, so that the main range could be
crossed, I went over into Middle Park, and proceeded thence down the
Grand to the head of Cedar Canyon, then across the Park Range by Gore's
Pass, and in October found myself and party encamped on the White River,
about 120 miles above its mouth. At that point I built cabins and
established winter quarters, intending to occupy the cold season, as far
as possible, in exploring the adjacent country. The winter of 1868-69
proved favorable to my purposes, and several excursions were made,
southward to the Grand, down the White to the Green, northward to the
Yampa, and around the Uinta Mountains. During these several excursions
I seized every opportunity to study the canyons through which these
upper streams run, and while thus engaged formed plans for the
exploration of the canyons of the Colorado. Since that time I have been
engaged in executing these plans, sometimes employed in the field,
sometimes in the office. Begun originally as an exploration, the work
was finally developed into a survey, embracing the geography, geology,
ethnography, and natural history of the country, and a number of
gentlemen have, from time to time, assisted me in the work.

Early in the spring of 1869 a party was organized for the exploration of
the canyons. Boats were built in Chicago and transported by rail to the
point where the Union Pacific Railroad crosses the Green River. With
these we were to descend the Green to the Colorado, and the Colorado
down to the foot of the Grand Canyon.

_May 24, 1869.--_The good people of Green River City turn out to see us
start. We raise our little flag, push the boats from shore, and the
swift current carries us down.

Our boats are four in number. Three are built of oak; stanch and firm;
double-ribbed, with double stem and stern posts, and further
strengthened by bulkheads, dividing each into three compartments. Two of
these, the fore and aft, are decked, forming water-tight cabins. It is
expected these will buoy the boats should the waves roll over them in
rough water. The fourth boat is made of pine, very light, but 16 feet in
length, with a sharp cutwater, and every way built for fast rowing, and
divided into compartments as the others. The little vessels are 21 feet
long, and, taking out the cargoes, can be carried by four men.

We take with us rations deemed sufficient to last ten months, for we
expect, when winter comes on and the river is filled with ice, to lie
over at some point until spring arrives; and so we take with us abundant
supplies of clothing, likewise. We have also a large quantity of
ammunition and two or three dozen traps. For the purpose of building
cabins, repairing boats, and meeting other exigencies, we are supplied
with axes, hammers, saws, augers, and other tools, and a quantity of
nails and screws. For scientific work, we have two sextants, four
chronometers, a number of barometers, thermometers, compasses, and other

The flour is divided into three equal parts; the meat, and all other
articles of our rations, in the same way. Each of the larger boats has
an axe, hammer, saw, auger, and other tools, so that all are loaded
alike. We distribute the cargoes in this way that we may not be entirely
destitute of some important article should any one of the boats be lost.
In the small boat we pack a part of the scientific instruments, three
guns, and three small bundles of clothing, only; and in this I proceed
in advance to explore the channel.

J. C. Sumner and William H. Dunn are my boatmen in the "Emma Dean"; then
follows "Kitty Clyde's Sister," manned by W. H. Powell and G. Y.
Bradley; next, the "No Name," with O. G. Howland, Seneca Howland, and
Frank Goodman; and last comes the "Maid of the Canyon," with W. E.
Hawkins and Andrew Hall.

Sumner was a soldier during the late war, and before and since that time
has been a great traveler in the wilds of the Mississippi Valley and the
Rocky Mountains as an amateur hunter. He is a fair-haired,
delicate-looking man, but a veteran in experience, and has performed the
feat of crossing the Rocky Mountains in midwinter on snowshoes. He spent
the winter of 1886-87 in Middle Park, Colorado, for the purpose of
making some natural history collections for me, and succeeded in killing
three grizzlies, two mountain lions, and a large number of elk, deer,
sheep, wolves, beavers, and many other animals. When Bayard Taylor
traveled through the parks of Colorado, Sumner was his guide, and he
speaks in glowing terms of Mr. Taylor's genial qualities in camp, but he
was mortally offended when the great traveler requested him to act as
doorkeeper at Breckenridge to receive the admission fee from those who
attended his lectures.

Dunn was a hunter, trapper, and mule-packer in Colorado for many years.
He dresses in buckskin with a dark oleaginous luster, doubtless due to
the fact that he has lived on fat venison and killed many beavers since
he first donned his uniform years ago. His raven hair falls down to his
back, for he has a sublime contempt of shears and razors.

Captain Powell was an officer of artillery during the late war and was
captured on the 22d day of July, 1864, at Atlanta and served a ten
months' term in prison at Charleston, where he was placed with other
officers under fire. He is silent, moody, and sarcastic, though
sometimes he enlivens the camp at night with a song. He is never
surprised at anything, his coolness never deserts him, and he would
choke the belching throat of a volcano if he thought the spitfire meant
anything but fun. We call him _"_Old Shady."

Bradley, a lieutenant during the late war, and since orderly sergeant in
the regular army, was, a few weeks previous to our start, discharged, by
order of the Secretary of War, that he might go on this trip. He is
scrupulously careful, and a little mishap works him into a passion, but
when labor is needed he has a ready hand and powerful arm, and in
danger, rapid judgment and unerring skill. A great difficulty or peril
changes the petulant spirit into a brave, generous soul.

O. G. Howland is a printer by trade, an editor by profession, and a
hunter by choice. When busily employed he usually puts his hat in his
pocket, and his thin hair and long beard stream in the wind, giving him
a wild look, much like that of King Lear in an illustrated copy of
Shakespeare which tumbles around the camp.

Seneca Howland is a quiet, pensive young man, and a great favorite with

Goodman is a stranger to us--a stout, willing Englishman, with florid
face and more florid anticipations of a glorious trip.

Billy Hawkins, the cook, was a soldier in the Union Army during the war,
and when discharged at its close went West, and since then has been
engaged as teamster on the plains or hunter in the mountains. He is an
athlete and a jovial good fellow, who hardly seems to know his own

Hall is a Scotch boy, nineteen years old, with what seems to us a
"secondhand head," which doubtless came down to him from some knight who
wore it during the Border Wars. It looks a very old head indeed, with
deep-set blue eyes and beaked nose. Young as he is, Hall has had
experience in hunting, trapping, and fighting Indians, and he makes the
most of it, for he can tell a good story, and is never encumbered by
unnecessary scruples in giving to his narratives those embellishments
which help to make a story complete. He is always ready for work or play
and is a good hand at either.

Our boats are heavily loaded, and only with the utmost care is it
possible to float in the rough river without shipping water. A mile or
two below town we run on a sandbar. The men jump into the stream and
thus lighten the vessels, so that they drift over, and on we go.

In trying to avoid a rock an oar is broken on one of the boats, and,
thus crippled, she strikes. The current is swift and she is sent reeling
and rocking into the eddy. In the confusion two other oars are lost
overboard, and the men seem quite discomfited, much to the amusement of
the other members of the party. Catching the oars and starting again,
the boats are once more borne down the stream, until we land at a small
cottonwood grove on the bank and camp for noon.

During the afternoon we run down to a point where the river sweeps the
foot of an overhanging cliff, and here we camp for the night. The sun is
yet two hours high, so I climb the cliffs and walk back among the
strangely carved rocks of the Green River bad lands. These are
sandstones and shales, gray and buff, red and brown, blue and black
strata in many alternations, lying nearly horizontal, and almost without
soil and vegetation. They are very friable, and the rain and streams
have carved them into quaint shapes. Barren desolation is stretched
before me; and yet there is a beauty in the scene. The fantastic
carvings, imitating architectural forms and suggesting rude but weird
statuary, with the bright and varied colors of the rocks, conspire to
make a scene such as the dweller in verdure-clad hills can scarcely

Standing on a high point, I can look off in every direction over a vast
landscape, with salient rocks and cliffs glittering in the evening sun.
Dark shadows are settling in the valleys and gulches, and the heights
are made higher and the depths deeper by the glamour and witchery of
light and shade. Away to the south the Uinta Mountains stretch in a long
line,--high peaks thrust into the sky, and snow fields glittering like
lakes of molten silver, and pine forests in somber green, and rosy
clouds playing around the borders of huge, black masses; and heights and
clouds and mountains and snow fields and forests and rock-lands are
blended into one grand view. Now the sun goes down, and I return to

_May 25._--We start early this morning and run along at a good rate
until about nine o'clock, when we are brought up on a gravelly bar.  All
jump out and help the boats over by main strength. Then a rain comes on,
and river and clouds conspire to give us a thorough drenching. Wet,
chilled, and tired to exhaustion, we stop at a cottonwood grove on the
bank, build a huge fire, make a cup of coffee, and are soon refreshed
and quite merry. When the clouds "get out of our sunshine" we start
again. A few miles farther down a flock of mountain sheep are seen on a
cliff to the right. The boats are quietly tied up and three or four men
go after them. In the course of two or three hours they return. The cook
has been successful in bringing down a fat lamb. The unsuccessful
hunters taunt him with finding it dead; but it is soon dressed, cooked,
and eaten, and makes a fine four o'clock dinner.

"All aboard," and down the river for another dozen miles. On the way we
pass the mouth of Black's Fork, a dirty little stream that seems
somewhat swollen. Just below its mouth we land and camp.

_May 26.--_To-day we pass several curiously shaped buttes, standing
between the west bank of the river and the high bluffs beyond. These
buttes are outliers of the same beds of rocks as are exposed on the
faces of the bluffs,--thinly laminated shales and sandstones of many
colors, standing above in vertical cliffs and buttressed below with a
water-carved talus; some of them attain an altitude of nearly a thousand
feet above the level of the river.

We glide quietly down the placid stream past the carved cliffs of the
_mauvaises terres,_ now and then obtaining glimpses of distant
mountains. Occasionally, deer are started from the glades among the
willows; and several wild geese, after a chase through the water, are
shot. After dinner we pass through a short and narrow canyon into a
broad valley; from this, long, lateral valleys stretch back on either
side as far as the eye can reach.

Two or three miles below, Henry's Fork enters from the right. We land a
short distance above the junction, where a _cache_ of instruments and
rations was made several months ago in a cave at the foot of the cliff,
a distance back from the river. Here they were safe from the elements
and wild beasts, but not from man. Some anxiety is felt, as we have
learned that a party of Indians have been camped near the place for
several weeks. Our fears are soon allayed, for we find the _cache_
undisturbed. Our chronometer wheels have not been taken for hair
ornaments, our barometer tubes for beads, or the sextant thrown into the
river as "bad medicine," as had been predicted. Taking up our _cache,_
we pass down to the foot of the Uinta Mountains and in a cold storm go
into camp.

The river is running to the south; the mountains have an easterly and
westerly trend directly athwart its course, yet it glides on in a quiet
way as if it thought a mountain range no formidable obstruction. It
enters the range by a flaring, brilliant red gorge, that may be seen
from the north a score of miles away. The great mass of the mountain
ridge through which the gorge is cut is composed of bright vermilion
rocks; but they are surmounted by broad bands of mottled buff and gray,
and these bands come down with a gentle curve to the water's edge on the
nearer slope of the mountain.

This is the head of the first of the canyons we are about to explore--an
introductory one to a series made by the river through this range. We
name it Flaming Gorge. The cliffs, or walls, we find on measurement to
be about 1,200 feet high.

_May 27.--_To-day it rains, and we employ the time in repairing one of
our barometers, which was broken on the way from New York. A new tube
has to be put in; that is, a long glass tube has to be filled with
mercury, four or five inches at a time, and each installment boiled over
a spirit lamp. It is a delicate task to do this without breaking the
glass; but we have success, and are ready to measure mountains once

_May 28.--_To-day we go to the summit of the cliff on the left and take
observations for altitude, and are variously employed in topographic and
geologic work.

_May 29.--_This morning Bradley and I cross the river and climb more
than a thousand feet to a point where we can see the stream sweeping in
a long, beautiful curve through the gorge below. Turning and looking to
the west, we can see the valley of Henry's Fork, through which, for many
miles, the little river flows in a tortuous channel. Cottonwood groves
are planted here and there along its course, and between them are
stretches of grass land. The narrow mountain valley is inclosed on
either side by sloping walls of naked rock of many bright colors. To the
south of the valley are the Uintas, and the peaks of the Wasatch
Mountains can be faintly seen in the far west. To the north, desert
plains, dotted here and there with curiously carved hills and buttes,
extend to the limit of vision.

For many years this valley has been the home of a number of
mountaineers, who were originally hunters and trappers, living with the
Indians. Most of them have one or more Indian wives. They no longer roam
with the nomadic tribes in pursuit of buckskin or beaver, but have
accumulated herds of cattle and horses, and consider themselves quite
well to do. Some of them have built cabins; others still live in lodges.
John Baker is one of the most famous of these men, and from our point of
view we can see his lodge, three or four miles up the river.

The distance from Green River City to Flaming Gorge is 62 miles. The
river runs between bluffs, in some places standing so close to each
other that no flood plain is seen. At such a point the river might
properly be said to run through a canyon. The bad lands on either side
are interrupted here and there by patches of _Artemisia,_ or sage brush.
Where there is a flood plain along either side of the river, a few
cottonwoods may be seen.



One must not think of a mountain range as a line of peaks standing on a
plain, but as a broad platform many miles wide from which mountains have
been carved by the waters. One must conceive, too, that this plateau is
cut by gulches and canyons in many directions and that beautiful valleys
are scattered about at different altitudes. The first series of canyons
we are about to explore constitutes a river channel through such a range
of mountains. The canyon is cut nearly halfway through the range, then
turns to the east and is cut along the central line, or axis, gradually
crossing it to the south. Keeping this direction for more than 50 miles,
it then turns abruptly to a southwest course, and goes diagonally
through the southern slope of the range.

This much we know before entering, as we made a partial exploration of
the region last fall, climbing many of its peaks, and in a few places
reaching the brink of the canyon walls and looking over precipices many
hundreds of feet high to the water below.

Here and there the walls are broken by lateral canyons, the channels of
little streams entering the river. Through two or three of these we
found our way down to the Green in early winter and walked along the low
water-beach at the foot of the cliffs for several miles. Where the river
has this general easterly direction the western part only has cut for
itself a canyon, while the eastern has formed a broad valley, called, in
honor of an old-time trapper, Brown's Park, and long known as a favorite
winter resort for mountain men and Indians.

_May 30.--_This morning we are ready to enter the mysterious canyon, and
start with some anxiety. The old mountaineers tell us that it cannot be
run; the Indians say, "Water heap catch 'em"; but all are eager for the
trial, and off we go.

Entering Flaming Gorge, we quickly run through it on a swift current and
emerge into a little park. Half a mile below, the river wheels sharply
to the left and enters another canyon cut into the mountain. We enter
the narrow passage. On either side the walls rapidly increase in
altitude. On the left are overhanging ledges and cliffs,--500, 1,000,
1,500 feet high.

On the right the rocks are broken and ragged, and the water fills the
channel from cliff to cliff. Now the river turns abruptly around a point
to the right, and the waters plunge swiftly down among great rocks; and
here we have our first experience with canyon rapids. I stand up on the
deck of my boat to seek a way among the wave-beaten rocks. All untried
as we are with such waters, the moments are filled with intense anxiety.
Soon our boats reach the swift current; a stroke or two, now on this.
side, now on that, and we thread the narrow passage with exhilarating
Velocity, mounting the high waves, whose foaming crests dash over us,
and plunging into the troughs, until we reach the quiet water below.
Then comes a feeling of great relief. Our first rapid is run. Another
mile, and we come into the valley again.

Let me explain this canyon. Where the river turns to the left above, it
takes a course directly into the mountain, penetrating to its very
heart, then wheels back upon itself, and runs out into the valley from
which it started only half a mile below the point at which it entered;
so the canyon is in the form of an elongated letter U, with the apex in
the center of the mountain. We name it Horseshoe Canyon.

Soon we leave the valley and enter another short canyon, very narrow at
first, but widening below as the canyon walls increase in height. Here
we discover the mouth of a beautiful little creek coming down through
its narrow water-worn cleft. Just at its entrance there is a park of two
or three hundred acres, walled on every side by almost vertical cliffs
hundreds of feet in altitude, with three gateways through the walls--one
up the river, another down, and a third through which the creek comes
in. The river is broad, deep, and quiet, and its waters mirror towering

Kingfishers are playing about the streams, and so we adopt as names
Kingfisher Creek, Kingfisher Park, and Kingfisher Canyon. At night we
camp at the foot of this canyon.

Our general course this day has been south, but here the river turns to
the east around a point which is rounded to the shape of a dome. On its
sides little cells have been carved by the action of the water, and in
these pits, which cover the face of the dome, hundreds of swallows have
built their nests. As they flit about the cliffs, they look like swarms
of bees, giving to the whole the appearance of a colossal beehive of the
old-time form, and so we name it Beehive Point.

The opposite wall is a vast amphitheater, rising in a succession of
terraces to a height of 1,200 or 1,500 feet. Each step is built of red
sandstone, with a face of naked red rock and a glacis clothed with
verdure. So the amphitheater seems banded red and green, and the evening
sun is playing with roseate flashes on the rocks, with shimmering green
on the cedars' spray, and with iridescent gleams on the dancing waves.
The landscape revels in the sunshine.

_May 31.--_We start down another canyon and reach rapids made dangerous
by high rocks lying in the channel; so we run ashore and let our boats
down with lines. In the afternoon we come to more dangerous rapids and
stop to examine them. I find we must do the same work again, but, being
on the wrong side of the river to obtain a foothold, must first cross
over--no very easy matter in such a current, with rapids and rocks
below. We take the pioneer boat, "Emma Dean," over, and unload her on
the bank; then she returns and takes another load. Running back and
forth, she soon has half our cargo over. Then one of the larger boats is
manned and taken across, but is carried down almost to the rocks in
spite of hard rowing. The other boats follow and make the landing, and
we go into camp for the night.

At the foot of the cliff on this side there is a long slope covered with
pines; under these we make our beds, and soon after sunset are seeking
rest and sleep. The cliffs on either side are of red sandstone and
stretch toward the heavens 2,500 feet. On this side the long, pine-clad
slope is surmounted by perpendicular cliffs, with pines on their
summits. The wall on the other side is bare rock from the water's edge
up 2,000 feet, then slopes back, giving footing to pines and cedars.

As the twilight deepens, the rocks grow dark and somber; the threatening
roar of the water is loud and constant, and I lie awake with thoughts of
the morrow and the canyons to come, interrupted now and then by
characteristics of the scenery that attract my attention. And here I
make a discovery. On looking at the mountain directly in front, the
steepness of the slope is greatly exaggerated, while the distance to its
summit and its true altitude are correspondingly diminished. I have
heretofore found that to judge properly of the slope of a mountain side,
one must see it in profile. In coming down the river this afternoon, I
observed the slope of a particular part of the wall and made an estimate
of its altitude. While at supper, I noticed the same cliff from a
position facing it, and it seemed steeper, but not half so high. Now
lying on my side and looking at it, the true proportions appear. This
seems a wonder, and I rise to take a view of it standing. It is the same
cliff as at supper time. Lying down again, it is the cliff as seen in
profile, with a long slope and distant summit. Musing on this, I forget
"the morrow and the canyons to come"; I have found a way to estimate the
altitude and slope of an inclination, in like manner as I can judge of
distance along the horizon. The reason is simple. A reference to the
stereoscope will suggest it. The distance between the eyes forms a base
line for optical triangulation.

_June 1.--_To-day we have an exciting ride. The river rolls down the
canyon at a wonderful rate, and, with no rocks in the way, we make
almost railroad speed. Here and there the water rushes into a narrow
gorge; the rocks on the side roll it into the center in great waves, and
the boats go leaping and bounding over these like things of life,
reminding me of scenes witnessed in Middle Park--herds of startled deer
bounding through forests beset with fallen timber. I mention the
resemblance to some of the hunters, and so striking is it that the
expression, "See the blacktails jumping the logs," comes to be a common
one. At times the waves break and roll over the boats, which
necessitates much bailing and obliges us to stop occasionally for that
purpose. At one time we run twelve miles in an hour, stoppages included.

Last spring I had a conversation with an old Indian named Pariate, who
told me about one of his tribe attempting to run this canyon. "The
rocks," he said, holding his hands above his head, his arms vertical,
and looking between them to the heavens, "the rocks h-e-a-p,


h-e-a-p high; the water go h-oo-woogh, h-oo-woogh; water-pony li-e-a-p
buck; water catch 'em; no see 'em Injun any more! no see 'em squaw any
more! no see 'em papoose any more!"

Those who have seen these wild Indian ponies rearing alternately before
and behind, or "bucking," as it is called in the vernacular, will
appreciate his description.

At last we come to calm water, and a threatening roar is heard in the
distance. Slowly approaching the point whence the sound issues, we come
near to falls, and tie up just above them on the left. Here we shall be
compelled to make a portage; so we unload the boats, and fasten a long
line to the bow of the smaller one, and another to the stern, and moor
her close to the brink of the fall. Then the bowline is taken below and
made fast; the stern line is held by five or six men, and the boat let
down as long as they can hold her against the rushing waters; then,
letting go one end of the line, it runs through the ring; the boat leaps
over the fall and is caught by the lower rope.

Now we rest for the night.

_June 2.--_This morning we make a trail among the rocks, transport the
cargoes to a point below the fall, let the remaining boats over, and are
ready to start before noon.

On a high rock by which the trail passes we find the inscription:
"Ashley 18-5." The third figure is obscure--some of the party reading it
1835, some 1855. James Baker, an old-time mountaineer, once told me
about a party of men starting down the river, and Ashley was named as
one. The story runs that the boat was swamped, and some of the party
drowned in one of the canyons below. The word "Ashley" is a warning to
us, and we resolve on great caution. Ashley Falls is the name we give to
the cataract.

The river is very narrow, the right wall vertical for 200 or 300 feet,
the left towering to a great height, with a vast pile of broken rocks
lying between the foot of the cliff and the water. Some of the rocks
broken down from the ledge above have tumbled into the channel and
caused this fall. One great cubical block, thirty or forty feet high,
stands in the middle of the stream, and the waters, parting to either
side, plunge down about twelve feet, and are broken again by the smaller
rocks into a rapid below. Immediately below the falls the water occupies
the entire channel, there being no talus at the foot of the cliffs.

We embark and run down a short distance, where we find a landing-place
for dinner.

On the waves again all the afternoon. Near the lower end of this canyon,
to which we have given the name of Red Canyon, is a little park, where
streams come down from distant mountain summits and enter the river on
either side; and here we camp for the night under two stately pines.

_June 3.--_This morning we spread our rations, clothes, etc., on the
ground to dry, and several of the party go out for a hunt. I take a walk
of five or six miles up to a pine-grove park, its grassy carpet bedecked
with crimson velvet flowers, set in groups on the stems of pear-shaped
cactus plants; patches of painted cups are seen here and there, with
yellow blossoms protruding through scarlet bracts; little blue-eyed
flowers are peeping through the grass; and the air is filled with
fragrance from the white blossoms of the _Spiraea._ A mountain brook
runs through the midst, ponded below by beaver dams. It is a quiet place
for retirement from the raging waters of the canyon.

It will be remembered that the course of the river from Flaming Gorge to
Beehive Point is in a southerly direction and at right angles to the
Uinta Mountains, and cuts into the range until it reaches a point within
five miles of the crest, where it turns to the east and pursues a course
not quite parallel to the trend of the range, but crosses the axis
slowly in a direction a little south of east. Thus there is a triangular
tract between the river and the axis of the mountain, with its acute
angle extending eastward. I climb the mountain overlooking this country.
To the east the peaks are not very high, and already most of the snow
has melted, but little patches lie here and there under the lee of
ledges of rock. To the west the peaks grow higher and the snow fields
larger. Between the brink of the canyon and the foot of these peaks,
there is a high bench. A number of creeks have their sources in the
snowbanks to the south and run north into the canyon, tumbling down from
3,000 to 5,000 feet in a distance of five or six miles. Along their
upper courses they run through grassy valleys, but as they approach Red
Canyon they rapidly disappear under the general surface of the country,
and emerge into the canyon below in deep, dark gorges of their own. Each
of these short lateral canyons is marked by a succession of cascades and
a wild confusion of rocks and trees and fallen timber and thick

The little valleys above are beautiful parks; between the parks are
stately pine forests, half hiding ledges of red sandstone. Mule deer and
elk abound; grizzly bears, too, are abundant; and here wild cats,
wolverines, and mountain lions are at home. The forest aisles are filled
with the music of birds, and the parks are decked with flowers. Noisy
brooks meander through them; ledges of moss-covered rocks are seen; and
gleaming in the distance are the snow fields, and the mountain tops are
away in the clouds.

_June 4-_--We start early and run through to Brown's Park. Halfway down
the valley, a spur of a red mountain stretches across the river, which
cuts a canyon through it. Here the walls are comparatively low, but
vertical. A vast number of swallows have built their _adobe_ houses on
the face of the cliffs, on either side of the river. The waters are deep
and quiet, but the swallows are swift and noisy enough, sweeping by in
their curved paths through the air or chattering from the rocks, while
the young ones stretch their little heads on naked necks through the
doorways of their mud houses and clamor for food. They are a noisy
people. We call this Swallow Canyon.

Still down the river we glide until an early hour in the afternoon, when
we go into camp under a giant cottonwood standing on the right bank a
little way back from the stream. The party has succeeded in killing a
fine lot of wild ducks, and during the afternoon a mess of fish is

_June 5._--With one of the men I climb a mountain, off on the right. A
long spur, with broken ledges of rock, puts down to the river, and along
its course, or up the "hogback," as it is called, I make the ascent.
Dunn, who is climbing to the same point, is coming up the gulch. Two
hours' hard work has brought us to the summit. These mountains are all
verdure-clad; pine and cedar forests are set on green terraces;
snow-clad mountains are seen in the distance, to the west; the plains of
the upper Green stretch out before us to the north until they are lost
in the blue heavens; but half of the river-cleft range intervenes, and
the river itself is at our feet.

This half range, beyond the river, is composed of long ridges nearly
parallel with the valley. On the farther ridge, to the north, four
creeks have their sources. These cut through the intervening ridges, one
of which is much higher than that on which they head, by canyon gorges;
then they run with gentle curves across the valley, their banks set with
willows, box-elders, and cottonwood groves. To the east we look up the
valley of the Vermilion, through which Fremont found his path on his way
to the great parks of Colorado.

The reading of the barometer taken, we start down in company, and reach
camp tired and hungry, which does not abate one bit our enthusiasm as we
tell of the day's work with its glory of landscape.

_June 6._--At daybreak I am awakened by a chorus of birds. It seems as
if all the feathered songsters of the region have come to the old tree.
Several species of warblers, woodpeckers, and flickers above, meadow
larks in the grass, and wild geese in the river. I recline on my elbow
and watch a lark near by, and then awaken my bedfellow, to listen to my
Jenny Lind. A real morning concert for _me;_ none of your _"matinees"!_

Our cook has been an ox-driver, or "bull-whacker," on the plains, in
one of those long trains now no longer seen, and he hasn't forgotten his
old ways. In the midst of the concert, his voice breaks in: "Roll out!
roll out! bulls in the corral! chain up the gaps! Roll out! roll out!
roll out!" And this is our breakfast bell.

To-day we pass through, the park, and camp at the head of another

_June 7.--_To-day two or three of us climb to the summit of the cliff on
the left, and find its altitude above camp to be 2,086 feet. The rocks
are split with fissures, deep and narrow, sometimes a hundred feet or
more to the bottom, and these fissures are filled with loose earth and
decayed vegetation in which lofty pines find root. On a rock we find a
pool of clear, cold water, caught from yesterday evening's shower. After
a good drink we walk out to the brink of the canyon and look down to the
water below. I can do this now, but it has taken several years of
mountain climbing to cool my nerves so that I can sit with my feet over
the edge and calmly look down a precipice 2,000 feet. And yet I cannot
look on and see another do the same. I must either bid him come away or
turn my head. The canyon walls are buttressed on a grand scale, with
deep alcoves intervening; columned crags crown the cliffs, and the river
is rolling below.

When we return to camp at noon the sun shines in splendor on vermilion
walls, shaded into green and gray where the rocks are lichened over; the
river fills the channel from wall to wall, and the canyon opens, like a
beautiful portal, to a region of glory. This evening, as I write, the
sun is going down and the shadows are settling in the canyon. The
vermilion gleams and roseate hues, blending with the green and gray
tints, are slowly changing to somber brown above, and black shadows are
creeping over them below; and now it is a dark portal to a region of
gloom--the gateway through which we are to enter on our voyage of
exploration tomorrow. What shall we find?

The distance from Flaming Gorge to Beehive Point is 9 2/3 miles. Besides
passing through the gorge, the river runs through Horseshoe and
Kingfisher canyons, separated by short valleys. The highest point on the
walls at Flaming Gorge is 1,300 feet above the river. The east wall at
the apex of Horseshoe Canyon is about 1,600 feet above the water's edge,
and from this point the walls slope both to the head and foot of the

Kingfisher Canyon, starting at the water's edge above, steadily
increases in altitude to 1,200 feet at the foot.

Red Canyon is 25 2/3 miles long, and the highest walls are about 2,500

Brown's Park is a valley, bounded on either side by a mountain range,
really an expansion of the canyon. The river, through the park, is 35
1/2 miles long, but passes through two short canyons on its way, where
spurs from the mountains on the south are thrust across its course.



_June 8_.--We enter the canyon, and until noon find a succession of
rapids, over which, our boats have to be taken. Here I must explain our
method of proceeding at such places. The "Emma Dean "'goes in advance;
the other boats follow, in obedience to signals. When we approach a
rapid, or what on other rivers would often be called a fall, I stand on
deck to examine it, while the oarsmen back water, and we drift on as
slowly as possible. If I can see a clear chute between the rocks, away
we go; but if the channel is beset entirely across, we signal the other
boats, pull to land, and I walk along the shore for closer examination.
If this reveals no clear channel, hard work begins. We drop the boats to
the very head of the dangerous place and let them over by lines or make
a portage, frequently carrying both boats and cargoes over the rocks.

The waves caused by such falls in a river differ much from the waves of
the sea. The water of an ocean wave merely rises and falls; the form
only passes on, and form chases form unceasingly. A body floating on
such waves merely rises and sinks--does not progress unless impelled by
wind or some other power. But here the water of the wave passes on while
the form remains. The waters plunge down ten or twenty feet to the foot
of a fall, spring up again in a great wave, then down and up in a series
of billows that gradually disappear in the more quiet waters below; but
these waves are always there, and one can stand above and count them.

A boat riding such billows leaps and plunges along with great velocity.
Now, the difficulty in riding over these falls, when no rocks are in the
way, is with the first wave at the foot. This will sometimes gather for
a moment, heap up higher and higher, and then break back.

If the boat strikes it the instant after it breaks, she cuts through,
and the mad breaker dashes its spray over the boat and washes overboard
all who do not cling tightly. If the boat, in going over the falls,
chances to get caught in some side current and is turned from its
course, so as to strike the wave _"_broadside on," and the wave breaks
at the same instant, the boat is capsized; then we must cling to her,
for the water-tight compartments act as buoys and she cannot sink; and
so we go, dragged through the waves, until still waters are reached,
when we right the boat and climb aboard. We have several such
experiences to-day.

At night we camp on the right bank, on a little shelving rock between
the river and the foot of the cliff; and with night comes gloom into
these great depths. After supper we sit by our camp fire, made of
driftwood caught by the rocks, and tell stories of wild life; for the
men have seen such in the mountains or on the plains, and on the
battlefields of the South. It is late before we spread our blankets on
the beach.

Lying down, we look up through the canyon and see that only a little of
the blue heaven appears overhead--a crescent of blue sky, with two or
three constellations peering down upon us. I do not sleep for some time,
as the excitement of the day has not worn off. Soon I see a bright star
that appears to rest on the very verge of the cliff overhead to the
east. Slowly it seems to float from its resting place on the rock over
the canyon. At first it appears like a jewel set on the brink of the
cliff, but as it moves out from the rock _I_ almost wonder that it does
not fall. In fact, it does seem to descend in a gentle curve, as though
the bright sky in which the stars are set were spread across the canyon,
resting on either wall, and swayed down by its own weight. The stars
appear to be in the canyon. I soon discover that it is the bright star
Vega; so it occurs to me to designate this part of the wall as the
"Cliff of the Harp."

_June 9.--_One of the party suggests that we call this the Canyon of
Lodore, and the name is adopted. Very slowly we make our way, often
climbing on the rocks at the edge of the water for a few hundred yards
to examine the channel before running it. During the afternoon we come
to a place where it is necessary to make a portage. The little boat is
landed and the others are signaled to come up.

When these rapids or broken falls occur usually the channel is suddenly
narrowed by rocks which have been tumbled from the cliffs or have been
washed in by lateral streams. Immediately above the narrow, rocky
channel, on one or both sides, there is often a bay of quiet water, in
which a landing can be made with ease. Sometimes the water descends with
a smooth, unruffled surface from the broad, quiet spread above into the
narrow, angry channel below by a semicircular sag. Great care must be
taken not to pass over the brink into this deceptive pit, but above it
we can row with safety. I walk along the bank to examine the ground,
leaving one of my men with a flag to guide the other boats to the
landing-place. I soon see one of the boats make shore all right, and
feel no more concern; but a minute after, I hear a shout, and, looking
around, see one of the boats shooting down the center of the sag. It is
the "No Name," with Captain Howland, his brother, and Goodman. I feel
that its going over is inevitable, and run to save the third boat. A
minute more, and she turns the point and heads for the shore. Then I
turn down stream again and scramble along to look for the boat that has
gone over. The first fall is not great, only 10 or 12 feet, and we often
run such; but below, the river tumbles down again for 40 or 50 feet, in
a channel filled with dangerous rocks that break the waves into
whirlpools and beat them into foam. I pass around a great crag just in
time to see the boat strike a rock and, rebounding from the shock,
careen and fill its open compartment with water. Two of the men lose
their oars; she swings around and is carried down at a rapid rate,
broadside on, for a few yards, when, striking amidships on another rock
with great force, she is broken quite in two and the men are thrown into
the river. But the larger part of the boat floats buoyantly, and they
soon seize it, and down the river they drift, past the rocks for a few
hundred yards, to a second rapid filled with huge boulders, where the
boat strikes again and is dashed to pieces, and the men and fragments
are soon carried beyond my sight. Running along, I turn a bend and see a
man's head above the water, washed about in a whirlpool below a great
rock. It is Frank Goodman, clinging to the rock with a grip upon which
life depends.  Coming opposite, I see Howland trying to go to his aid
from an island on which he has been washed. Soon he comes near enough to
reach Prank with a pole, which he extends toward him. The latter lets go
the rock, grasps the pole, and is pulled ashore. Seneca Howland is
washed farther down the island and is caught by some rocks, and, though
somewhat bruised, manages to get ashore in safety. This seems a long
time as I tell it, but it is quickly done.

And now the three men are on an island, with a swift, dangerous river on
either side and a fall below. The "Emma Dean" is soon brought down, and
Sumner, starting above as far as possible, pushes out. Right skillfully
he plies the oars, and a few strokes set him on the island at the proper
point. Then they all pull the boat up stream as far as they are able,
until they stand in water up to their necks. One sits on a rock and
holds the boat until the others are ready to pull, then gives the boat a
push, clings to it with his hands, and climbs in as they pull for
mainland, which they reach in safety. We are as glad to shake hands with
them as though they had been on a voyage around the world and wrecked on
a distant coast.

Down the river half a mile we find that the after cabin of the
wrecked boat, with a part of the bottom, ragged and splintered, has
floated against a rock and stranded. There are valuable articles in the
cabin; but, on examination, we determine that life should not
be risked to save them. Of course, the cargo of rations, instruments,
and clothing is gone.

We return to the boats and make camp for the night. No sleep comes to me
in all those dark hours. The rations, instruments, and clothing have
been divided among the boats, anticipating such an accident as this; and
we started with duplicates of everything that was deemed necessary to
success. But, in the distribution, there was one exception to this
precaution--the barometers were all placed in one boat, and they are
lost! There is a possibility that they are in the cabin lodged against
the rock, for that is where they were kept. But, then, how to reach
them? The river is rising. Will they be there to-morrow? Can I go out to
Salt Lake City and obtain barometers from New York?

_June 10.--_I have determined to get the barometers from the wreck, if
they are there. After breakfast, while the men make the portage, I go
down again for another examination, There the cabin lies, only carried
50 or 60 feet farther on. Carefully looking over the ground, I am
satisfied that it can be reached with safety, and return to tell the men
my conclusion. Sumner and Dunn volunteer to take the little boat and
make the attempt. They start, reach it, and out come the barometers!
The boys set up a shout, and I join them, pleased that they should be as
glad as myself to save the instruments. When the boat lands on our side,
I find that the only things saved from the wreck were the barometers, a
package of thermometers, and a three-gallon keg of whiskey. The last is
what the men were shouting about. They had taken it aboard unknown to
me, and now I am glad they did take it, for it will do them good, as
they are drenched every day by the melting snow which runs down from the
summits of the Rocky Mountains.

We come back to our work at the portage and find that it is necessary to
carry our rations over the rocks for nearly a mile and to let our boats
down with lines, except at a few points, where they also must be
carried. Between the river and the eastern wall of the canyon there is
an immense talus of broken rocks. These have tumbled down from the
cliffs above and constitute a vast pile of huge angular fragments. On
these we build a path for a quarter of a mile to a small sand-beach
covered with driftwood, through which we clear a way for several
hundred yards, then continue the trail over another pile of rocks nearly
half a mile farther down, to a little bay. The greater part of the day
is spent in this work. Then we carry our cargoes down to the beach and
camp for the night.

While the men are building the camp fire, we discover an iron bake-oven,
several tin plates, a part of a boat, and many other fragments, which
denote that this is the place where Ashley's party was wrecked.

_June 11.--_This day is spent in carrying our rations down to the
bay--no small task, climbing over the rocks with sacks of flour and
bacon. We carry them by stages of about 500 yards each, and when night
comes and the last sack is on the beach, we are tired, bruised, and glad
to sleep.

_June 12.--_To-day we take the boats down to the bay. While at this work
we discover three sacks of flour from the wrecked boat that have lodged
in the rocks. We carry them above high-water mark and leave them, as our
cargoes are already too heavy for the three remaining boats. We also
find two or three oars, which we place with them.

As Ashley and his party were wrecked here and as we have lost one of our
boats at the same place, we adopt the name Disaster Falls for the scene
of so much peril and loss.

Though some of his companions were drowned, Ashley and one other
survived the wreck, climbed the canyon wall, and found their way across
the Wasatch Mountains to Salt Lake City, living chiefly on berries, as
they wandered through an unknown and difficult country. When they
arrived at Salt Lake they were almost destitute of clothing and nearly
starved. The Mormon people gave them food and clothing and employed them
to work on the foundation of the Temple until they had earned sufficient
to enable them to leave the country. Of their subsequent history, I have
no knowledge. It is possible they returned to the scene of the disaster,
as a little creek entering the river below is known as Ashley's Creek,
and it is reported that he built a cabin and trapped on this river for
one or two winters; but this may have been before the disaster.

_June 13._--Rocks, rapids, and portages still. We camp to-night at the
foot of the left fall, on a little patch of flood plain covered with a
dense growth of box-elders, stopping early in order to spread the
clothing and rations to dry. Everything is wet and spoiling.

_June 14._--Howland and I climb the wall on the west side of the canyon
to an altitude of 2,000 feet. Standing above and looking to the west, we
discover a large park, five or six miles wide and twenty or thirty long.
The cliff we have climbed forms a wall between the canyon and the park,
for it is 800 feet down the western side to the valley. A creek comes
winding down 1,200 feet above the river, and, entering the intervening
wall by a canyon, plunges down more than 1,000 feet, by a broken
cascade, into the river below.

_June 15._--To-day, while we make another portage, a peak, standing on
the east wall, is climbed by two of the men and found to be 2,700 feet
above the river. On the east side of the canyon a vast amphitheater has
been cut, with massive buttresses and deep, dark alcoves in which
grow beautiful mosses and delicate ferns, while springs burst out from
the farther recesses and wind in silver threads over floors of sand
rock. Here we have three falls in close succession. At the first the
wa$er is compressed into a very narrow channel against the right-hand
cliff, and falls 15 feet in 10 yards. At the second we have a broad
sheet of water tumbling down 20 feet over a group of rocks that thrust
their dark heads through the foam. The third is a broken fall, or short,
abrupt rapid, where the water makes a descent of more than 20 feet among
huge, fallen fragments of the cliff. We name the group Triplet Falls. We
make a portage around the first; past the second and the third we let
down with lines.

During the afternoon, Dunn and Howland having returned from their climb,
we run down three quarters of a mile on quiet waters and land at the
head of another fall. On examination, we find that there is an abrupt
plunge of a few feet and then the river tumbles for half a mile with a
descent of a hundred feet, in a channel beset with great numbers of huge
boulders. This stretch of the river is named Hell's Half-Mile. The
remaining portion of the day is occupied in making a trail among the
rocks at the foot of the rapid.

_June 16.--_Our first work this morning is to carry our cargoes to the
foot of the falls. Then we commence letting down the boats. We take two
of them down in safety, but not without great difficulty; for, where
such a vast body of water, rolling down an inclined plane, is broken
into eddies and cross-currents by rocks projecting from the cliffs and
piles of boulders in the channel, it requires excessive labor and much
care to prevent the boats from being dashed against the rocks or
breaking away. Sometimes we are compelled to hold the boat against a
rock above a chute until a second line, attached to the stem, is carried
to some point below, and when all is ready the first line is detached
and the boat given to the current, when she shoots down and the men
below swing her into some eddy.

At such a place we are letting down the last boat, and as she is set
free a wave turns her broadside down the stream, with the stem, to which
the line is attached, from shore and a little up. They haul on the line
to bring the boat in, but the power of the current, striking obliquely
against her, shoots her out into the middle of the river. The men have
their hands burned with the friction of the passing line; the boat
breaks away and speeds with great velocity down the stream. The "Maid of
the Canyon" is lost! So it seems; but she drifts some distance and
swings into an eddy, in which she spins about until we arrive with the
small boat and rescue her.

Soon we are on our way again, and stop at the mouth of a little brook on
the right for a late dinner. This brook comes down from the distant
mountains in a deep side canyon. We set out to explore it, but are soon
cut off from farther progress up the gorge by a high rock, over which
the brook glides in a smooth sheet. The rock is not quite vertical, and
the water does not plunge over it in a fall.

Then we climb up to the left for an hour, and are 1,000 feet above the
river and 600 above the brook. Just before us the canyon divides, a
little stream coming down on the right and another on the left, and we
can look away up either of these canyons, through an ascending vista, to
cliffs and crags and towers a mile back and 2,000 feet overhead. To the
right a dozen gleaming cascades are seen. Pines and firs stand on the
rocks and aspens overhang the brooks. The rocks below are red and brown,
set in deep shadows, but above they are buff and vermilion and stand in
the sunshine. The light above, made more brilliant by the bright-tinted
rocks, and the shadows below, more gloomy by reason of the somber hues
of the brown walls, increase the apparent depths of the canyons, and it
seems a long way up to the world of sunshine and open sky, and a long
way down to the bottom of the canyon glooms. Never before have I
received such an impression of the vast heights of these canyon walls,
not even at the Cliff of the Harp, where the very heavens seemed to rest
on their summits. We sit on some overhanging rocks and enjoy the scene
for a time, listening to the music of the falling waters away up the
canyon. We name this Rippling Brook.

Late in the afternoon we make a short run to the mouth of another little
creek, coming down from the left into an alcove filled with luxuriant
vegetation. Here camp is made, with a group of cedars on one side and a
dense mass of box-elders and dead willows on the other.

I go up to explore the alcove. While away a whirlwind comes and scatters
the fire among the dead willows and cedar-spray, and soon there is a
conflagration. The men rush for the boats, leaving all they cannot
readily seize at the moment, and even then they have their clothing
burned and hair singed, and Bradley has his ears scorched. The cook
fills his arms with the mess-kit, and jumping into a boat, stumbles and
falls, and away go our cooking utensils into the river. Our plates are
gone; our spoons are gone; our knives and forks are gone. "Water catch
'em; h-e-a-p catch 'em."

When on the boats, the men are compelled to cut loose, as the flames,
running out on the overhanging willows, are scorching them. Loose on the
stream, they must go down, for the water is too swift to make headway
against it. Just below is a rapid, filled with rocks. On the shoot, no
channel explored, no signal to guide them! Just at this juncture I
chance to see them, but have not yet discovered the fire, and the
strange movements of the men fill me with astonishment. Down the rocks I
clamber, and run to the bank. When I arrive they have landed. Then we
all go back to the late camp to see if anything left behind can be
saved. Some of the clothing and bedding taken out of the boats is found,
also a few tin cups, basins, and a camp kettle; and this is all the
mess-kit we now have. Yet we do just as well as ever.

_June 17._--We run down to the mouth of Yampa River. This has been a
chapter of disasters and toils, notwithstanding which the Canyon of
Lodore was not devoid of scenic interest, even beyond the power
of pen to tell. The roar of its waters was heard unceasingly from the
hour we entered it until we landed here. No quiet in all that time. But
its walls and cliffs, its peaks and crags, its amphitheaters and
alcoves, tell a story of beauty and grandeur that I hear yet--and shall

The Canyon of Lodore is 20 3/4 miles in length. It starts abruptly at
what we have called the Gate of Lodore, with walls nearly 2,000 feet
high, and they are never lower than this until we reach Alcove Brook,
about three miles above the foot. They are very irregular, standing in
vertical or overhanging cliffs in places, terraced in others, or
receding in steep slopes, and are broken by many side gulches and
canyons. The highest point on the wall is at Dunn's Cliff, near Triplet
Falls, where the rocks reach an altitude of 2,700 feet, but the peaks a
little way back rise nearly 1,000 feet higher. Yellow pines, nut pines,
firs, and cedars stand in extensive forests on the Uinta Mountains, and,
clinging to the rocks and growing in the crevices, come down the walls
to the water's edge from Flaming Gorge to Echo Park. The red sandstones
are lichened over; delicate mosses grow in the moist places, and ferns
festoon the walls.



The Yampa enters the Green from the east. At a point opposite its mouth
the Green runs to the south, at the foot of a rock about 700 feet high
and a mile long, and then turns sharply around the rock to the right and
runs back in a northerly course parallel to its former direction for
nearly another mile, thus having the opposite sides of a long, narrow
rock for its bank. The tongue of rock so formed is a peninsular
precipice with a mural escarpment along its whole course on the east,
but broken down at places on the west.

On the east side of the river, opposite the rock and below the Yampa,
there is a little park, just large enough for a farm, already fenced
with high walls of gray homogeneous sandstone. There are three river
entrances to this park: one down the Yampa; one below, by coming up the
Green; and another down the Green. There is also a land entrance down a
lateral canyon. Elsewhere the park is inaccessible. Through this land
entrance by the side canyon there is a trail made by Indian hunters, who
come down here in certain seasons to kill mountain sheep. Great hollow
domes are seen in the eastern side of the rock, against which the Green
sweeps; willows border the river; clumps of box-elder are seen; and a
few cottonwoods stand at the lower end. Standing opposite the rock, our
words are repeated with startling clearness, but in a soft, mellow tone,
that transforms them into magical music. Scarcely can one believe it is
the echo of his own voice. In some places two or three echoes come back;
in other places they repeat themselves, passing back and forth across
the river between this rock and the eastern wall. To hear these repeated
echoes well, we must shout. Some of the party aver that ten or twelve
repetitions can be heard. To me, they seem rapidly to diminish and merge
by multiplicity, like telegraph poles on an outstretched plain. I have
observed the same phenomenon once before in the cliffs near Long's Peak,
and am pleased to meet with it again.

During the afternoon Bradley and I climb some cliffs to the north.
Mountain sheep are seen above us, and they stand out on the rocks and
eye us intently, not seeming to move. Their color is much like that of
the gray sandstone beneath them, and, immovable as they are, they appear
like carved forms. Now a fine ram beats the rock with his fore foot,
and, wheeling around, they all bound away together, leaping over rocks
and chasms and climbing walls where no man can follow, and this with an
ease and grace most wonderful. At night we return to our camp under the
box-elders by the river side. Here we are to spend two or three days,
making a series of astronomic observations for latitude and longitude.

_June 18.--_We have named the long peninsular rock on the other side
Echo Rock. Desiring to climb it, Bradley and I take the little boat and
pull up stream as far as possible, for it cannot be climbed directly
opposite. We land on a talus of rocks at the upper end in order to reach
a place where it seems practicable to make the ascent; but we find we
must go still farther up the river. So we scramble along, until we reach
a place where the river sweeps against the wall. Here we find a shelf
along which we can pass, and now are ready for the climb.

We start up a gulch; then pass to the left on a bench along the wall;
then up again over broken rocks; then we reach more benches, along which
we walk, until we find more broken rocks and crevices, by which we
climb; still up, until we have ascended 600 or 800 feet, when we are met
by a sheer precipice. Looking about, we find a place where it seems
possible to climb. I go ahead; Bradley hands the barometer to me, and
follows. So we proceed, stage by stage, until we are nearly to the
summit. Here, by making a spring, I gain a foothold in a little crevice,
and grasp an angle of the rock overhead. I find I can get up no farther
and cannot step back, for I dare not let go with my hand and cannot
reach foothold below without. I call to Bradley for help. He finds a way
by which he can get to the top of the rock over my head, but cannot
reach me. Then he looks around for some stick or limb of a tree, but
finds none. Then he suggests that he would better help me with the
barometer case, but I fear I cannot hold on to it. The moment is
critical. Standing on my toes, my muscles begin to tremble. It is sixty
or eighty feet to the foot of the precipice. If I lose my hold I shall
fall to the bottom and then perhaps roll over the bench and tumble still
farther down the cliff. At this instant it occurs to Bradley to take off
his drawers, which he does, and swings them down to me. I hug close to
the rock, let go with my hand, seize the dangling legs, and with his
assistance am enabled to gain the top.

Then we walk out on the peninsular rock, make the necessary observations
for determining its altitude above camp, and return, finding an easy way

_June 19.--_To-day, Howland, Bradley, and I take the "Emma Dean" and
start up the Yampa River. The stream is much swollen, the current swift,
and we are able to make but slow progress against it. The canyon in this
part of the course of the Yampa is cut through light gray sandstone. The
river is very winding, and the swifter water is usually found on the
outside of the curve, sweeping against vertical cliffs often a thousand
feet high. In the center of these curves, in many places, the rock above
overhangs the river. On the opposite side the walls are broken, craggy,
and sloping, and occasionally side canyons enter. When we have rowed
until we are quite tired we stop and take advantage of one of these
broken places to climb out of the canyon. When above, we can look up the
Yampa for a distance of several miles. From the summit of the immediate
walls of the canyon the rocks rise gently back for a distance of a mile
or two, having the appearance of a valley with an irregular and rounded
sandstone floor and in the center a deep gorge, which is the canyon. The
rim of this valley on the north is from 2,500 to 3,000 feet above the
river; on the south it is not so high. A number of peaks stand on this
northern rim, the highest of which has received the name Mount Dawes.

Late in the afternoon we descend to our boat and return to camp in Echo
Park, gliding down in twenty minutes on the rapid river, a distance of
four or five miles, which was made up stream only by several hours' hard
rowing in the morning.

_June 20.--_This morning two of the men take me up the Yampa for a short
distance, and I go out to climb. Having reached the top of the canyon, I
walk over long stretches of naked sandstone, crossing gulches now and
then, and by noon reach the summit of Mount Dawes. From this point I can
look away to the north and see in the dim distance the Sweetwater and
Wind River mountains, more than 100 miles away. To the northwest the
Wasatch Mountains are in view, and peaks of the Uinta. To the east I can
see the western slopes of the Rocky Mountains, more than 150 miles
distant. The air is singularly clear to-day; mountains and buttes stand
in sharp outline, valleys stretch out in perspective, and I can look
down into the deep canyon gorges and see gleaming waters.

Descending, I cross to a ridge near the brink of the Canyon of Lodore,
the highest point of which is nearly as high as the last mentioned
mountain. Late in the afternoon I stand on this elevated point and
discover a monument that has evidently been built by human hands. A few
plants are growing in the joints between the rocks, and all are lichened
over to a greater or less extent, giving evidence that the pile was
built a long time ago. This line of peaks, the eastern extension of the
Uinta Mountains, has received the name of Sierra Escalante, in honor of
a Spanish priest who traveled in this region of country nearly a century
ago. Perchance the reverend father built this monument.

Now I return to the river and discharge my gun, as a signal for the boat
to come and take me down to camp. While we have been in the park the men
have succeeded in catching a number of fish, and we have an abundant
supply. This is a delightful addition to our _menu._

_June 21.--_ We float around the long rock and enter another canyon. The
walls are high and vertical, the canyon is narrow, and the river fills
the whole space below, so that there is no landing-place at the foot of
the cliff. The Green is greatly increased by the Yampa, and we now have
a much larger river. All this volume of water, confined, as it is, in a
narrow channel and rushing with great velocity, is set eddying and
spinning in whirlpools by projecting rocks and short curves, and the
waters waltz their way through the canyon, making their own rippling,
rushing, roaring music. The canyon is much narrower than any we have
seen. We manage our boats with difficulty. They spin about from side to
side and we know not where we are going, and find it impossible to keep
them headed down the stream. At first this causes us great alarm, but we
soon find there is little danger, and that there is a general movement
or progression down the river, to which this whirling is but an
adjunct--that it is the merry mood of the river to dance through this
deep, dark gorge, and right gaily do we join in the sport.

But soon our revel is interrupted by a cataract; its roaring command is
heeded by all our power at the oars, and we pull against the whirling
current. The "Emma Dean" is brought up against a cliff about 50 feet
above the brink of the fall. By vigorously plying the oars on the side
opposite the wall, as if to pull up stream, we can hold her against the
rock. The boats behind are signaled to land where they can.  The "Maid
of the Canyon" is pulled to the left wall, and, by constant rowing, they
can hold her also. The "Sister" is run into an alcove on the right,
where an eddy is in a dance, and in this she joins. Now my little boat
is held against the wall only by the utmost exertion, and it is
impossible to make headway against the current. On examination, I find a
horizontal crevice in the rock, about 10 feet above the water and a
boat's length below us; so we let her down to that point. One of the men
clambers into the crevice, into which he can just crawl; we toss him
the line, which he makes fast in the rocks, and now our boat is tied up.
Then I follow into the crevice and we crawl along up stream a distance
of 50 feet or more, and find a broken place where we can climb about 50
feet higher. Here we stand on a shelf that passes along down stream to a
point above the falls, where it is broken down, and a pile of rocks,
over which we can descend to the river, is lying against the foot of the

It has been mentioned that one of the boats is on the other side. I
signal for the men to pull her up alongside of the wall, but it cannot
be done; then to cross. This they do, gaining the wall on our side just
above where the "Emma Dean" is tied.

The third boat is out of sight, whirling in the eddy of a recess.
Looking about, I find another horizontal crevice, along which I crawl to
a point just over the water where this boat is lying, and, calling loud
and long, I finally succeed in making the crew understand that I want
them to bring the boat down, hugging the wall. This they accomplish by
taking advantage of every crevice and knob on the face of the cliff, so
that we have the three boats together at a point a few yards above the
falls. Now, by passing a line up on the shelf, the boats can be let down
to the broken rocks below. This we do, and, making a short portage, our
troubles here are over.

Below the falls the canyon is wider, and there is more or less space
between the river and the walls; but the stream, though wide, is rapid,
and rolls at a fearful rate among the rocks. We proceed with great
caution, and run the large boats wholly by signal.

At night we camp at the mouth of a small creek, which affords us a good
supper of trout. In camp to-night we discuss the propriety of several
different names for this canyon. At the falls encountered at noon its
characteristics change suddenly. Above, it is very narrow, and the walls
are almost vertical; below, the canyon is much wider and more flaring,
and high up on the sides crags, pinnacles, and towers are seen. A number
of wild and narrow side canyons enter, and the walls are much broken.
After many suggestions our choice rests between two names, Whirlpool
Canyon and Craggy Canyon, neither of which is strictly appropriate for
both parts of it; so we leave the discussion at this point, with the
understanding that it is best, before finally deciding on a name, to
wait until we see what the character of the canyon is below.

_June 22._--Still making short portages and letting down with lines.
While we are waiting for dinner to-day, I climb a point that gives me a
good view of the river for two or three miles below, and I think we can
make a long run. After dinner we start; the large boats are to follow in
fifteen minutes and look out for the signal to land. Into the middle of
the stream we row, and down the rapid river we glide, only making
strokes enough with the oars to guide the boat. What a headlong ride it
is! shooting past rocks and islands. I am soon filled with exhilaration
only experienced before in riding a fleet horse over the outstretched
prairie. One, two, three, four miles we go, rearing and plunging with
the waves, until we wheel to the right into a beautiful park and land on
an island, where we go into camp.

An hour or two before sunset I cross to the mainland and climb a point
of rocks where I can overlook the park and its surroundings. On the east
it is bounded by a high mountain ridge. A semicircle of naked hills
bounds it on the north, west, and south.

The broad, deep river meanders through the park, interrupted by many
wooded islands; so I name it Island Park, and decide to call the canyon
above, Whirlpool Canyon.

_June 23.--_We remain in camp to-day to repair our boats, which have had
hard knocks and are leaking. Two of the men go out with the barometer to
climb the cliff at the foot of Whirlpool Canyon and measure the walls;
another goes on the mountain to hunt; and Bradley and I spend the day
among the rocks, studying an interesting geologic fold and collecting
fossils. Late in the afternoon the hunter returns and brings with him a
fine, fat deer; so we give his name to the mountain--Mount Hawkins. Just
before night we move camp to the lower end of the park, floating down
the river about four miles.

_June 24.--_Bradley and I start early to climb the mountain ridge to the
east, and find its summit to be nearly 3,000 feet above camp. It has
required some labor to scale it; but on its top, what a view! There is a
long spur running out from the Uinta Mountains toward the south, and the
river runs lengthwise through it. Coming down Lodore and Whirlpool
canyons, we cut through the southern slope of the Uinta Mountains; and
the lower end of this latter canyon runs into the spur, but, instead of
splitting it the whole length, the river wheels to the right at the foot
of Whirlpool Canyon in a great curve to the northwest through Island
Park. At the lower end of the park, the river turns again to the
southeast and cuts into the mountain to its center and then makes a
detour to the southwest, splitting the mountain ridge for a distance of
six miles nearly to its foot, and then turns out of it to the left. All
this we can see where we stand on the summit of Mount Hawkins, and so we
name the gorge below, Split Mountain Canyon.

We are standing 3,000 feet above the waters, which are troubled with
billows and are white with foam. The walls are set with crags and peaks
and buttressed towers and overhanging domes. Turning to the right, the
park is below us, its island groves reflected by the deep, quiet waters.
Rich meadows stretch out on either hand to the verge of a sloping plain
that comes down from the distant mountains. These plains are of almost
naked rock, in strange contrast to the meadows,--blue and lilac colored
rocks, buff and pink, vermilion and brown, and all these colors clear
and bright. A dozen little creeks, dry the greater part of the year, run
down through the half circle of exposed formations, radiating from the
island center to the rim of the basin.  Each creek has its system of
side streams and each side stream has its system of laterals, and again
these are divided; so that this outstretched slope of rock is
elaborately embossed. Beds of different-colored formations run in
parallel bands on either side. The perspective, modified by the
undulations, gives the bands a waved appearance, and the high colors
gleam in the midday sun with the luster of satin. We are tempted to call
this Rainbow Park. Away beyond these beds are the Uinta and Wasatch
mountains with their pine forests and snow fields and naked peaks. Now
we turn to the right and look up Whirlpool Canyon, a deep gorge with a
river at the bottom--a gloomy chasm, where mad waves roar; but at this
distance and altitude the river is but a rippling brook, and the chasm a
narrow cleft. The top of the mountain on which we stand is a broad,
grassy table, and a herd of deer are feeding in the distance. Walking
over to the southeast, we look down into the valley of White River, and
beyond that see the far-distant Rocky Mountains, in mellow, perspective
haze, through which snow fields shine.

_June 25.--_This morning we enter Split Mountain Canyon, sailing in
through a broad, flaring, brilliant gateway. We run two or three rapids,
after they have been carefully examined. Then we have a series of six or
eight, over which we are compelled to pass by letting the boats down
with lines. This occupies the entire day, and we camp at night at the
mouth of a great cave. The cave is at the foot of one of these rapids,
and the waves dash in nearly to its end. We can pass along a little
shelf at the side until we reach the back part. Swallows have built
their nests in the ceiling, and they wheel in, chattering and scolding
at our intrusion; but their clamor is almost drowned by the noise of the
waters. Looking out of the cave, we can see, far up the river, a line of
crags standing sentinel on either side, and Mount Hawkins in the

_June 26._--The forenoon is spent in getting our large boats over the
rapids. This afternoon we find three falls in close succession. We carry
our rations over the rocks and let our boats shoot over the falls,
checking and bringing them to land with lines in the eddies below. At
three o'clock we are all aboard again. Down the river we are carried by
the swift waters at great speed, sheering around a rock now and then
with a timely stroke or two of the oars. At one point the river turns
from left to right, in a direction at right angles to the canyon, in a
long chute and strikes the right, where its waters are heaped up in
great billows that tumble back in breakers. We glide into the chute
before we see the danger, and it is too late to stop. Two or three hard
strokes are given on the right and we pause for an instant, expecting to
be dashed against the rock. But the bow of the boat leaps high on a
great wave, the rebounding waters hurl us back, and the peril is past.
The next moment the other boats are hurriedly signaled to land on the
left. Accomplishing this, the men walk along the shore, holding the
boats near the bank, and let them drift around. Starting again, we soon
debouch into a beautiful valley, glide down its length for 10 miles, and
camp under a grand old cottonwood. This is evidently a frequent resort
for Indians. Tent poles are lying about, and the dead embers of late
camp fires are seen.  On the plains to the left, antelope are feeding.
Now and then a wolf is seen, and after dark they make the air resound
with their howling.

_June 27.--_Now our way is along a gently flowing river, beset with many
islands; groves are seen on either side, and natural meadows, where
herds of antelope are feeding. Here and there we have views of the
distant mountains on the right. During the afternoon we make a long
detour to the west and return again to a point not more than half a mile
from where we started at noon, and here we camp for the night under a
high bluff. _June 28.--_To-day the scenery on either side of the river
is much the same as that of yesterday, except that two or three lakes
are discovered, lying in the valley to the west. After dinner we run but
a few minutes when we discover the mouth of the Uinta, a river coming in
from the west. Up the valley of this stream about 40 miles the
reservation of the Uinta Indians is situated. We propose to go there and
see if we can replenish our mess-kit, and perhaps send letters to
friends. We also desire to establish an astronomic station here; and
hence this will be our stopping place for several days.

Some years ago Captain Berthoud surveyed a stage route from Salt Lake
City to Denver, and this is the place where he crossed the Green River.
His party was encamped here for some time, constructing a ferry boat and
opening a road.

A little above the mouth of the Uinta, on the west side of the Green,
there is a lake of several thousand acres. We carry our boat across the
divide between this and the river, have a row on its quiet waters, and
succeed in shooting several ducks.

_June 29.--_A mile and three quarters from here is the junction of the
White River with the Green. The White has its source far to the east in
the Rocky Mountains. This morning I cross the Green and go over into the
valley of the White and extend my walk several miles along its winding
way, until at last I come in sight of some strangely carved rocks, named
by General Hughes, in his journal, "Goblin City." Our last winter's camp
was situated a hundred miles above the point reached to-day. The course
of the river, for much of the distance, is through canyons; but at some
places valleys are found. Excepting these little valleys, the region is
one of great desolation: arid, almost treeless, with bluffs, hills,
ledges of rock, and drifting sands. Along the course of the Green,
however, from the foot of Split Mountain Canyon to a point some distance
below the mouth of the Uinta, there are many groves of cottonwood,
natural meadows, and rich lands. This arable belt extends some distance
up the White River on the east and the Uinta on the west, and the time
must soon come when settlers will penetrate this country and make homes.

_June 30.--_We have a row up the Uinta to-day, but are not able to make
much headway against the swift current, and hence conclude we must walk
all the way to the agency.

_July 1.--_Two days have been employed in obtaining the local time,
taking observations for latitude and longitude, and making excursions
into the adjacent country. This morning, with two of the men, I start
for the agency. It is a toilsome walk, 20 miles of the distance being
across a sand desert. Occasionally we have to wade the river, crossing
it back and forth. Toward evening we cross several beautiful streams,
tributaries of the Uinta, and pass through pine groves and meadows,
arriving at the reservation just at dusk. Captain Dodds, the agent, is
away, having gone to Salt Lake City, but his assistants receive us very
kindly. It is rather pleasant to see a house once more, and some
evidences of civilization, even if it is on an Indian reservation
several days' ride from the nearest home of the white man.

_July 2._--I go this morning to visit Tsauwiat. This old chief is but the
wreck of a man, and no longer has influence. Looking at him one can
scarcely realize that he is a man. His skin is shrunken, wrinkled, and
dry, and seems to cover no more than a form of bones. He is said to be
more than 100 years old. I talk a little with him, but his conversation
is incoherent, though he seems to take pride in showing me some medals
that must have been given him many years ago. He has a pipe which he
says he has used a long time. I offer to exchange with him, and he seems
to be glad to accept; so I add another to my collection of pipes. His
wife, "The Bishop," as she is called, is a very garrulous old woman; she
exerts a great influence, and is much revered. She is the only Indian
woman I have known to occupy a place in the council ring.  She seems
very much younger than her husband, and, though wrinkled and ugly, is
still vigorous. She has much to say to me concerning the condition of
the people, and seems very anxious that they should learn to cultivate
the soil, own farms, and live like white men. After talking a couple of
hours with these old people, I go to see the farms. They are situated in
a very beautiful district, where many fine streams of water meander
across alluvial plains and meadows. These creeks have a considerable
fall, and it is easy to take their waters out above and overflow the
lands with them.

It will be remembered that irrigation is necessary in this dry climate
to successful farming. Quite a number of Indians have each a patch of
ground of two or three acres, on which they are raising wheat, potatoes,
turnips, pumpkins, melons, and other vegetables. Most of the crops are
looking well, and it is rather surprising with what pride they show us
that they are able to cultivate crops like white men. They are still
occupying lodges, and refuse to build houses, assigning as a reason that
when any one dies in a lodge it is always abandoned, and very often
burned with all the effects of the deceased; and when houses have been
built for them the houses have been treated in the same way. With their
unclean habits, a fixed residence would doubtless be no pleasant place.

This beautiful valley has been the home of a people of a higher grade of
civilization than the present Utes. Evidences of this are quite
abundant; on our way here yesterday we discovered fragments
of pottery in many places along the trail; and, wandering about the
little farms to-day, I find the foundations of ancient houses, and
mealing-stones that were not used by nomadic people, as they are too
heavy to be transported by such tribes, and are deeply worn. The
Indians, seeing that I am interested in these matters, take pains to
show me several other places where these evidences remain, and tell me
that they know nothing about the people who formerly dwelt here. They
further tell me that up in the canyon the rocks are covered with

_July 5.--_The last two days have been spent in studying the language
of the Indians and in making collections of articles illustrating the
state of arts among them.

Frank Goodman informs me this morning that he has concluded not to go on
with the party, saying that he has seen danger enough. It will be
remembered that he was one of the crew on the "No Name" when she was
wrecked. As our boats are rather heavily loaded, I am content that he
should leave, although he has been a faithful man.

We start early on our return to the boats, taking horses with us from
the reservation, and two Indians, who are to bring the animals back.

Whirlpool Canyon is 14 1/4 miles in length, the walls varying from 1,800
to 2,400 feet in height. The course of the river through Island Park is
9 miles. Split Mountain Canyon is 8 miles long. The highest crags on its
walls reach an altitude above the river of from 2,500 to 2,700 feet. In
these canyons cedars only are found on the walls.

The distance by river from the foot of Split Mountain Canyon to the
mouth of the Uinta is 67 miles. The valley through which it runs is the
home of many antelope, and we have adopted for it the Indian name
Won'sits Yuav--Antelope Valley.



_July 6_.--An early start this morning. A short distance below the mouth
of the Uinta we come to the head of a long island. Last winter a man
named Johnson, a hunter and Indian trader, visited us at our camp in
White River Valley. This man has an Indian wife, and, having no fixed
home, usually travels with one of the Ute bands. He informed me that it
was his intention to plant some corn, potatoes, and other vegetables on
this island in the spring, and, knowing that we would pass it, invited
us to stop and help ourselves, even if he should not be there; so we
land and go out on the island. Looking about, we soon discover his
garden, but it is in a sad condition, having received no care since it
was planted. It is yet too early in the season for corn, but Hall
suggests that potato tops are good greens, and, anxious for some change
from our salt-meat fare, we gather a quantity and take them aboard. At
noon we stop and cook our greens for dinner; but soon one after another
of the party is taken sick; nausea first, and then severe vomiting, and
we tumble around under the trees, groaning with pain. I feel a little
alarmed, lest our poisoning be severe. Emetics are administered to those
who are willing to take them, and about the middle of the afternoon we
are all rid of the pain. Jack Sumner records in his diary that "potato
tops are not good greens on the 6th day of July."

This evening we enter another canyon, almost imperceptibly, as the walls
rise very gently.

_July 7._--We find quiet water to-day, the river sweeping in great and
beautiful curves, the canyon walls steadily increasing in altitude. The
escarpments formed by the cut edges of the rock are often vertical,
sometimes terraced, and in some places the treads of the terraces
are sloping. In these quiet curves vast amphitheaters are formed, now in
vertical rocks, now in steps.

The salient point of rock within the curve is usually broken down in a
steep slope, and we stop occasionally to climb up at such a place, where
on looking down we can see the river sweeping the foot of the opposite
cliff in a great, easy curve, with a perpendicular or terraced wall
rising from the water's edge many hundreds of feet. One of these we find
very symmetrical and name it Sumner's Amphitheater. The cliffs are
rarely broken by the entrance of side canyons, and we sweep around curve
after curve with almost continuous walls for several miles.

Late in the afternoon we find the river very much rougher and come upon
rapids, not dangerous, but still demanding close attention. We camp at
night on the right bank, having made 26 miles. _July 8.--_This morning
Bradley and I go out to climb, and gain an altitude of more than 2,000
feet above the river, but still do not reach the summit of the wall.

After dinner we pass through a region of the wildest desolation. The
canyon is very tortuous, the river very rapid, and many lateral canyons
enter on either side. These usually have their branches, so that the
region is cut into a wilderness of gray and brown cliffs. In several
places these lateral canyons are separated from one another only by
narrow walls, often hundreds of feet high,--so narrow in places that
where softer rocks are found below they have crumbled away and left
holes in the wall, forming passages from one canyon into another. These
we often call natural bridges; but they were never intended to span
streams. They would better, perhaps, be called side doors between canyon
chambers. Piles of broken rock lie against these walls; crags and
tower-shaped peaks are seen everywhere, and away above them, long lines
of broken cliffs; and above and beyond the cliffs are pine forests, of
which we obtain occasional glimpses as we look up through a vista of
rocks. The walls are almost without vegetation; a few dwarf bushes are
seen here and there clinging to the rocks, and cedars grow from the
crevices--not like the cedars of a land refreshed with rains, great
cones bedecked with spray, but ugly clumps, like war clubs beset with
spines. We are minded to call this the Canyon of Desolation.

The wind annoys us much to-day. The water, rough by reason of the
rapids, is made more so by head gales. Wherever a great face of rocks
has a southern exposure, the rarefied air rises and the wind rushes in
below, either up or down the canyon, or both, causing local currents.
Just at sunset we run a bad rapid and camp at its foot.

_July 9.--_Our run to-day is through a canyon with ragged, broken walls,
many lateral gulches or canyons entering on either side. The river is
rough, and occasionally it becomes necessary to use lines in passing
rocky places. During the afternoon we come to a rather open canyon
valley, stretching up toward the west, its farther end lost in the
mountains. From a point to which we climb we obtain a good view of its
course, until its angular walls are lost in the vista.

_July 10.--_Sumner, who is a fine mechanic, is learning to take
observations for time with the sextant. To-day he remains in camp to
practice. Howland and I determine to climb out, and start up a lateral
canyon, taking a barometer with us for the purpose of measuring the
thickness of the strata over which we pass. The readings of the
barometer below are recorded every half hour and our observations must
be simultaneous.  Where the beds which we desire to measure are very
thick, we must climb with the utmost speed to reach their summits in
time; where the beds are thinner, we must wait for the moment to arrive;
and so, by hard and easy stages, we make our way to the top of the
canyon wall and reach the plateau above about two o' clock.

Howland, who has his gun with him, sees deer feeding a mile or two back
and goes off for a hunt. I go to a peak which seems to be the highest
one in this region, about half a mile distant, and climb, for-the
purpose of tracing the topography of the adjacent country. From this
point a fine view is obtained. A long plateau stretches across the river
in an easterly and westerly direction, the summit covered by pine
forests, with intervening elevated valleys and gulches. The plateau
itself is cut in two by the canyon. Other side canyons head away back
from the river and run down into the Green. Besides these, deep and
abrupt canyons are seen to head back on the plateau and run north toward
the Uinta and White rivers. Still other canyons head in the valleys and
run toward the south. The elevation of the plateau being about 8,000
feet above the level of the sea, it is in a region of moisture, as is
well attested by the forests and grassy valleys. The plateau seems to
rise gradually to the west, until it merges into the Wasatch Mountains.
On these high table-lands elk and deer abound; and they are favorite
hunting grounds for the Ute Indians.

A little before sunset Howland and I meet again at the head of the side
canyon, and down we start. It is late, and we must make great haste or
be caught by the darkness; so we go, running where we can, leaping over
the ledges, letting each other down on the loose rocks, as long as we
can see. When darkness comes we are still some distance from camp, and a
long, slow, anxious descent is made toward the gleaming camp fire.

After supper, observations for latitude are taken, and only two or three
hours for sleep remain before daylight.

_July 11.--_ A short distance below camp we run a rapid, and in doing so
break an oar and then lose another, both belonging to the "Emma Dean."
Now the pioneer boat has but two oars. We see nothing from which oars
can be made, so we conclude to run on to some point where it seems
possible to climb out to the forests on the plateau, and there we will
procure suitable timber from which to make new ones.

We soon approach another rapid. Standing on deck, I think it can be run,
and on we go. Coming nearer, I see that at the foot it has a short turn
to the left, where the waters pile up against the cliff. Here we try to
land, but quickly discover that, being in swift water above the fall, we
cannot reach shore, crippled as we are by the loss of two oars; so the
bow of the boat is turned down stream. We shoot by a big rock; a reflex
wave rolls over our little boat and fills her. I see that the place is
dangerous and quickly signal to the other boats to land where they can.
This is scarcely completed when another wave rolls our boat over and I
am thrown some distance into the water. I soon find that swimming is
very easy and I cannot sink. It is only necessary to ply strokes
sufficient to keep my head out of the water, though now and then, when a
breaker rolls over me, I close my mouth and am carried through it. The
boat is drifting ahead of me 20 or 30 feet, and when the great waves
have passed I overtake her and find Sumner and Dunn clinging to her. As
soon as we reach quiet water we all swim to one side and turn her over.
In doing this, Dunn loses his hold and goes under; when he comes up he
is caught by Sumner and pulled to the boat. In the meantime we have
drifted down stream some distance and see another rapid below.  How bad
it may be we cannot tell; so we swim toward shore, pulling our boat with
us, with all the vigor possible, but are carried down much faster than
distance toward shore is diminished. At last we reach a huge pile of
driftwood. Our rolls of blankets, two guns, and a barometer were in the
open compartment of the boat and, when it went over, these were thrown
out. The guns and barometer are lost, but I succeeded in catching one of
the rolls of blankets as it drifted down, when we were swimming to
shore; the other two are lost, and sometimes hereafter we may sleep

A huge fire is built on the bank and our clothing spread to dry, and
then from the drift logs we select one from which we think oars can be
made, and the remainder of the day is spent in sawing them out.

_July 12.--_This morning the new oars are finished and we start once
more. We pass several bad rapids, making a short portage at one, and
before noon we come to a long, bad fall, where the channel is filled
with rocks on the left which turn the waters to the right, where they
pass under an overhanging rock. On examination we determine to run it,
keeping as close to the left-hand rocks as safety will permit, in order
to avoid the overhanging cliff. The little boat runs over all right;
another follows, but the men are not able to keep her near enough to the
left bank and she is carried by a swift chute into great waves to the
right, where she is tossed about and Bradley is knocked over the side;
his foot catching under the seat, he is dragged along in the water with
his head down; making great exertion, he seizes the gunwale with his
left hand and can lift his head above water now and then. To us who are
below, it seems impossible to keep the boat from going under the
overhanging cliff; but Powell, for the moment heedless of Bradley's
mishap, pulls with all his power for half a dozen strokes, when the
danger is past; then he seizes Bradley and pulls him in. The men in the
boat above, seeing this, land, and she is let down by lines.

Just here we emerge from the Canyon of Desolation, as we have named it,
into a more open country, which extends for a distance of nearly a mile,
when we enter another canyon cut through gray sandstone.

About three o'clock in the afternoon we meet with a new difficulty. The
river fills the entire channel; the walls are vertical on either side
from the water's edge, and a bad rapid is beset with rocks. We come to
the head of it and land on a rock in the stream. The little boat is let
down to another rock below, the men of the larger boat holding to the
line; the second boat is let down in the same way, and the line of the
third boat is brought with them. Now the third boat pushes out from the
upper rock, and, as we have her line below, we pull in and catch her as
she is sweeping by at the foot of the rock on which we stand. Again the
first boat is let down stream the full length of her line and the second
boat is passed down, by the first to the extent of her line, which is
held by the men in the first boat; so she is two lines' length from
where she started. Then the third boat is let down past the second, and
still down, nearly to the length of her line, so that she is fast to the
second boat and swinging down three lines' lengths, with the other two
boats intervening. Held in this way, the men are able to pull her into a
cove in the left wall, where she is made fast. But this leaves a man on
the rock above, holding to the line of the little boat. When all is
ready, he springs from the rock, clinging to the line with one hand and
swimming with the other, and we pull him in as he goes by. As the two
boats, thus loosened, drift down, the men in the cove pull us all in as
we come opposite; then we pass around to a point of rock below the cove,
close to the wall, land, make a short portage over the worst places in
the rapid, and start again.

At night we camp on a sand beach. The wind blows a hurricane; the
drifting sand almost blinds us; and nowhere can we find shelter. The
wind continues to blow all night, the sand sifting through our blankets
and piling over us until we are covered as in a snowdrift. We are glad
when morning comes.

_July 13.--_This morning we have an exhilarating ride. The river is
swift, and there are many smooth rapids. I stand on deck, keeping
careful watch ahead, and we glide along, mile after mile, plying
strokes, now on the right and then on the left, just sufficient to guide
our boats past the rocks into smooth water. At noon we emerge from Gray
Canyon, as we have named it, and camp for dinner under a cotton-wood
tree standing on the left bank.

Extensive sand plains extend back from the immediate river valley as far
as we can see on either side. These naked, drifting sands gleam
brilliantly in the midday sun of July. The reflected heat from the
glaring surface produces a curious motion of the atmosphere; little
currents are generated and the whole seems to be trembling and moving
about in many directions, or, failing to see that the movement is in the
atmosphere, it gives the impression of an unstable land. Plains and
hills and cliffs and distant mountains seem to be floating vaguely about
in a trembling, wave-rocked sea, and patches of landscape seem to float
away and be lost, and then to reappear.

Just opposite, there are buttes, outliers of cliffs to the left. Below,
they are composed of shales and marls of light blue and slate colors;
above, the rocks are buff and gray, and then brown. The buttes are
buttressed below, where the azure rocks are seen, and terraced above
through the gray and brown beds. A long line of cliffs or rock
escarpments separates the table-lands through which Gray Canyon is cut,
from the lower plain. The eye can trace these azure beds and cliffs on
either side of the river, in a long line extending across its course,
until they fade away in the perspective. These cliffs are many miles in
length and hundreds of feet high; and all these buttes--great
mountain-masses of rock--are dancing and fading away and reappearing,
softly moving about,--or so they seem to the eye as seen through the
shifting atmosphere.

This afternoon our way is through a valley with cottonwood groves on
either side. The river is deep, broad, and quiet. About two hours after
noon camp we discover an Indian crossing, where a number of rafts,
rudely constructed of logs and bound together by withes, are
floating against the bank. On landing, we see evidences that a party of
Indians have crossed within a very few days. This is the place where the
lamented Gunnison crossed, in the year 1853, when making an exploration
for a railroad route to the Pacific coast.

An hour later we run a long rapid and stop at its foot to examine some
interesting rocks, deposited by mineral springs that at one time must
have existed here, but which are no longer flowing.

_July 14.--_ This morning we pass some curious black bluffs on the
right, then two or three short canyons, and then we discover the mouth
of the San Rafael, a stream which comes down from the distant mountains
in the west. Here we stop for an hour or two and take a short walk up
the valley, and find it is a frequent resort for Indians. Arrowheads are
scattered about, many of them very beautiful; flint chips are strewn
over the ground in great profusion, and the trails are well worn.

Starting after dinner, we pass some beautiful buttes on the left, many
of which are very symmetrical. They are chiefly composed of gypsum, of
many hues, from light gray to slate color; then pink, purple, and brown
beds. Now we enter another canyon. Gradually the walls rise higher and
higher as we proceed, and the summit of the canyon is formed of the same
beds of orange-colored sandstone. Back from the brink the hollows of the
plateau are filled with sands disintegrated from these orange beds. They
are of a rich cream color, shading into maroon, everywhere destitute of
vegetation, and drifted into long, wave-like ridges.

The course of the river is tortuous, and it nearly doubles upon itself
many times. The water is quiet, and constant rowing is necessary to make
much headway. Sometimes there is a narrow flood plain between the river
and the wall, on one side or the other. Where these long, gentle curves
are found, the river washes the very foot of the outer wall. A long
peninsula of willow-bordered meadow projects within the curve, and the
talus at the foot of the cliff is usually covered with dwarf oaks. The
orange-colored sandstone is homogeneous in structure, and the walls are
usually vertical, though not very high. Where the river sweeps around a
curve under a cliff, a vast hollow dome may be seen, with many caves and
deep alcoves, which are greatly admired by the members of the party as
we go by.

We camp at night on the left bank.

_July 15._---Our camp is in a great bend of the canyon. The curve is to
the west and we are on the east side of the river. Just opposite, a
little stream comes down through a narrow side canyon. We cross and go
up to explore it. At its mouth another lateral canyon enters, in the
angle between the former and the main canyon above. Still another enters
in the angle between the canyon below and the side canyon first
mentioned; so that three side canyons enter at the same point. These
canyons are very tortuous, almost closed in from view, and, seen from
the opposite side of the river, they appear like three alcoves. We name
this Trin-Alcove Bend.

Going up the little stream in the central cove, we pass between high
walls of sandstone, and wind about in glens. Springs gush from the rocks
at the foot of the walls; narrow passages in the rocks are threaded,
caves are entered, and many side canyons are observed.

The right cove is a narrow, winding gorge, with overhanging walls,
almost shutting out the light. The left is an amphitheater, turning
spirally up, with overhanging shelves. A series of basins filled with
water are seen at different altitudes as we pass up; huge rocks are
piled below on the right, and overhead there is an arched ceiling. After
exploring these alcoves, we recross the river and climb the rounded
rocks on the point of the bend. In every direction, as far as we are
able to see, naked rocks appear. Buttes are scattered on the landscape,
here rounded into cones, there buttressed, columned, and carved in
quaint shapes, with deep alcoves and sunken recesses. All about us are
basins, excavated in the soft sandstone; and these have been filled by
the late rains.

Over the rounded rocks and water pockets we look off on a fine Stretch
of river, and beyond are naked rocks and beautiful buttes leading the
eye to the Azure Cliffs, and beyond these and above them the Brown
Cliffs, and still beyond, mountain peaks; and clouds piled over all.

On we go, after dinner, with quiet water, still compelled to row in
order to make fair progress. The canyon is yet very tortuous. About six
miles below noon camp we go around a great bend to the right, five miles
in length, and come back to a point within a quarter of a mile of where
we started. Then we sweep around another great bend to the left, making
a circuit of nine miles, and come back to a point within 600 yards of
the beginning of the bend. In the two circuits we describe almost the
figure 8. The men call it a "bowknot" of river; so we name it Bowknot
Bend. The line of the figure is 14 miles in length.

There is an exquisite charm in our ride to-day down this beautiful
canyon. It gradually grows deeper with every mile of travel; the walls
are symmetrically curved and grandly arched, of a beautiful color, and
reflected in the quiet waters in many places so as almost to deceive the
eye and suggest to the beholder the thought that he is looking into
profound depths. We are all in fine spirits and feel very gay, and the
badinage of the men is echoed from wall to wall. Now and then we whistle
or shout or discharge a pistol, to listen to the reverberations among
the cliffs.

At night we camp on the south side of the great Bowknot, and as
we eat supper, which is spread on the beach, we name this Labyrinth

_July 16.--_Still we go down on our winding way. Tower cliffs are
passed; then the river widens out for several miles, and meadows are
seen on either side between the river and the walls. We name this
expansion of the river Tower Park. At two o'clock we emerge from
Labyrinth Canyon and go into camp.

_July 17._--The line which separates Labyrinth Canyon from the one below
is but a line, and at once, this morning, we enter another canyon. The
water fills the entire channel, so that nowhere is there room to land.
The walls are low, but vertical, and as we proceed they gradually
increase in altitude. Running a couple of miles, the river changes its
course many degrees toward the east. Just here a little stream comes in
on the right and the wall is broken down; so we land and go out to take
a view of the surrounding country. We are now down among the buttes, and
in a region the surface of which is naked, solid rock--a beautiful red
sandstone, forming a smooth, undulating pavement. The Indians call this
the _Toom'pin Tuweap',_ or "Rock Land," and sometimes the _Toom'pin
wunear'l Tuweap',_ or "Land of Standing Rock."

Off to the south we see a butte in the form of a fallen cross. It is
several miles away, but it presents no inconspicuous figure on the
landscape and must be many hundreds of feet high, probably more than
2,000. We note its position on our map and name it "The Butte of the

We continue our journey. In many places the walls, which rise from the
water's edge, are overhanging on either side. The stream is still quiet,
and we glide along through a strange, weird, grand region. The landscape
everywhere, away from the river, is of rock--cliffs of rock, tables of
rock, plateaus of rock, terraces of rock, crags of rock--ten thousand
strangely carved forms; rocks everywhere, and no vegetation, no soil, no
sand. In long, gentle curves the river winds about these rocks.

When thinking of these rocks one must not conceive of piles of boulders
or heaps of fragments, but of a whole land of naked rock, with giant
forms carved on it: cathedral-shaped buttes, towering hundreds or
thousands of feet, cliffs that cannot be scaled, and canyon walls that
shrink the river into insignificance, with vast, hollow domes and tall
pinnacles and shafts set on the verge overhead; and all highly
colored--buff, gray, red, brown, and chocolate--never lichened, never
moss-covered, but bare, and often polished.

We pass a place where two bends of the river come together, an
intervening rock having been worn away and a new channel formed across.
The old channel ran in a great circle around to the right, by what was
once a circular peninsula, then an island; then the water left the old
channel entirely and passed through the cut, and the old bed of the
river is dry. So the great circular rock stands by itself, with
precipitous walls all about it, and we find but one place where it can
be scaled. Looking from its summit, a long stretch of river is seen,
sweeping close to the overhanging cliffs on the right, but having a
little meadow between it and the wall on the left. The curve is very
gentle and regular. We name this Bonita Bend.

And just here we climb out once more, to take another bearing on The
Butte of the Cross. Reaching an eminence from which we can overlook the
landscape, we are surprised to find that our butte, with its wonderful
form, is indeed two buttes, one so standing in front of the other that
from our last point of view it gave the appearance of a cross.

A few miles below Bonita Bend we go out again a mile or two among the
rocks, toward the Orange Cliffs, passing over terraces paved with
jasper. The cliffs are not far away and we soon reach them, and wander
in some deep, painted alcoves which attracted our attention from the
river; then we return to our boats.

Late in the afternoon the water becomes swift and our boats make great
speed.. An hour of this rapid running brings us to the junction of the
Grand and Green, the foot of Stillwater Canyon, as we have named it.
These streams-unite in solemn depths, more than 1,200 feet below the
general surface of the country. The walls of the lower end of Stillwater
Canyon are very beautifully curved, as the river sweeps in its
meandering course. The lower end of the canyon through which the Grand
comes down is also regular, but much more direct, and we look up this
stream and out into the country beyond and obtain glimpses of snow-clad
peaks, the summits of a group of mountains known as the Sierra La Sal.
Down the Colorado the canyon walls are much broken.

We row around into the Grand and camp on its northwest bank; and here we
propose to stay several days, for the purpose of determining the
latitude and longitude and the altitude of the walls. Much of the night
is spent in making observations with the sextant.

The distance from the mouth of the Uinta to the head of the Canyon of
Desolation is 20 3/4 miles. The Canyon of Desolation is 97 miles long;
Gray Canyon, 36 miles. The course of the river through Gunnison Valley
is 27 1/4 miles; Labyrinth Canyon, 62 1/2 miles.

In the Canyon of Desolation the highest rocks immediately over the river
are about 2,400 feet. This is at Log Cabin Cliff. The highest part of
the terrace is near the brink of the Brown Cliffs. Climbing the
immediate walls of the canyon and passing back to the canyon terrace and
climbing that, we find the altitude above the river to be 3,300 feet.
The lower end of Gray Canyon is about 2,000 feet; the lower end of
Labyrinth Canyon, 1,300 feet.

Stillwater Canyon is 42 3/4 miles long; the highest walls, 1,300 feet.



_July 18_.--The day is spent in obtaining the time and spreading our
rations, which we find are badly injured. The flour has been wet and
dried so many times that it is all musty and full of hard lumps. We make
a sieve of mosquito netting and run our flour through, it, losing more
than 200 pounds by the process. Our losses, by the wrecking of the "No
Name," and by various mishaps since, together with the amount thrown
away to-day, leave us little more than two months' supplies, and to make
them last thus long we must be fortunate enough to lose no more.

We drag our boats on shore and turn them over to recalk and pitch them,
and Sumner is engaged in repairing barometers. While we are here for a
day or two, resting, we propose to put everything in the best shape for
a vigorous campaign.

_July 19.--_Bradley and I start this morning to climb the left wall
below the junction. The way we have selected is up a gulch. Climbing for
an hour over and among the rocks, we find ourselves in a vast
amphitheater and our way cut off. We clamber around to the left for half
an hour, until we find that we cannot go up in that direction. Then we
try the rocks around to the right and discover a narrow shelf nearly
half a mile long. In some places this is so wide that we pass along with
ease; in others it is so narrow and sloping that we are compelled to lie
down and crawl. We can look over the edge of the shelf, down 800 feet,
and see the river rolling and plunging among the rocks. Looking up 500
feet to the brink of the cliff, it seems to blend with the sky. We
continue along until we come to a point where the wall is again broken
down. Up we climb. On the right there is a narrow, mural point
of rocks, extending toward the river, 200 or 300 feet high and 600 or
800 feet long. We come back to where this sets in and find it cut off
from the main wall by a great crevice. Into this we pass; and now a
long, narrow rock is between us and the river. The rock itself is split
longitudinally and transversely; and the rains on the surface above have
run down through the crevices and gathered into channels below and then
run off into the river. The crevices are usually narrow above and, by
erosion of the streams, wider below, forming a network of "caves", each
cave having a narrow, winding skylight up through the rocks. We wander
among these corridors for an hour or two, but find no place where the
rocks are broken down so that we can climb up. At last we determine to
attempt a passage by a crevice, and select one which we think is wide
enough to admit of the passage of our bodies and yet narrow enough to
climb out by pressing our hands and feet against the walls. So we climb
as men would out of a well. Bradley climbs first; I hand him the
barometer, then climb over his head and he hands me the barometer. So we
pass each other alternately until we emerge from the fissure, out on the
summit of the rock. And what a world of grandeur is spread before us!
Below is the canyon through which the Colorado runs. We can trace its
course for miles, and at points catch glimpses of the river. From the
northwest comes the Green in a narrow winding gorge. From the northeast
comes the Grand, through a canyon that seems bottomless from where we
stand. Away to the west are lines of cliffs and ledges of rock--not such
ledges as the reader may have seen where the quarryman splits his
blocks, but ledges from which the gods might quarry mountains that,
rolled out on the plain below, would stand a lofty range; and not such
cliffs as the reader may have seen where the swallow builds its nest,
but cliffs where the soaring eagle is lost to view ere he reaches the
summit. Between us and the distant cliffs are the strangely carved and
pinnacled rocks of the _Toom'pin wunear' Tuweap'._ On the summit of the
opposite wall of the canyon are rock forms that we do not understand.
Away to the east a group of eruptive mountains are seen--the Sierra La
Sal, which we first saw two days ago through the canyon of the Grand.
Their slopes are covered with pines, and deep gulches are flanked with
great crags, and snow fields are seen near the summits. So the mountains
are in uniform,--green, gray, and silver. Wherever we look there is but
a wilderness of rocks,--deep gorges where the rivers are lost below
cliffs and towers and pinnacles, and ten thousand strangely carved forms
in every direction, and beyond them mountains blending with the clouds.

Now we return to camp. While eating supper we very naturally speak of
better fare, as musty bread and spoiled bacon are not palatable. Soon I
see Hawkins down by the boat, taking up the sextant--rather a strange
proceeding for him--and I question him concerning it. He replies that he
is trying to find the latitude and longitude of the nearest pie.

_July 20.--_This morning Captain Powell and I go out to climb the west
wall of the canyon, for the purpose of examining the strange rocks seen
yesterday from the other side. Two hours bring us to the top, at a point
between the Green and Colorado overlooking the junction of the rivers.

A long neck of rock extends toward the mouth of the Grand. Out on this
we walk, crossing a great number of deep crevices. Usually the smooth
rock slopes down to the fissure on either side. Sometimes it is an
interesting question to us whether the slope is not so steep that we
cannot stand on it. Sometimes, starting down, we are compelled to go
on, and when we measure the crevice with our eye from above we are not
always sure that it is not too wide for a jump. Probably the slopes
would not be difficult if there was not a fissure at the lower end; nor
would the fissures cause fear if they were but a few feet deep. It is
curious how a little obstacle becomes a great obstruction when a misstep
would land a man in the bottom of a deep chasm. Climbing the face of a
cliff, a man will without hesitancy walk along a step or shelf but a few
inches wide if the landing is but ten feet below, but if the foot of the
cliff is a thousand feet down he will prefer to crawl along the shelf.
At last our way is cut off by a fissure so deep and wide that we cannot
pass it. Then we turn and walk back into the country, over the smooth,
naked sandstone, without vegetation, except that here and there dwarf
cedars and piñón pines have found a footing in the huge cracks. There
are great basins in the rock, holding water,--some but a few gallons,
others hundreds of barrels.

The day is spent in walking about through these strange scenes. A narrow
gulch is cut into the wall of the main canyon. Follow this up and the
climb is rapid, as if going up a mountain side, for the gulch heads but
a few hundred or a few thousand yards from the wall. But this gulch has
its side gulches, and as the summit is approached a group of radiating
canyons is found. The spaces drained by these little canyons are
terraced, and are, to a greater or less extent, of the form of
amphitheaters, though some are oblong and some rather irregular. Usually
the spaces drained by any two of these little side canyons are separated
by a narrow wall, 100, 200, or 300 feet high, and often but a few feet
in thickness. Sometimes the wall is broken into a line of pyramids above
and still remains a wall below. There are a number of these gulches
which break the wall of the main canyon of the Green, each one having
its system of side canyons and amphitheaters, inclosed by walls or lines
of pinnacles. The course of the Green at this point is approximately at
right angles to that of the Colorado, and on the brink of the latter
canyon we find the same system of terraced and walled glens. The walls
and pinnacles and towers are of sandstone, homogeneous in structure but
not in color, as they show broad bands of red, buff, and gray. This
painting of the rocks, dividing them into sections, increases their
apparent height. In some places these terraced and walled glens along
the Colorado have coalesced with those along the Green; that is, the
intervening walls are broken down. It is very rarely that a loose rock
is seen. The sand is washed off, so that the walls, terraces, and slopes
of the glens are all of smooth sandstone.

In the walls themselves curious caves and channels have been carved. In
some places there are little stairways up the walls; in others, the
walls present what are known as royal arches; and so we wander through
glens and among pinnacles and climb the walls from early morn until late
in the afternoon.

_July 21.--_ We start this morning on the Colorado. The river is rough,
and bad rapids in close succession are found. Two very hard portages are
made during the forenoon. After dinner, in running a rapid, the "Emma
Dean" is swamped and we are thrown into the river; we cling to the boat,
and in the first quiet water below she is righted and bailed out; but
three oars are lost in this mishap. The larger boats land above the
dangerous place, and we make a portage, which occupies all the
afternoon. We camp at night on the rocks on the left bank, and can
scarcely find room to lie down.

_July 22.--_This morning we continue our journey, though short of oars.
There is no timber growing on the walls within our reach and no
driftwood along the banks, so we are compelled to go on until something
suitable can be found. A mile and three quarters below, we find a huge
pile of driftwood, among which are some cottonwood logs. From these we
select one which we think the best, and the men are set at work sawing
oars. Our boats are leaking again, from the strains received in the bad
rapids yesterday, so after dinner they are turned over and some of the
men calk them.

Captain Powell and I go out to climb the wall to the east, for we can
see dwarf pines above, and it is our purpose to collect the resin which
oozes from them, to use in pitching our boats. We take a barometer with
us and find that the walls are becoming higher, for now they register an
altitude above the river of nearly 1,500 feet.

_July 23._--On starting, we come at once to difficult rapids and falls,
that in many places are more abrupt than in any of the canyons through
which we have passed, and we decide to name this Cataract Canyon. From
morning until noon the course of the river is to the west; the scenery
is grand, with rapids, and falls below, and walls above, beset with
crags and pinnacles. Just at noon we wheel again to the south and go
into camp for dinner.

While the cook is preparing it, Bradley, Captain Powell, and I go up
into a side canyon that comes in at this point. We enter through a very
narrow passage, having to wade along the course of a little stream until
a cascade interrupts our progress. Then we climb to the right for a
hundred feet until we reach a little shelf, along which we pass, walking
with great care, for it is narrow; thus we pass around the fall. Here
the gorge widens into a spacious, sky-roofed chamber. In the farther end
is a beautiful grove of cottonwoods, and between us and the cotton-woods
the little stream widens out into three clear lakelets with bottoms of
smooth rock. Beyond the cottonwoods the brook tumbles in a series of
white, shining cascades from heights that seem immeasurable. Turning
around, we can look through the cleft through which we came and see the
river with towering walls beyond. What a chamber for a resting-place is
this! hewn from the solid rock, the heavens for a ceiling, cascade
fountains within, a grove in the conservatory, clear lakelets for a
refreshing bath, and an outlook through the doorway on a raging river,
with cliffs and mountains beyond.

Our way after dinner is through a gorge, grand beyond description. The
walls are nearly vertical, the river broad and swift, but free from
rocks and falls. From the edge of the water to the brink of the cliffs
it is 1,600 to 1,800 feet. At this great depth the river rolls in solemn
majesty. The cliffs are reflected from the more quiet river, and we seem
to be in the depths of the earth, and yet we can look down into waters
that reflect a bottomless abyss. Early in the afternoon we arrive
at the head of more rapids and falls, but, wearied with past work, we
determine to rest, so go into camp, and the afternoon and evening are
spent by the men in discussing the probabilities of successfully
navigating the river below. The barometric records are examined to see
what descent we have made since we left the mouth of the Grand, and what
descent since we left the Pacific Railroad, and what fall there yet
must be to the river ere we reach the end of the great canyons. The
conclusion at which the men arrive seems to be about this: that there
are great descents yet to be made, but if they are distributed in rapids
and short falls, as they have been heretofore, we shall be able to
overcome them; but may be we shall come to a fall in these canyons which
we cannot pass, where the walls rise from the water's edge, so that we
cannot land, and where the water is so swift that we cannot return. Such
places have been found, except that the falls were not so great but that
we could run them with safety. How will it be in the future t So they
speculate over the serious probabilities in jesting mood.

_July 24.--_We examine the rapids below. Large rocks have fallen from
the walls--great, angular blocks, which have rolled down the talus and
are strewn along the channel. We are compelled to make three portages in
succession, the distance being less than three fourths of a mile, with a
fall of 75 feet. Among these rocks, in chutes, whirlpools, and great
waves, with rushing breakers and foam, the water finds its way, still
tumbling down. We stop for the night only three fourths of a mile below
the last camp. A very hard day's work has been done, and at evening I
sit on a rock by the edge of the river and look at the water and listen
to its roar. Hours ago deep shadows settled into the canyon, as the sun
passed behind the cliffs. Now, doubtless, the sun has gone down, for we
can see no glint of light on the crags above. Darkness is coming on; but
the waves are rolling with crests of foam so white they seem almost to
give a light of their own. Near by, a chute of water strikes the foot of
a great block of limestone 50 feet high, and the waters pile up against
it and roll back. Where there are sunken rocks the water heaps up in
mounds, or even in cones. At a point where rocks come very near the
surface, the water forms a chute above, strikes, and is shot up 10 or 15
feet, and piles back in gentle curves, as in a fountain; and on the
river tumbles and rolls.

_July 25.--_Still more rapids and falls to-day. In one, the "Emma Dean"
is caught in a whirlpool and set spinning about, and it is with great
difficulty we are able to get out of it with only the loss of an oar. At
noon another is made; and on we go, running some of the rapids, letting
down with lines past others, and making two short portages. We camp on
the right bank, hungry and tired.

_July 26.--_We run a short distance this morning and go into camp to
make oars and repair boats and barometers. The walls of the canyon have
been steadily increasing in altitude to this point, and now they are
more than 2,000 feet high. In many places they are vertical from the
water's edge; in others there is a talus between the river and the foot
of the cliff; and they are often broken down by side canyons. It is
probable that the river is nearly as low now as it is ever found.
High-water mark can be observed 40, 50, 60, or 100 feet above its
present stage. Sometimes logs and driftwood are seen wedged into the
crevices over-head, where floods have carried them.

About ten o'clock, Powell, Bradley, Howland, Hall, and I start
up a side canyon to the east. We soon come to pools of water; then to a
brook, which is lost in the sands below; and passing up the brook, we
see that the canyon narrows, the walls close in and are often
overhanging, and at last we find ourselves in a vast amphitheater, with
a pool of deep, clear, cold water on the bottom. At first our way seems
cut off; but we soon discover a little shelf, along which we climb, and,
passing beyond the pool, walk a hundred yards or more, turn to the
right, and find ourselves in another dome-shaped amphitheater. There is
a winding cleft at the top, reaching out to the country above, nearly
2,000 feet overhead. The rounded, basin-shaped bottom is filled with
water to the foot of the walls. There is no shelf by which we can pass
around the foot. If we swim across we meet with a face of rock hundreds
of feet high, over which a little rill glides, and it will be impossible
to climb. So we can go no farther up this canyon. Then we turn back and
examine the walls on either side carefully, to discover, if possible,
some way of climbing out. In this search every man takes his own course,
and we are scattered. I almost abandon the idea of getting out and am
engaged in searching for fossils, when I discover, on the north, a
broken place lip which it may be possible to climb. The way for a
distance is up a slide of rocks; then up an irregular amphitheater, on
points that form steps and give handhold; and then I reach a little
shelf, along which I walk, and discover a vertical fissure parallel to
the face of the wall and reaching to a higher shelf. This fissure is
narrow and I try to climb up to the bench, which is about 40 feet
overhead. I have a barometer on my back, which rather impedes my
climbing. The walls of the fissure are of smooth limestone, offering
neither foothold nor handhold. So I support myself by pressing my back
against one wall and my knees against the other, and in this way lift my
body, in a shuffling manner, a few inches at a time, until I have made
perhaps 25 feet of the distance, when the crevice widens a little and I
cannot press my knees against the rock in front with sufficient power to
give me support in lifting my body; so I try to go back. This I cannot
do without falling. So I struggle along sidewise farther into the
crevice, where it narrows. But by this time my muscles are exhausted,
and I cannot climb longer; so I move still a little farther into the
crevice, where it is so narrow and wedging that I can lie in it, and
there I rest. Five or ten minutes of this relief, and up once more I go,
and reach the bench above. On this I can walk for a quarter of a mile,
till I come to a place where the wall is again broken down, so I can
climb up still farther; and in an hour I reach the summit. I hang up my
barometer to give it a few minutes' time to settle, and occupy myself in
collecting resin from the pinon pines, which are found in great
abundance. One of the principal objects in making this climb was to get
this resin for the purpose of smearing our boats; but I have with me no
means of carrying it down. The day is very hot and my coat was left in
camp, so I have no linings to tear out. Then it occurs to me to cut off
the sleeve of my shirt and tie it up at one end, and in this little sack
I collect about a gallon of pitch. After taking observations for
altitude, I wander back on the rock for an hour or two, when suddenly I
notice that a storm is coming from the south. I seek a shelter in the
rocks; but when the storm bursts, it comes down as a flood from the
heavens,--not with gentle drops at first, slowly increasing in quantity,
but as if suddenly poured out. I am thoroughly drenched and almost
washed away. It lasts not more than half an hour, when the clouds sweep
by to the north and I have sunshine again.

In the meantime I have discovered a better way of getting down, and
start for camp, making the greatest haste possible. On reaching the
bottom of the side canyon, I find a thousand streams rolling down the
cliffs on every side, carrying with them red sand; and these all unite
in the canyon below in one great stream of red mud.

Traveling as fast as I can run, I soon reach the foot of the stream, for
the rain did not reach the lower end of the canyon and the water is
running down a dry bed of sand; and although it conies in waves several
feet high and 15 or 20 feet in width, the sands soak it up and it is
lost. But wave follows wave and rolls along and is swallowed up; and
still the floods come on from above. I find that I can travel faster
than the stream; so I hasten to camp and tell the men there is a river
coming down the canyon. We carry our camp equipage hastily from the bank
to where we think it will be above the water. Then we stand by and see
the river roll on to join the Colorado. Great quantities of gypsum are
found at the bottom of the gorge; so we name it Gypsum Canyon.

_July 27.--_We have more rapids and falls until noon; then we come to a
narrow place in the canyon, with vertical walls for several hundred
feet, above which are steep steps and sloping rocks back to the summits.
The river is very narrow, and we make our way with great care and much
anxiety, hugging the wall on the left and carefully examining the way
before us.

Late in the afternoon we pass to the left around a sharp point, which is
somewhat broken down near the foot, and discover a flock of mountain
sheep on the rocks more than a hundred feet above us. We land quickly in
a cove out of sight, and away go all the hunters with their guns, for
the sheep have not discovered us. Soon we hear firing, and those of us
who have remained in the boats climb up to see what success the hunters
have had. One sheep has been killed, and two of the men are still
pursuing them. In a few minutes we hear firing again, and the next
moment down come the flock clattering over the rocks within 20 yards of
us. One of the hunters seizes his gun and brings a second sheep down,
and the next minute the remainder of the flock is lost behind the rocks.
We all give chase; but it is impossible to follow their tracks over the
naked rock, and we see them no more. Where they went out of this
rock-walled canyon is a mystery, for we can see no way of escape.
Doubtless, if we could spare the time for the search, we should find a
gulch up which they ran.

We lash our prizes to the deck of one of the boats and go on for a short
distance; but fresh meat is too tempting for us, and we stop early to
have a feast. And a feast it is! Two fine young sheep! We care not for
bread or beans or dried apples to-night; coffee and mutton are all we

_July 28._--We make two portages this morning, one of them very long.
During the afternoon we run a chute more than half a mile in length,
narrow and rapid. This chute has a floor of marble; the rocks dip in the
direction in which we are going, and the fall of the stream conforms to
the inclination of the beds; so we float on water that is gliding down
an inclined plane. At the foot of the chute the river turns sharply to
the right and the water rolls up against a rock which from above seems
to stand directly athwart its course. As we approach it we pull with all
our power to the right, but it seems impossible to avoid being carried
headlong against the cliff; we are carried up high on the waves--but not
against the rock, for the rebounding water strikes us and we are beaten
back and pass on with safety, except that we get a good drenching.

After this the walls suddenly close in, so that the canyon is narrower
than we have ever known it. The water fills it from wall to wall, giving
us no landing-place at the foot of the cliff; the river is very swift
and the canyon very tortuous, so that we can see but a few hundred yards
ahead; the walls tower over us, often overhanging so as almost to shut
out the light. I stand on deck, watching with intense anxiety, lest this
may lead us into some danger; but we glide along, with no obstruction,
no falls, no rocks, and in a mile and a half emerge from the narrow
gorge into a more open and broken portion of the canyon. Now that it is
past, it seems a very simple thing indeed to run through such a place,
but the fear of what might be ahead made a deep impression on us.

At three o'clock we arrive at the foot of Cataract Canyon. Here a long
canyon valley comes down from the east, and the river turns sharply to
the west in a continuation of the line of the lateral valley. In the
bend on the right vast numbers of crags and pinnacles and tower-shaped
rocks are seen. We call it Mille Crag Bend.

And now we wheel into another canyon, on swift water unobstructed by
rocks. This new canyon is very narrow and very straight, with walls
vertical below and terraced above. Where we enter it the brink of the
cliff is 1,300 feet above the water, but the rocks dip to the west, and
as the course of the canyon is in that direction the walls are seen
slowly to decrease in altitude. Floating down this narrow channel and
looking out through the canyon crevice away in the distance, the river
is seen to turn again to the left, and beyond this point, away many
miles, a great mountain is seen. Still floating down, we see other
mountains, now on the right, now on the left, until a great mountain
range is unfolded to view. We name this Narrow Canyon, and it terminates
at the bend of the river below.

As we go down to this point we discover the mouth of a stream which
enters from the right. Into this our little boat is turned. The water is
exceedingly muddy and has an unpleasant odor. One of the men in the boat
following, seeing what we have done, shouts to 'Dunn and asks whether it
is a trout stream. Dunn replies, much disgusted, that it is "a dirty
devil," and by this name the river is to be known hereafter.

Some of us go out for half a mile and climb a butte to the north. The
course of the Dirty Devil River can be traced for many miles. It comes
down through a very narrow canyon, and beyond it, to the southwest,
there is a long line of cliffs, with a broad terrace, or bench, between
it and the brink of the canyon, and beyond these cliffs is situated the
range of mountains seen as we came down Narrow Canyon. Looking up the
Colorado, the chasm through which it runs can be seen, but we cannot see
down to its waters. The whole country is a region of naked rock of many
colors, with cliffs and buttes about us and towering mountains in the

_July 29._--We enter a canyon to-day, with low, red walls. A short
distance below its head we discover the ruins of an old building on the
left wall. There is a narrow plain between the river and the wall just
here, and on the brink of a rock 200 feet high stands this old house.
Its walls are of stone, laid in mortar with much regularity. It was
probably built three stories high; the lower story is yet almost intact;
the second is much broken down, and scarcely anything is left of the
third. Great quantities of flint chips are found on the rocks near by,
and many arrowheads, some perfect, others broken; and fragments of
pottery are strewn about in great profusion. On the face of the cliff,
under the building and along down the river for 200 or 300 yards, there
are many etchings. Two hours are given to the examination of these
interesting ruins; then we run down fifteen miles farther, and discover
another group. The principal building was situated on the summit of the

A part of the walls are standing, to the height of eight or ten feet,
and the mortar yet remains in some places. The house was in the shape of
an L, with five rooms on the ground floor,--one in the angle and two in
each extension. In the space in the angle there is a deep excavation.
From what we know of the people in the Province of Tusayan, who are,
doubtless, of the same race as the former inhabitants of these ruins, we
conclude that this was a _kiva,_ or underground chamber in which their
religious ceremonies were performed.

We leave these ruins and run down two or three miles and go into camp
about mid-afternoon. And now I climb the wall and go out into the back
country for a walk.

The sandstone through which the canyon is cut is red and homogeneous,
being the same as that through which Labyrinth Canyon runs. The smooth,
naked rock stretches out on either side of the river for many miles, but
curiously carved mounds and cones are scattered everywhere and deep
holes are worn out. Many of these pockets are filled with water. In one
of these holes or wells, 20 feet deep, I find a tree growing. The
excavation is so narrow that I can step from its brink to a limb on the
tree and descend to the bottom of the well down a growing ladder. Many
of these pockets are potholes, being found in the courses of little
rills or brooks that run during the rains which occasionally fall in
this region; and often a few harder rocks, which evidently assisted in
their excavation, can be found in their bottoms. Others, which are
shallower, are not so easily explained. Perhaps where they are found
softer spots existed in the sandstone, places that yielded more readily
to atmospheric degradation, the loose sands being carried away by the

Just before sundown I attempt to climb a rounded eminence, from which I
hope to obtain a good outlook on the surrounding country. It is formed
of smooth mounds, piled one above another. Up these I climb, winding
here and there to find a practicable way, until near the summit they
become too steep for me to proceed. I search about a few minutes for an
easier way, when I am surprised at finding a stairway, evidently cut in
the rock by hands. At one place, where there is a vertical wall of 10 or
12 feet, I find an old, rickety ladder. It may be that this was a
watchtower of that ancient people whose homes we have found in ruins. On
many of the tributaries of the Colorado, I have heretofore examined
their deserted dwellings. Those that show evidences of being built
during the latter part of their occupation of the country are usually
placed on the most inaccessible cliffs. Sometimes the mouths of caves
have been walled across, and there are many other evidences to show
their anxiety to secure defensible positions. Probably the nomadic
tribes were sweeping down upon them and they resorted to these cliffs
and canyons for safety. It is not unreasonable to suppose that this
orange mound was used as a watchtower. Here I stand, where these now
lost people stood centuries ago, and look over this strange country,
gazing off to great mountains in the northwest which are slowly
disappearing under cover of the night; and then I return to camp. It is
no easy task to find my way down the wall in the darkness, and I clamber
about until it is nearly midnight when camp is reached.

_July 30.--_We make good progress to-day, as the water, though smooth,
is swift. Sometimes the canyon walls are vertical to the top; sometimes
they are vertical below and have a mound-covered slope above; in other
places the slope, with its mounds, comes down to the water's edge.

Still proceeding on our way, we find that the orange sandstone is cut in
two by a group of firm, calcareous strata, and the lower bed is
underlaid by soft, gypsiferous shales. Sometimes the upper homogeneous
bed is a smooth, vertical wall, but usually it is carved with mounds,
with gently meandering valley lines. The lower bed, yielding to gravity,
as the softer shales below work, out into the river, breaks into angular
surfaces, often having a columnar appearance. One could almost imagine
that the walls had been carved with a purpose, to represent giant
architectural forms. In the deep recesses of the walls we find springs,
with mosses and ferns on the moistened sandstone.

_July 31.--_We have a cool, pleasant ride to-day through this part of
the canyon. The walls are steadily increasing in altitude, the curves
are gentle, and often the river sweeps by an arc of vertical wall,
smooth and unbroken, and then by a curve that is variegated by royal
arches, mossy alcoves, deep, beautiful glens, and painted grottoes. Soon
after dinner we discover the mouth of the San Juan, where we camp. The
remainder of the afternoon is given to hunting some way by which we can
climb out of the canyon; but it ends in failure.

_August 1.--_We drop down two miles this morning and go into camp again.
There is a low, willow-covered strip of land along the walls on the
east. Across this we walk, to explore an alcove which we see from the
river. On entering, we find a little grove of box-elder and cotton-wood
trees, and turning to the right, we find ourselves in a vast chamber,
carved out of the rock. At the upper end there is a clear, deep pool of
water, bordered with verdure. Standing by the side of this, we can see
the grove at the entrance. The chamber is more than 200 feet high, 500
feet long, and 200 feet wide. Through the ceiling, and on through the
rocks for a thousand feet above, there is a narrow, winding skylight;
and this is all carved out by a little stream which runs only during the
few showers that fall now and then in this arid country. The waters from
the bare rocks back of the canyon, gathering rapidly into a small
channel, have eroded a deep side canyon, through which they run until
they fall into the farther end of this chamber. The rock at the ceiling
is hard, the rock below, very soft and friable; and having cut through
the upper and harder portion down into the lower and softer, the stream
has washed out these friable sandstones; and thus the chamber has been

Here we bring our camp. When "Old Shady" sings us a song at night, we
are pleased to find that this hollow in the rock is filled with sweet
sounds. It was doubtless made for an academy of music by its storm-born
architect; so we name it Music Temple.

_August 2.--_We still keep our camp in Music Temple to-day. I wish to
obtain a view of the adjacent country, if possible; so, early in the
morning the men take me across the river, and I pass along by the foot
of the cliff half a mile up stream and then climb, first up broken
ledges, then 200 or 300 yards up a smooth, sloping rock, and then pass
out on a narrow ridge. Still, I find I have not attained an altitude
from which I can overlook the region outside of the canyon; and so I
descend into a little gulch and climb again to a higher ridge, all the
way along naked sandstone, and at last I reach a point of commanding
view. I can look several miles up the San Juan, and a long distance up
the Colorado; and away to the northwest I can see the Henry Mountains;
to the northeast, the Sierra La Sal; to the southeast, unknown
mountains; and to the southwest, the meandering of the canyon. Then I
return to the bank of the river. We sleep again in Music Temple.

_August 3.--_Start early this morning. The features of this canyon are
greatly diversified. Still vertical walls at times. These are usually
found to stand above great curves. The river, sweeping around these
bends, undermines the cliffs in places. Sometimes the rocks are
overhanging; in other curves, curious, narrow glens are found. Through
these we climb, by a rough stairway, perhaps several hundred feet, to
where a spring bursts out from under an overhanging cliff, and where
cottonwoods and willows stand, while along the curves of the brooklet
oaks grow, and other rich vegetation is seen, in marked contrast to the
general appearance of naked rock. We call these Oak Glens.

Other wonderful features are the many side canyons or gorges that we
pass. Sometimes we stop to explore these for a short distance. In some
places their walls are much nearer each other above than below, so that
they look somewhat like caves or chambers in the rocks. Usually, in
going up such a gorge, we find beautiful vegetation; but our way is
often cut off by deep basins, or "potholes," as they are called.

On the walls, and back many miles into the country, numbers of
monument-shaped buttes are observed. So we have a curious _ensemble_ of
wonderful features--carved walls, royal arches, glens, alcove gulches,
mounds, and monuments. From which of these features shall we select a
name? We decide to call it Glen Canyon.

Past these towering monuments, past these mounded billows of orange
sandstone, past these oak-set glens, past these fern-decked alcoves,
past these mural curves, we glide hour after hour, stopping now and
then, as our attention is arrested by some new wonder, until we reach a
point which is historic.

In the year 1776, Father Escalante, a Spanish priest, made an expedition
from Santa Fe to the northwest, crossing the Grand and Green, and then
passing down along the Wasatch Mountains and the southern plateaus until
he reached the Rio Virgen. His intention was to cross to the Mission of
Monterey; but, from information received from the Indians, he decided
that the route was impracticable. Not wishing to return to Santa Fe over
the circuitous route by which he had just traveled, he attempted to go
by one more direct, which led him across the Colorado at a point known
as El Vado de los Padres. From the description which we have read, we
are enabled to determine the place. A little stream comes down through a
very narrow side canyon from the west. It was down this that he came,
and our boats are lying at the point where the ford crosses. A
well-beaten Indian trail is seen here yet. Between the cliff and the
river there is a little meadow. The ashes of many camp fires are seen,
and the bones of numbers of cattle are bleaching on the grass. For
several years the Navajos have raided on the Mormons that dwell in the
valleys to the west, and they doubtless cross frequently at this ford
with their stolen cattle.

_August 4.--_To-day the walls grow higher and the canyon much narrower.
Monuments are still seen on either side; beautiful glens and alcoves and
gorges and side canyons are yet found. After dinner we find the river
making a sudden turn to the northwest and the whole character of the
canyon changed. The walls are many hundreds of feet higher, and the
rocks are chiefly variegated shales of beautiful colors--creamy orange
above, then bright vermilion, and below, purple and chocolate beds, with
green and yellow sands. We run four miles through this, in a direction a
little to the west of north, wheel again to the west, and pass into a
portion of the canyon where the characteristics are more like those
above the bend. At night we stop at the mouth of a creek coming in from
the right, and suppose it to be the Paria, which was described to me
last year by a Mormon missionary. Here the canyon terminates abruptly in
a line of cliffs, which stretches from either side across the river.

_August 5.--_With some feeling of anxiety we enter a new canyon this
morning. We have learned to observe closely the texture of the rock. In
softer strata we have a quiet river, in harder we find rapids and falls.
Below us are the limestones and hard sandstones which we found in
Cataract Canyon. This bodes toil and danger. Besides the texture of the
rocks, there is another condition which affects the character of the
channel, as we have found by experience. Where the strata are horizontal
the river is often quiet, and, even though it may be very swift in
places, no great obstacles are found. Where the rocks incline in the
direction traveled, the river usually sweeps with great velocity, but
still has few rapids and falls. But where the rocks dip up stream and
the river cuts obliquely across the upturned formations, harder strata
above and softer below, we have rapids and falls. Into hard rocks and
into rocks dipping up stream we pass this morning and start on a long,
rocky, mad rapid. On the left there is a vertical rock, and down by this
cliff and around to the left we glide, tossed just enough by the waves
to appreciate the rate at which we are traveling.

The canyon is narrow, with vertical walls, which gradually grow higher.
More rapids and falls are found. We come to one with a drop of sixteen
feet, around which we make a portage, and then stop for dinner. Then a
run of two miles, and another portage, long and difficult; then we camp
for the night on a bank of sand.

_August 6.--_Canyon walls, still higher and higher, as we go down
through strata. There is a steep talus at the foot of the cliff, and in
some places the upper parts of the walls are terraced.

About ten o'clock we come to a place where the river occupies the entire
channel and the walls are vertical from the water's edge. We see a fall
below and row up against the cliff. There is a little shelf, or rather a
horizontal crevice, a few feet over our heads. One man stands on the
deck of the boat, another climbs on his shoulders, and then into the
crevice. Then we pass him a line, and two or three others, with myself,
follow; then we pass along the crevice until it becomes a shelf, as the
upper part, or roof, is broken off. On this we walk for a short
distance, slowly climbing all the way, until we reach a point where the
shelf is broken off, and we can pass no farther. So we go back to the
boat, cross the stream, and get some logs that have lodged in the rocks,
bring them to our side, pass them along the crevice and shelf, and
bridge over the broken place. Then we go on to a point over the falls,
but do not obtain a satisfactory view. So we climb out to the top of the
wall and walk along to find a point below the fall from which it can be
seen. From this point it seems possible to let down our boats with lines
to the head of the rapids, and then make a portage; so we return, row
down by the side of the cliff as far as we dare, and fasten one of the
boats to a rock. Then we let down another boat to the end of its line
beyond the first, and the third boat to the end of its line below the
second, which brings it to the head of the fall and under an overhanging
rock. Then the upper boat, in obedience to a signal, lets go; we pull in
the line and catch the nearest boat as it comes, and then the last. The
portage follows.

We go into camp early this afternoon at a place where it seems possible
to climb out, and the evening is spent in "making observations for

_August 7.--_The almanac tells us that we are to have an eclipse of the
sun to-day; so Captain Powell and myself start early, taking our
instruments with us for the purpose of making observations on the
eclipse to determine our longitude. Arriving at the summit, after four
hours' hard climbing to attain 2,300 feet in height, we hurriedly
build a platform of rocks on which to place our instruments, and quietly
wait for the eclipse; but clouds come on and rain falls, and sun and
moon are obscured.

Much disappointed, we start on our return to camp, but it is late and
the clouds make the night very dark. We feel our way down among the
rocks with great care for two or three hours, making slow progress
indeed. At last we lose our way and dare proceed no farther. The rain
comes down in torrents and we can find no shelter. We can neither climb
up nor go down, and in the darkness dare not move about; so we sit and
"weather out" the night.

_August 8._--Daylight comes after a long, oh, how long! a night, and we
soon reach camp. After breakfast we start again, and make two portages
during the forenoon.

The limestone of this canyon is often polished, and makes a beautiful
marble. Sometimes the rocks are of many colors--white, gray, pink, and
purple, with saffron tints. It is with very great labor that we make
progress, meeting with many obstructions, running rapids, letting down
our boats with lines from rock to rock, and sometimes carrying boats and
cargoes around bad places. We camp at night, just after a hard portage,
under an overhanging wall, glad to find shelter from the rain. We have
to search for some time to find a few sticks of driftwood, just
sufficient to boil a cup of coffee.

The water sweeps rapidly in this elbow of river, and has cut its way
under the rock, excavating a vast half-circular chamber, which, if
utilized for a theater, would give sitting to 50,000 people. Objection
might be raised against it, however, for at high water the floor is
covered with a raging flood.

_August 9.--_And now the scenery is on a grand scale. The walls of the
canyon, 2,500 feet high, are of marble, of many beautiful colors, often
polished below by the waves, and sometimes far up the sides, where
showers have washed the sands over the cliffs. At one place I have a
walk for more than a mile on a marble pavement, all polished and fretted
with strange devices and embossed in a thousand fantastic patterns.
Through a cleft in the wall the sun shines on this pavement and it
gleams in iridescent beauty.

I pass up into the cleft. It is very narrow, with a succession of pools
standing at higher levels as I go back. The water in these pools is
clear and cool, coming down from springs. Then I return to the pavement,
which is but a terrace or bench, over which the river runs at its flood,
but left bare at present. Along the pavement in many places are basins
of clear water, in strange contrast to the red mud of the river. At
length I come to the end of this marble terrace and take again to the

Riding down a short distance, a beautiful view is presented. The river
turns sharply to the east and seems inclosed by a wall set with a
million brilliant gems. What can it mean? Every eye is engaged, every
one wonders. On coming nearer we find fountains bursting from the rock
high overhead, and the spray in the sunshine forms the gems which bedeck
the wall. The rocks below the fountain are covered with mosses and ferns
and many beautiful flowering plants. We name it Vasey's Paradise, in
honor of the botanist who traveled with us last year.

We pass many side canyons to-day that are dark, gloomy passages back
into the heart of the rocks that form the plateau through which this
canyon is cut. It rains again this afternoon. Scarcely do the first
drops fall when little rills run down the walls. As the storm comes on,
the little rills increase in size, until great streams are formed.
Although the walls of the canyon are chiefly limestone, the adjacent
country is of red sandstone; and now the waters, loaded with these
sands, come down in rivers of bright red mud, leaping over the walls in
innumerable cascades. It is plain now how these walls are polished in
many places.

At last the storm ceases and we go on. We have cut through the
sandstones and limestones met in the upper part of the canyon, and
through one great bed of marble a thousand feet in thickness. In this,
great numbers of caves are hollowed out, and carvings are seen which
suggest architectural forms, though on a scale so grand that
architectural terms belittle them. As this great bed forms a distinctive
feature of the canyon, we call it Marble Canyon.

It is a peculiar feature of these walls that many projections are set
out into the river, as if the wall was buttressed for support. The walls
themselves are half a mile high, and these buttresses are on a
corresponding scale, jutting into the river scores of feet. In the
recesses between these projections there are quiet bays, except at the
foot of a rapid, when there are dancing eddies or whirlpools. Sometimes
these alcoves have caves at the back, giving them the appearance of
great depth. Then other caves are seen above, forming vast dome-shaped
chambers. The walls and buttresses and chambers are all of marble.

The river is now quiet; the canyon wider. Above, when the river is at
its flood, the waters gorge up, so that the difference between high and
low water mark is often 50 or even 70 feet, but here high-water mark is
not more than 20 feet above the present stage of the river. Sometimes
there is a narrow flood plain between the water and the wall. Here we
first discover mesquite shrubs,--small trees with finely divided leaves
and pods, somewhat like the locust.

_August 10.--_Walls still higher; water swift again. We pass several
broad, ragged canyons on our right, and up through these we catch
glimpses of a forest-clad plateau, miles away to the west.

At two o'clock we reach the mouth of the Colorado Chiquito. This stream
enters through a canyon on a scale quite as grand as that of the
Colorado itself. It is a very small river and exceedingly muddy and
saline. I walk up the stream three or four miles this afternoon,
crossing and recrossing where I can easily wade it. Then I climb several
hundred feet at one place, and can see for several miles up the chasm
through which the river runs. On my way back I kill two rattlesnakes,
and find on my arrival that another has been killed just at camp.

_August 11.--_We remain at this point to-day for the purpose of
determining the latitude and longitude, measuring the height of the
walls, drying our rations, and repairing our boats.

Captain Powell early in the morning takes a barometer and goes out to
climb a point between the two rivers. I walk down the gorge to the left
at the foot of the cliff, climb to a bench, and discover a trail, deeply
worn in the rock. Where it crosses the side gulches in some places steps
have been cut. I can see no evidence of its having been traveled for a
long time. It was doubtless a path used by the people who inhabited this
country anterior to the present Indian races--the people who built the
communal houses of which mention has been made.

I return to camp about three o'clock and find that some of the men have
discovered ruins and many fragments of pottery; also etchings and
hieroglyphics on the rocks.

We find to-night, on comparing the readings of the barometers, that the
walls are about 3,000 feet high--more than half a mile--an altitude
difficult to appreciate from a mere statement of feet. The slope by
which the ascent is made is not such a slope as is usually found in
climbing a mountain, but one much more abrupt--often vertical for many
hundreds of feet,--so that the impression is given that we are at great
depths, and we look up to see but a little patch of sky.

Between the two streams, above the Colorado Chiquito, in some places the
rocks are broken and shelving for 600 Or 700 feet; then there is a
sloping terrace, which can be climbed only by finding some way up a
gulch; then another terrace, and back, still another cliff. The summit
of the cliff is 3,000 feet above the river, as our barometers attest.

Our camp is below the Colorado Chiquito and on the eastern side of the

_August 12.--_The rocks above camp are rust-colored sandstones and
conglomerates. Some are very hard; others quite soft. They all lie
nearly horizontal, and the beds of softer material have been washed out,
leaving the harder forming a series of shelves. Long lines of these are
seen, of varying thickness, from one or two to twenty or thirty feet,
and the spaces between have the same variability. This morning I spend
two or three hours in climbing among these shelves, and then I pass
above them and go up a long slope to the foot of the cliff and try to
discover some way by which I can reach the top of the wall; but I find
my progress cut off by an amphitheater. Then I wander away around to the
left, up a little gulch and along benches, climbing from time to time,
until I reach an altitude of nearly 2,000 feet and can get no higher.
From this point I can look off to the west, up side canyons of the
Colorado, and see the edge of a great plateau, from which streams run
down into the Colorado, and deep gulches in the escarpment which faces
us, continued by canyons, ragged and flaring and set with cliffs and
towering crags, down to the river. I can see far up Marble Canyon to
long lines of chocolate-colored cliffs, and above these the Vermilion
Cliffs. I can see, also, up the Colorado Chiquito, through a very ragged
and broken canyon, with sharp salients set out from the walls on either
side, their points overlapping, so that a huge tooth of marble on one
side seems to be set between two teeth on the opposite; and I can also
get glimpses of walls standing away back from the river, while over my
head are mural escarpments not possible to be scaled.

Cataract Canyon is 41 miles long. The walls are 1,300 feet high at its
head, and they gradually increase in altitude to a point about halfway
down, where they are 2,700 feet, and then decrease to 1,300 feet at the
foot. Narrow Canyon is 9 1/2 miles long, with walls 1,300 feet in height
at the head and coming down to the water at the foot.

There is very little vegetation in this canyon or in the adjacent
country. Just at the junction of the Grand and Green there are a number
of hackberry trees; and along the entire length of Cataract Canyon the
high-water line is marked by scattered trees of the same species. A few
nut pines and cedars are found, and occasionally a redbud or Judas tree;
but the general aspect of the canyons and of the adjacent country is
that of naked rock.

The distance through Glen Canyon is 149 miles. Its walls vary in height
from 200 or 300 to 1,600 feet. Marble Canyon is 65 1/2 miles long. At
its head it is 200 feet deep, and it steadily increases in depth to its
foot, where its walls are 3,500 feet high.



_August 13_.--We are now ready to start on our way down the Great Unknown.
Our boats, tied to a common, stake, chafe each other as they are tossed
by the fretful river. They ride high and buoyant, for their loads are
lighter than we could desire. We have but a month's rations remaining.
The flour has been resifted through the mosquito-net sieve; the spoiled
bacon has been dried and the worst of it boiled; the few pounds of dried
apples have been spread in the sun and reshrunken to their normal bulk.
The sugar has all melted and gone on its way down the river. But we have
a large sack of coffee. The lightening of the boats has this advantage:
they will ride the waves better and we shall have but little to carry
when we make a portage.

We are three quarters of a mile in the depths of the earth, and the
great river shrinks into insignificance as it dashes its angry waves
against the walls and cliffs that rise to the world above; the waves are
but puny ripples, and we but pigmies, running up and down the sands or
lost among the boulders.

We have an unknown distance yet to run, an unknown river to explore.
What falls there are, we know not; what rocks beset the channel, we know
not; what walls rise over the river, we know not. Ah, well! we may
conjecture many things. The men talk as cheerfully as ever; jests are
bandied about freely this morning; but to me the cheer is somber and the
jests are ghastly.

With some eagerness and some anxiety and some misgiving we enter the
canyon below and are carried along by the swift water through walls
which rise from its very edge. They have the same structure that we
noticed yesterday--tiers of irregular shelves below, and, above these,
steep slopes to the foot of marble cliffs. We run six miles in a little
more than half an hour and emerge into a more open portion of the
canyon, where high hills and ledges of rock intervene between the river
and the distant walls. Just at the head of this open place the river
runs across a dike; that is, a fissure in the rocks, open to depths
below, was filled with eruptive matter, and this on cooling was harder
than the rocks through which the crevice was made, and when these were
washed away the harder volcanic matter remained as a wall, and the river
has cut a gateway through it several hundred feet high and as many wide.
As it crosses the wall, there is a fall below and a bad rapid, filled
with boulders of trap; so we stop to make a portage. Then on we go,
gliding by hills and ledges, with distant walls in view; sweeping past
sharp angles of rock; stopping at a few points to examine rapids, which
we find can be run, until we have made another five miles, when we land
for dinner.

Then we let down with lines over a long rapid and start again. Once more
the walls close in, and we find ourselves in a narrow gorge, the water
again filling the channel and being very swift. With great care and
constant watchfulness we proceed, making about four miles this
afternoon, and camp in a cave.

_August 14-_--At daybreak we walk down the bank of the river, on a
little sandy beach, to take a view of a new feature in the canyon.
Heretofore hard rocks have given us bad river; soft rocks, smooth water;
and a series of rocks harder than any we have experienced sets in. The
river enters the gneiss! We can see but a little way into the granite
gorge, but it looks threatening.

After breakfast we enter on the waves. At the very introduction it
inspires awe. The canyon is narrower than we have ever before seen it;
the water is swifter; there are but few broken rocks in the channel; but
the walls are set, on either side, with pinnacles and crags; and sharp,
angular buttresses, bristling with wind- and wave-polished spires,
extend far out into the river.

Ledges of rock jut into the stream, their tops sometimes just below the
surface, sometimes rising a few or many feet above; and island ledges
and island pinnacles and island towers break the swift course of the
stream into chutes and eddies and whirlpools. We soon reach a place
where a creek comes in from the left, and, just below, the channel is
choked with boulders, which have washed down this lateral canyon and
formed a dam, over which there is a fall of 30 or 40 feet; but on the
boulders foothold can be had, and we make a portage. Three more such
dams are found. Over one we make a portage; at the other two are chutes
through which we can run.

As we proceed the granite rises higher, until nearly a thousand feet of
the lower part of the walls are composed of this rock.

About eleven o'clock we hear a great roar ahead, and approach it very
cautiously. The sound grows louder and louder as we run, and at last we
find ourselves above a long, broken fall, with ledges and pinnacles of
rock obstructing the river. There is a descent of perhaps 75 or 80 feet
in a third of a mile, and the rushing waters break into great waves
on the rocks, and lash themselves into a mad, white foam. We can land
just above, but there is no foothold on either side by which we can make
a portage. It is nearly a thousand feet to the top of the granite;
so it will be impossible to carry our boats around, though we can climb
to the summit up a side gulch and, passing along a mile or two, descend
to the river. This we find on examination; but such a portage would be
impracticable for us, and we must run the rapid or abandon the river.
There is no hesitation. We step into our boats, push off, and away we
go, first on smooth but swift water, then we strike a glassy wave and
ride to its top, down again into the trough, up again on a higher wave,
and down and up on waves higher and still higher until we strike one
just as it curls back, and a breaker rolls over our little boat. Still
on we speed, shooting past projecting rocks, till the little boat is
caught in a whirlpool and spun round several times. At last we pull out
again into the stream. And now the other boats have passed us. The open
compartment of the "Emma Dean" is filled with water and every breaker
rolls over us. Hurled back from a rock, now on this side, now on that,
we are carried into an eddy, in which we struggle for a few minutes, and
are then out again, the breakers still rolling over us. Our boat is
unmanageable, but she cannot sink, and we drift down another hundred
yards through breakers--how, we scarcely know. We find the other boats
have turned into an eddy at the foot of the fall and are waiting to
catch us as we come, for the men have seen that our boat is swamped.
They push out as we come near and pull us in against the wall. Our boat
bailed, on we go again.

The walls now are more than a mile in height--a vertical distance
difficult to appreciate. Stand on the south steps of the Treasury
building in Washington and look down Pennsylvania Avenue to the Capitol;
measure this distance overhead, and imagine cliffs to extend to that
altitude, and you will understand what is meant; or stand at Canal
Street in New York and look up Broadway to Grace Church, and you have
about the distance; or stand at Lake Street bridge in Chicago and look
down to the Central Depot, and you have it again.

A thousand feet of this is up through granite crags; then steep slopes
and perpendicular cliffs rise one above another to the summit. The gorge
is black and narrow below, red and gray and flaring above, with crags
and angular projections on the walls, which, cut in many places by side
canyons, seem to be a vast wilderness of rocks. Down in these grand,
gloomy depths we glide, ever listening, for the mad waters keep
up their roar; ever watching, ever peering ahead, for the narrow canyon
is winding and the river is closed in so that we can see but a few
hundred yards, and what there may be below we know not; so we listen for
falls and watch for rocks, stopping now and then in the bay of a recess
to admire the gigantic scenery; and ever as we go there is some new
pinnacle or tower, some crag or peak, some distant view of the upper
plateau, some strangely shaped rock, or some deep, narrow side canyon.

Then we come to another broken fall, which appears more difficult than
the one we ran this morning. A small creek comes in on the right, and
the first fall of the water is over boulders, which have been carried
down by this lateral stream. We land at its mouth and stop for an hour
or two to examine the fall. It seems possible to let down with lines, at
least a part of the way, from point to point, along the right-hand wall.
So we make a portage over the first rocks and find footing on some
boulders below. Then we let down one of the boats to the end of her
line, when she reaches a corner of the projecting rock, to which one of
the men clings and steadies her while I examine an eddy below. I think
we can pass the other boats down by us and catch them in the eddy. This
is soon done, and the men in the boats in the eddy pull us to their
side. On the shore of this little eddy there is about two feet of gravel
beach above the water. Standing on this beach, some of the men take the
line of the little boat and let it drift down against another projecting
angle. Here is a little shelf, on which a man from my boat climbs, and a
shorter line is passed to him, and he fastens the boat to the side of
the cliff; then the second one is let down, bringing the line of the
third. When the second boat is tied up, the two men standing on the
beach above spring into the last boat, which is pulled up alongside of
ours; then we let down the boats for 25 or 30 yards by walking along the
shelf, landing them again in the mouth of a side canyon. Just below this
there is another pile of boulders, over which we make another portage.
From the foot of these rocks we can climb to another shelf, 40 or 50
feet above the water.

On this bench we camp for the night. It is raining hard, and we have no
shelter, but find a few sticks which have lodged in the rocks, and
kindle a fire and have supper. We sit on the rocks all night, wrapped in
our _ponchos,_ getting what sleep we can.

_August 15.--_This morning we find we can let down for 300 or 400 yards,
and it is managed in this way: we pass along the wall by climbing from
projecting point to point, sometimes near the water's edge, at other
places 50 or 60 feet above, and hold the boat with a line while two men
remain aboard and prevent her from being dashed against the rocks and
keep the line from getting caught on the wall. In two hours we have
brought them all down, as far as it is possible, in this way. A few
yards below, the river strikes with great violence against a projecting
rock and our boats are pulled up in a little bay above. We must now
manage to pull out of this and clear the point below. The little boat is
held by the bow obliquely up the stream. We jump in and pull out only a
few strokes, and sweep clear of the dangerous rock. The other boats
follow in the same manner and the rapid is passed.

It is not easy to describe the labor of such navigation. We must prevent
the waves from dashing the boats against the cliffs. Sometimes, where
the river is swift, we must put a bight of rope about a rock, to prevent
the boat from being snatched from us by a wave; but where the plunge is
too great or the chute too swift, we must let her leap and catch her
below or the undertow will drag her under the falling water and sink
her. Where we wish to run her out a little way from shore through a
channel between rocks, we first throw in little sticks of driftwood and
watch their course, to see where we must steer so that she will pass the
channel in safety. And so we hold, and let go, and pull, and lift, and
ward--among rocks, around rocks, and over rocks.

And now we go on through this solemn, mysterious way. The river is very
deep, the canyon very narrow, and still obstructed, so that there is no
steady flow of the stream; but the waters reel and roll and boil, and we
are scarcely able to determine where we can go. Now the boat is carried
to the right, perhaps close to the wall; again, she is shot into the
stream, and perhaps is dragged over to the other side, where, caught in
a whirlpool, she spins about. We can neither land nor run as we please.
The boats are entirely unmanageable; no order in their running can be
preserved; now one, now another, is ahead, each crew laboring for its
own preservation. In such a place we come to another rapid. Two of the
boats run it perforce. One succeeds in landing, but there is no foothold
by which to make a portage and she is pushed out again into the stream.
The next minute a great reflex wave fills the open compartment; she is
water-logged, and drifts unmanageable. Breaker after breaker rolls over
her and one capsizes her. The men are thrown out; but they cling to the
boat, and she drifts down some distance alongside of us and we are able
to catch her. She is soon bailed out and the men are aboard once more;
but the oars are lost, and so a pair from the "Emma Dean" is spared.
Then for two miles we find smooth water.

Clouds are playing in the canyon to-day. Sometimes they roll down in
great masses, filling the gorge with gloom; sometimes they hang aloft
from wall to wall and cover the canyon with a roof of impending storm,
and we can peer long distances up and down this canyon corridor, with
its cloud-roof overhead, its walls of black granite, and its river
bright with the sheen of broken waters. Then a gust of wind sweeps down
a side gulch and, making a rift in the clouds, reveals the blue heavens,
and a stream of sunlight pours in. Then the clouds drift away into the
distance, and hang around crags and peaks and pinnacles and towers and
walls, and cover them with a mantle that lifts from time to time and
sets them all in sharp relief. Then baby clouds creep out of side
canyons, glide around points, and creep back again into more distant
gorges. Then clouds arrange in strata across the canyon, with
intervening vista views to cliffs and rocks beyond. The clouds are
children of the heavens, and when they play among the rocks they lift
them to the region above.

It rains! Rapidly little rills are formed above, and these soon grow
into brooks, and the brooks grow into creeks and tumble over the walls
in innumerable cascades, adding their wild music to the roar of the
river. When the rain ceases the rills, brooks, and creeks run dry. The
waters that fall during a rain on these steep rocks are gathered at once
into the river; they could scarcely be poured in more suddenly if some
vast spout ran from the clouds to the stream itself. When a storm bursts
over the canyon a side gulch is dangerous, for a sudden flood may come,
and the inpouring waters will raise the river so as to hide the rocks.

Early in the afternoon we discover a stream entering from the north--a
clear, beautiful creek, coming down through a gorgeous red canyon. We
land and camp on a sand beach above its mouth, under a great,
overspreading tree with willow-shaped leaves.

_August 16.--_We must dry our rations again to-day and make oars.

The Colorado is never a clear stream, but for the past three or four
days it has been raining much of the time, and the floods poured over
the walls have brought down great quantities of mud, making it
exceedingly turbid now. The little affluent which we have discovered
here is a clear, beautiful creek, or river, as it would be termed in
this western country, where streams are not abundant. We have named one
stream, away above, in honor of the great chief of the "Bad Angels," and
as this is in beautiful contrast to that, we conclude to name it "Bright

Early in the morning the whole party starts _up_ to explore the Bright
Angel River, with the special purpose of seeking timber from which to
make oars. A couple of miles above we find a large pine log, which has
been floated down from the plateau, probably from an altitude of more
than 6,000 feet, but not many miles back. On its way it must have passed
over many cataracts and falls, for it bears scars in evidence of the
rough usage which it has received. The men roll it on skids, and the
work of sawing oars is commenced.

This stream heads away back under a line of abrupt cliffs that
terminates the plateau, and tumbles down more than 4,000 feet in the
first mile or two of its course; then runs through a deep, narrow canyon
until it reaches the river.

Late in the afternoon I return and go up a little gulch just above this
creek, about 200 yards from camp, and discover the ruins of two or three
old houses, which were originally of stone laid in mortar. Only the
foundations are left, but irregular blocks, of which the houses were
constructed, lie scattered about. In one room I find an old
mealing-stone, deeply worn, as if it had been much used. A great deal of
pottery is strewn around, and old trails, which in some places are
deeply worn into the rocks, are seen.

It is ever a source of wonder to us why these ancient people sought such
inaccessible places for their homes. They were, doubtless, an
agricultural race, but there are no lands here of any considerable
extent that they could have cultivated. To the west of Oraibi, one of
the towns in the Province of Tusayan, in northern Arizona, the
inhabitants have actually built little terraces along the face of the
cliff where a spring gushes out, and thus made their sites for gardens.
It is possible that the ancient inhabitants of this place made their
agricultural lands in the same way. But why should they seek such
spots'? Surely the country was not so crowded with people as to demand
the utilization of so barren a region. The only solution suggested of
the problem is this: We know that for a century or two after the
settlement of Mexico many expeditious were sent into the country now
comprising Arizona and New Mexico, for the purpose of bringing the
town-building people under the dominion of the Spanish government. Many
of their villages were destroyed, and the inhabitants fled to regions at
that time unknown; and there are traditions among the people who inhabit
the pueblos that still remain that the canyons were these unknown lauds.
It may be these buildings were erected at that time; sure it is that
they have a much more modern appearance than the ruins scattered over
Nevada, Utah, Colorado, Arizona, and New Mexico. Those old Spanish
conquerors had a monstrous greed for gold and a wonderful lust for
saving souls.  Treasures they must have, if not on earth, why, then, in
heaven; and when they failed to find heathen temples bedecked with
silver, they propitiated Heaven by seizing the heathen themselves. There
is yet extant a copy of a record made by a heathen artist to express his
conception of the demands of the conquerors. In one part of the picture
we have a lake, and near by stands a priest pouring water on the head of
a native. On the other side, a poor Indian has a cord about his throat.
Lines run from these two groups to a central figure, a man with beard
and full Spanish panoply. The interpretation of the picture-writing is
this: "Be baptized as this saved heathen, or be hanged as that damned
heathen." Doubtless, some of these people preferred another alternative,
and rather than be baptized or hanged they chose to imprison themselves
within these canyon walls.

_August 17.--_Our rations are still spoiling; the bacon is so badly
injured that we are compelled to throw it away. By an accident, this
morning, the saleratus was lost overboard. We have now only musty flour
sufficient for ten days and a few dried apples, but plenty of coffee. We
must make all haste possible. If we meet with difficulties such as we
have encountered in the canyon above, we may be compelled to give up the
expedition and try to reach the Mormon settlements to the north.

Our hopes are that the worst places are passed, but our barometers are
all so much injured as to be useless, and so we have lost our reckoning
in altitude, and know not how much descent the river has yet to make.
The stream is still wild and rapid and rolls through a narrow channel.
We make but slow progress, often landing against a wall and climbing
around some point to see the river below. Although very anxious to
advance, we are determined to run with great caution, lest by another
accident we lose our remaining supplies. How precious that little flour
has become! We divide it among the boats and carefully store it away, so
that it can be lost only by the loss of the boat itself.

We make ten miles and a half, and camp among the rocks on the right. We
have had rain from time to time all day, and have been thoroughly
drenched and chilled; but between showers the sun shines with great
power and the mercury in our thermometers stands at 115 degrees, so that
we have rapid changes from great extremes, which are very disagreeable.
It is especially cold in the rain to-night. The little canvas we have is
rotten and useless; the rubber _ponchos_ with which we started from
Green River City have all been lost; more than half the party are
without hats, not one of us has an entire suit of clothes, and we have
not a blanket apiece. So we gather driftwood and build a fire; but after
supper the rain, coming down in torrents, extinguishes it, and we sit up
all night on the rocks, shivering, and are more exhausted by the night's
discomfort than by the day's toil.

_August 18._--The day is employed in making portages and we advance but
two miles on our journey. Still it rains.

While the men are at work making portages I climb up the granite to its
summit and go away back over the rust-colored sandstones and
greenish-yellow shales to the foot of the marble wall. I climb so high
that the men and boats are lost in the black depths below and the
dashing river is a rippling brook, and still there is more canyon above
than below. All about me are interesting geologic records. The book is
open and I can read as I run. All about me are grand views, too, for the
clouds are playing again in the gorges. But somehow I think of the nine
days' rations and the bad river, and the lesson of the rocks and the
glory of the scene are but half conceived. I push on to an angle, where
I hope to get a view of the country beyond, to see if possible what the
prospect may be of our soon running through this plateau, or at least of
meeting with some geologic change that will let us out of the granite;
but, arriving at the point, I can see below only a labyrinth of black

_August 19.--_Rain again this morning. We are in our granite prison
still, and the time until noon is occupied in making a long; bad

After dinner, in running a rapid the pioneer boat is upset by a wave. We
are some distance in advance of the larger boats. The river is rough and
swift and we are unable to land, but cling to the boat and are carried
down stream over another rapid. The men in the boats above see our
trouble, but they are caught in whirlpools and are spinning about in
eddies, and it seems a long time before they come to our relief. At last
they do come; our boat is turned right side up and bailed out; the oars,
which fortunately have floated along in company with us, are gathered
up, and on we go, without even landing. The clouds break away and we
have sunshine again.

Soon we find a little beach with just room enough to land. Here we camp,
but there is no wood. Across the river and a little way above, we see
some driftwood lodged in the rocks. So we bring two boat loads over,
build a huge fire, and spread everything to dry. It is the first
cheerful night we have had for a week--a warm, drying fire in the midst
of the camp, and a few bright stars in our patch of heavens overhead.

_August 20.--_The characteristics of the canyon change this morning. The
river is broader, the walls more sloping, and composed of black slates
that stand on edge. These nearly vertical slates are washed out in
places--that is, the softer beds are washed out between the harder,
which are left standing. In this way curious little alcoves are formed,
in which are quiet bays of water, but on a much smaller scale than the
great bays and buttresses of Marble Canyon.

The river is still rapid and we stop to let down with lines several
times, but make greater progress, as we run ten miles. We camp on the
right bank. Here, on a terrace of trap, we discover another group of
ruins. There was evidently quite a village on this rock. Again we find
mealing-stones and much broken pottery, and up on a little natural shelf
in the rock back of the ruins we find a globular basket that would hold
perhaps a third of a bushel. It is badly broken, and as I attempt to
take it up it falls to pieces. There are many beautiful flint chips,
also, as if this had been the home of an old arrow-maker.

_August 21.--_We start early this morning, cheered by the prospect of a
fine day and encouraged also by the good run made yesterday. A quarter
of a mile below camp the river turns abruptly to the left, and between
camp and that point is very swift, running down in a long, broken chute
and piling up against the foot of the cliff, where it turns to the left.
We try to pull across, so as to go down on the other side, but the
waters are swift and it seems impossible for us to escape the rock
below; but, in pulling across, the bow of the boat is turned to the
farther shore, so that we are swept broadside down and are prevented by
the rebounding waters from striking against the wall. We toss about for
a few seconds in these billows and are then carried past the danger.
Below, the river turns again to the right, the canyon is very narrow,
and we see in advance but a short distance. The water, too, is very
swift, and there is no landing-place. From around this curve there comes
a mad roar, and down we are carried with a dizzying velocity to the head
of another rapid. On either side high over our heads there are
overhanging granite walls, and the sharp bends cut off our view, so that
a few minutes will carry us into unknown waters. Away we go on one long,
winding chute. I stand on deck, supporting myself with a strap fastened
on either side of the gunwale. The boat glides rapidly where the water
is smooth, then, striking a wave, she leaps and bounds like a thing of
life, and we have a wild, exhilarating ride for ten miles, which we make
in less than an hour. The excitement is so great that we forget the
danger until we hear the roar of a great fall below; then we back on our
oars and are carried slowly toward its head and succeed in landing just
above and find that we have to make another portage. At this we are
engaged until some time after dinner.

Just here we run out of the granite. Ten miles in less than half a day,
and limestone walls below. Good cheer returns; we forget the storms and
the gloom and the cloud-covered canyons and the black granite and the
raging river, and push our boats from shore in great glee.

Though we are out of the granite, the river is still swift, and we wheel
about a point again to the right, and turn, so as to head back in the
direction from which we came; this brings the granite in sight again,
with its narrow gorge and black crags; but we meet with no more great
falls or rapids. Still, we run cautiously and stop from time to time to
examine some places which look bad. Yet we make ten miles this
afternoon; twenty miles in all to-day.

_August 22.--_We come to rapids again this morning and are occupied
several hours in passing them, letting the boats down from rock to rock
with lines for nearly half a mile, and then have to make a long portage.
While the men are engaged in this I climb the wall on the northeast to
a height of about 2,500 feet, where I can obtain a good view of a long
stretch of canyon below. Its course is to the southwest. The walls seem
to rise very abruptly for 2,500 or 3,000 feet, and then there is a
gently sloping terrace on each side for two or three miles, when we
again find cliffs, 1,500 or 2,000 feet high. From the brink of these the
plateau stretches back to the north and south for a long distance. Away
down the canyon on the right wall I can see a group of mountains, some
of which appear to stand on the brink of the canyon. The effect of the
terrace is to give the appearance of a narrow winding valley with high
walls on either side and a deep, dark, meandering gorge down its middle.
It is impossible from this point of view to determine whether or not we
have granite at the bottom; but from geologic considerations, I conclude
that we shall have marble walls below.

After my return to the boats we run another mile and camp for the night.
We have made but little over seven miles to-day, and a part of our flour
has been soaked in the river again.

_August 23.--_Our way to-day is again through marble walls. Now and then
we pass for a short distance through patches of granite, like hills
thrust up into the limestone. At one of these places we have to make
another portage, and, taking advantage of the delay, I go up a little
stream to the north, wading it all the way, sometimes having to plunge
in to my neck, in other places being compelled to swim across little
basins that have been excavated at the foot of the falls. Along its
course are many cascades and springs, gushing out from the rocks on
either side. Sometimes a cottonwood tree grows over the water. I come to
one beautiful fall, of more than 150 feet, and climb around it to the
right on the broken rocks. Still going up, the canyon is found to narrow
very much, being but 15 or 20 feet wide; yet the walls rise on either
side many hundreds of feet, perhaps thousands; I can hardly tell.

In some places the stream has not excavated its channel down vertically
through the rocks, but has cut obliquely, so that one wall overhangs the
other. In other places it is cut vertically above and obliquely below,
or obliquely above and vertically below, so that it is impossible to see
out overhead. But I can go no farther; the time which I estimated it
would take to make the portage has almost expired, and I start back on a
round trot, wading in the creek where I must and plunging through
basins. The men are waiting for me, and away we go on the river.

Just after dinner we pass a stream on the right, which leaps into' the
Colorado by a direct fall of more than 100 feet, forming a beautiful
cascade. There is a bed of very hard rock above, 30 or 40 feet in
thickness, and there are much softer beds below. The hard beds above
project many yards beyond the softer, which are washed out, forming a
deep cave behind the fall, and the stream pours through a narrow crevice
above into a deep pool below. Around on the rocks in the cavelike
chamber are set beautiful ferns, with delicate fronds and enameled
stalks. The frondlets have their points turned down to form spore
cases. It has very much the appearance of the maidenhair fern, but is
much larger. This delicate foliage covers the rocks all about the
fountain, and gives the chamber great beauty. But we have little time to
spend in admiration; so on we go.

We make fine progress this afternoon, carried along by a swift river,
shooting over the rapids and finding no serious obstructions. The canyon
walls for 2,500 or 3,000 feet are very regular, rising almost
perpendicularly, but here and there set with narrow steps, and
occasionally we can see away above the broad terrace to distant cliffs.

We camp to-night in a marble cave, and find on looking at our reckoning
that we have run 22 miles.

_August 24.--_The canyon is wider to-day. The walls rise to a vertical
height of nearly 3,000 feet. In many places the river runs under a cliff
in great curves, forming amphitheaters half-dome shaped.

Though the river is rapid, we meet with no serious obstructions and run
20 miles. How anxious we are to make up our reckoning every time we
stop, now that our diet is confined to plenty of coffee, a very little
spoiled flour, and very few dried apples! It has come to be a race for a
dinner. Still, we make such fine progress that all hands are in good
cheer, but not a moment of daylight is lost.

_August 25.--_We make 12 miles this morning, when we come to monuments
of lava standing in the river,--low rocks mostly, but some of them
shafts more than a hundred feet high. Going on down three or four miles,
we find them increasing in number. Great quantities of cooled lava and
many cinder cones are seen on either side; and then we come to an abrupt
cataract. Just over the fall on the right wall a cinder cone, or extinct
volcano, with a well-defined crater, stands on the very brink of the
canyon. This, doubtless, is the one we saw two or three days ago. From
this volcano vast floods of lava have been poured down into the river,
and a stream of molten rock has run up the canyon three or four miles
and down we know not how far. Just where it poured over the canyon wall
is the fall. The whole north side as far as we can see is lined with the
black basalt, and high up on the opposite wall are patches of the same
material, resting on the benches and filling old alcoves and caves,
giving the wall a spotted appearance.

The rocks are broken in two along a line which here crosses the river,
and the beds we have seen while coming down the canyon for the last 30
miles have dropped 800 feet on the lower side of the line, forming what
geologists call a "fault." The volcanic cone stands directly over the
fissure thus formed. On the left side of the river, opposite, mammoth
springs burst out of this crevice, 100 or 200 feet above the river,
pouring in a stream quite equal in volume to the Colorado Chiquito.

This stream seems to be loaded with carbonate of lime, and the water,
evaporating, leaves an incrustation on the rocks; and this process has
been continued for a long time, for extensive deposits are noticed in
which are basins with bubbling springs. The water is salty.

We have to make a portage here, which is completed in about three hours;
then on we go.

We have no difficulty as we float along, and I am able to observe the
wonderful phenomena connected with this flood of lava. The canyon was
doubtless filled to a height of 1,200 or 1,500 feet, perhaps by more
than one flood. This would dam the water back; and in cutting through
this great lava bed, a new channel has been formed, sometimes on one
side, sometimes on the other. The cooled lava, being of firmer texture
than the rocks of which the walls are composed, remains in some places;
in others a narrow channel has been cut, leaving a line of basalt on
either side. It is possible that the lava cooled faster on the sides
against the walls and that the center ran out; but of this we can only
conjecture. There are other places where almost the whole of the lava is
gone, only patches of it being seen, where it has caught on the walls.
As we float down we can see that it ran out into side canyons. In some
places this basalt has a fine, columnar structure, often in concentric
prisms, and masses of these concentric columns have coalesced. In some
places, when the flow occurred the canyon was probably about the same
depth that it is now, for we can see where the basalt has rolled out on
the sands, and--what seems curious to me--the sands are not melted or
metamorphosed to any appreciable extent. In places the bed of the river
is of sandstone or limestone, in other places of lava, showing that it
has all been cut out again where the sandstones and limestones appear;
but there is a little yet left where the bed is of lava.

What a conflict of water and fire there must have been here! Just
imagine a river of molten rock running down into a river of melted snow.
What a seething and boiling of the waters; what clouds of steam rolled
into the heavens!

Thirty-five miles to-day. Hurrah!

_August 26.--_The canyon walls are steadily becoming higher as we
advance. They are still bold and nearly vertical up to the terrace. We
still see evidence of the eruption discovered yesterday, but the
thickness of the basalt is decreasing as we go down stream; yet it has
been reinforced at points by streams that have come down from volcanoes
standing on the terrace above, but which we cannot see from the river

Since we left the Colorado Chiquito we have seen no evidences that the
tribe of Indians inhabiting the plateaus on either side ever come down
to the river; but about eleven o'clock to-day we discover an Indian
garden at the foot of the wall on the right, just where a little stream
with a narrow flood plain comes down through a side canyon. Along the
valley the Indians have planted corn, using for irrigation the water
which bursts out in springs at the foot of the cliff. The corn is
looking quite well, but it is not sufficiently advanced to give us
roasting ears; but there are some nice green squashes. We carry ten or a
dozen of these on board our boats and hurriedly leave, not willing to be
caught in the robbery, yet excusing ourselves by pleading our great
want. We run down a short distance to where we feel certain no Indian
can follow, and what a kettle of squash sauce we make! True, we have no
salt with which to season it, but it makes a fine addition to our
unleavened bread and coffee. Never was fruit so sweet as these stolen

After dinner we push on again and make fine time, finding many rapids,
but none so bad that we cannot run them with safety; and when we stop,
just at dusk, and foot up our reckoning, we find we have run 35 miles
again. A few days like this, and we are out of prison.

We have a royal supper--unleavened bread, green squash sauce, and strong
coffee. We have been for a few days on half rations, but now have no
stint of roast squash.

_August 27._--This morning the river takes a more southerly direction.
The dip of the rocks is to the north and we are running rapidly into
lower formations. Unless our course changes we shall very soon run again
into the granite. This gives some anxiety. Now and then the river turns
to the west and excites hopes that are soon destroyed by another turn to
the south. About nine o'clock we come to the dreaded rock. It is with no
little misgiving that we see the river enter these black, hard walls. At
its very entrance we have to make a portage; then let down with lines
past some ugly rocks. We run a mile or two farther, and then the rapids
below can be seen.

About eleven o'clock we come to a place in the river which seems much
worse than any we have yet met in all its course. A little creek comes
down from the left. We land first on the right and clamber up over the
granite pinnacles for a mile or two, but can see no way by which to let
down, and to run it would be sure destruction. After dinner we cross to
examine on the left. High above the river we can walk along on the top
of the granite, which is broken off at the edge and set with crags and
pinnacles, so that it is very difficult to get a view of the river at
all. In my eagerness to reach a point where I can see the roaring fall
below, I go too far on the wall, and can neither advance nor retreat. I
stand with one foot on a little projecting rock and cling with my hand
fixed in a little crevice. Finding I am caught here, suspended 400 feet
above the river, into which I must fall if my footing fails, I call for
help. The men come and pass me a line, but I cannot let go of the rock
long enough to take hold of it. Then they bring two or three of the
largest oars. All this takes time which seems very precious to me; but
at last they arrive. The blade of one of the oars is pushed into a
little crevice in the rock beyond me in such a manner that they can hold
me pressed against the wall. Then another is fixed in such a way that I
can step on it; and thus I am extricated.

Still another hour is spent in examining the river from this side, but
no good view of it is obtained; so now we return to the side that was
first examined, and the afternoon is spent in clambering among the crags
and pinnacles and carefully scanning the river again. We find that the
lateral streams have washed boulders into the river, so as to form a
dam, over which the water makes a broken fall of 18 or 20 feet; then
there is a rapid, beset with rocks, for 200 or 300 yards, while on the
other side, points of the wall project into the river. Below, there is a
second fall; how great, we cannot tell. Then there is a rapid, filled
with huge rocks, for 100 or 200 yards. At the bottom of it, from the
right wall, a great rock projects quite halfway across the river. It has
a sloping surface extending up stream, and the water, coming down with
all the momentum gained in the falls and rapids above, rolls up this
inclined plane many feet, and tumbles over to the left. I decide that it
is possible to let down over the first fall, then run near the right
cliff to a point just above the second, where we can pull out into a
little chute, and, having run over that in safety, if we pull with all
our power across the stream, we may avoid the great rock below. On my
return to the boat I announce to the men that we are to run it in the
morning. Then we cross the river and go into camp for the night on some
rocks in the mouth of the little side canyon.

After supper Captain Howland asks to have a talk with me. We walk up the
little creek a short distance, and I soon find that his object is to
remonstrate against my determination to proceed. He thinks that we had
better abandon the river here. Talking with him, I learn that he, his
brother, and William Dunn have determined to go no farther in the boats.
So we return to camp. Nothing is said to the other men.

For the last two days our course has not been plotted. I sit down and do
this now, for the purpose of finding where we are by dead reckoning. It
is a clear night, and I take out the sextant to make observation for
latitude, and I find that the astronomic determination agrees very
nearly with that of the plot--quite as closely as might be expected from
a meridian observation on a planet. In a direct line, we must be about
45 miles from the mouth of the Rio Virgen. If we can reach that point,
we know that there are settlements up that river about 20 miles. This 45
miles in a direct line will probably be 80 or 90 by the meandering line
of the river. But then we know that there is comparatively open country
for many miles above the mouth of the Virgen, which is our point of

As soon as I determine all this, I spread my plot on the sand and wake
Howland, who is sleeping down by the river, and show him where I suppose
we are, and where several Mormon settlements are situated.

We have another short talk about the morrow, and he lies down again; but
for me there is no sleep. All night long I pace up and down a little
path, on a few yards of sand beach, along by the river. Is it wise to go
on? I go to the boats again to look at our rations. I feel satisfied
that we can get over the danger immediately before us; what there may be
below I know not. From our outlook yesterday on the cliffs, the canyon
seemed to make another great bend to the south, and this, from our
experience heretofore, means more and higher granite walls. I am not
sure that we can climb out of the canyon here, and, if at the top of the
wall, I know enough of the country to be certain that it is a desert of
rock and sand between this and the nearest Mormon town, which, on the
most direct line, must be 75 miles away. True, the late rains have been
favorable to us, should we go out, for the probabilities are that we
shall find water still standing in holes; and at one time I almost
conclude to leave the river. But for years I have been contemplating
this trip. To leave the exploration unfinished, to say that there is a
part of the canyon which I cannot explore, having already nearly
accomplished it, is more than I am willing to acknowledge, and I
determine to go on.

I wake my brother and tell him of Howland's determination, and he
promises to stay with me; then I call up Hawkins, the cook, and he makes
a like promise; then Sumner and Bradley and Hall, and they all agree to
go on.

_August 28._--At last daylight comes and we have breakfast without a
word being said about the future. The meal is as solemn as a funeral.
After breakfast I ask the three men if they still think it best to leave
us. The elder Howland thinks it is, and Dunn agrees with him. The
younger Howland tries to persuade them to go on with the party; failing
in which, he decides to go with his brother.

Then we cross the river. The small boat is very much disabled and
unseaworthy. With the loss of hands, consequent on the departure of the
three men, we shall not be able to run all of the boats; so I decide to
leave my "Emma Dean."

Two rifles and a shotgun are given to the men who are going out. I ask
them to help themselves to the rations and take what they think to be a
fair share. This they refuse to do, saying they have no fear but that
they can get something to eat; but Billy, the cook, has a pan of
biscuits prepared for dinner, and these he leaves on a rock.

Before starting, we take from the boat our barometers, fossils, the
minerals, and some ammunition and leave them on the rocks. We are going
over this place as light as possible. The three men help us lift our
boats over a rock 25 or 30 feet high and let them down again over the
first fall, and now we are all ready to start. The last thing before
leaving, I write a letter to my wife and give it to Howland. Sumner
gives him his watch, directing that it be sent to his sister should he
not be heard from again. The records of the expedition have been kept in
duplicate. One set of these is given to Howland; and now we are ready.
For the last time they entreat us not to go on, and tell us that it is
madness to set out in this place; that we can never get safely through
it; and, further, that the river turns again to the south into the
granite, and a few miles of such rapids and falls will exhaust our
entire stock of rations, and then it will be too late to climb out. Some
tears are shed; it is rather a solemn parting; each party thinks the
other is taking the dangerous course.

My old boat left, I go on board of the "Maid of the Canyon." The three
men climb a crag that overhangs the river to watch us off. The "Maid of
the Canyon" pushes out. We glide rapidly along the foot of the wall,
just grazing one great rock, then pull out a little into the chute of
the second fall and plunge over it. The open compartment is filled when
we strike the first wave below, but we cut through it, and then the men
pull with all their power toward the left wall and swing clear of the
dangerous rock below all right. We are scarcely a minute in running it,
and find that, although it looked bad from above, we have passed many
places that were worse. The other boat follows without more difficulty.
We land at the first practicable point below, and fire our guns, as a
signal to the men above that we have come over in safety. Here we remain
a couple of hours, hoping that they will take the smaller boat and
follow us. We are behind a curve in the canyon and cannot see up to
where we left them, and so we wait until their coming seems hopeless,
and then push on.

And now we have a succession of rapids and falls until noon, all of
which we run in safety. Just after dinner we come to another bad place.
A little stream comes in from the left, and below there is a fall, and
still below another fall. Above, the river tumbles down, over and among
the rocks, in whirlpools and great waves, and the waters are lashed into
mad, white foam. We run along the left, above this, and soon see that we
cannot get down on this side, but it seems possible to let down on the
other. We pull up stream again for 200 or 300 yards and cross. Now there
is a bed of basalt on this northern side of the canyon, with a bold
escarpment that seems to be a hundred feet high. We can climb it and
walk along its summit to a point where we are just at the head of the
fall. Here the basalt is broken down again, so it seems to us, and I
direct the men to take a line to the top of the cliff and let the boats
down along the wall. One man remains in the boat to keep her clear of
the rocks and prevent her line from being caught on the projecting
angles. I climb the cliff and pass along to a point just over the fall
and descend by broken rocks, and find that the break of the fall is
above the break of the wall, so that we cannot land, and that still
below the river is very bad, and that there is no possibility of a
portage. Without waiting further to examine and determine what shall be
done, I hasten back to the top of the cliff to stop the boats from
coming down. When I arrive _I_ find the men have let one of them down to
the head of the fall. She is in swift water and they are not able to
pull her back; nor are they able to go on with the line, as it is not
long enough to reach the higher part of the cliff which is just before
them; so they take a bight around a crag. I send two men back for the
other line. The boat is in very swift water, and Bradley is standing in
the open compartment, holding out his oar to prevent her from striking
against the foot of the cliff. Now she shoots out into the stream and up
as far as the line will permit, and then, wheeling, drives headlong
against the rock, and then out and back again, now straining on the
line, now striking against the rock. As soon as the second line is
brought, we pass it down to him; but his attention is all taken up with
his own situation, and he does not see that we are passing him the line.
I stand on a projecting rock, waving my hat to gain his attention, for
my voice is drowned by the roaring of the falls. Just at this moment I
see him take his knife from its sheath and step forward to cut the line.
He has evidently decided that it is better to go over with the boat as
it is than to wait for her to be broken to pieces. As he leans over, the
boat sheers again into the stream, the stem-post breaks away and she is
loose. With perfect composure Bradley seizes the great scull oar, places
it in the stern rowlock, and pulls with all his power (and he is an
athlete) to turn the bow of the boat down stream, for he wishes to go
bow down, rather than to drift broadside on. One, two strokes he makes,
and a third just as she goes over, and the boat is fairly turned, and
she goes down almost beyond our sight, though we are more than a hundred
feet above the river. Then she comes up again on a great wave, and down
and up, then around behind some great rocks, and is lost in the mad,
white foam below. We stand frozen with fear, for we see no boat.
Bradley is gone! so it seems. But now, away below, we see something
coming out of the waves. It is evidently a boat. A moment more, and we
see Bradley standing on deck, swinging his hat to show that he is all
right. But he is in a whirlpool.  We have the stem-post of his boat
attached to the line. How badly she may be disabled we know not. I
direct Sumner and Powell to pass along the cliff and see if they can
reach him from below. Hawkins, Hall, and myself run to the other boat,
jump aboard, push out, and away we go over the falls. A wave rolls over
us and our boat is unmanageable. Another great wave strikes us, and the
boat rolls over, and tumbles and tosses, I know not how. All I know is
that Bradley is picking us up. We soon have all right again, and row to
the cliff and wait until Sumner and Powell can come. After a difficult
climb they reach us. We run two or three miles farther and turn again to
the northwest, continuing until night, when we have run out of the
granite once more.

_August 29.--_We start very early this morning. The river still
continues swift, but we have no serious difficulty, and at twelve
o'clock emerge from the Grand Canyon of the Colorado. We are in a valley
now, and low mountains are seen in the distance, coming to the river
below. We recognize this as the Grand Wash.

A few years ago a party of Mormons set out from St. George, Utah, taking
with them a boat, and came down to the Grand Wash, where they divided, a
portion of the party crossing the river to explore the San Francisco
Mountains. Three men--Hamblin, Miller, and Crosby--taking the boat, went
on down the river to Callville, landing a few miles below the mouth of
the Rio Virgen. We have their manuscript journal with us, and so the
stream is comparatively well known.

To-night we camp on the left bank, in a mesquite thicket.

The relief from danger and the joy of success are great. When he who has
been chained by wounds to a hospital cot until his canvas tent seems
like a dungeon cell, until the groans of those who lie about tortured
with probe and knife are piled up, a weight of horror on his ears that
he cannot throw off, cannot forget, and until the stench of festering
wounds and anaesthetic drugs has filled the air with its loathsome
burthen,--when he at last goes out into the open field, what a world he
sees! How beautiful the sky, how bright the sunshine, what "floods of
delirious music" pour from the throats of birds, how sweet the fragrance
of earth and tree and blossom! The first hour of convalescent freedom
seems rich recompense for all pain and gloom and terror.

Something like these are the feelings we experience to-night. Ever
before us has been an unknown danger, heavier than immediate peril.
Every waking hour passed in the Grand Canyon has been one of toil. We
have watched with deep solicitude the steady disappearance of our scant
supply of rations, and from time to time have seen the river snatch a
portion of the little left, while we were a-hungered. And danger and
toil were endured in those gloomy depths, where ofttimes clouds hid the
sky by day and but a narrow zone of stars could be seen at night. Only
during the few hours of deep sleep, consequent on hard labor, has the
roar of the waters been hushed. Now the danger is over, now the toil has
ceased, now the gloom has disappeared, now the firmament is bounded only
by the horizon, and what a vast expanse of constellations can be seen!

The river rolls by us in silent majesty; the quiet of the camp is sweet;
our joy is almost ecstasy. We sit till long after midnight talking of
the Grand Canyon, talking of home, but talking chiefly of the three men
who left us. Are they wandering in those depths, unable to find a way
out? Are they searching over the desert lands above for water? Or are
they nearing the settlements?

_August 30.--_We run in two or three short, low canyons to-day, and on
emerging from one we discover a band of Indians in the valley below.
They see us, and scamper away in eager haste to hide among the rocks.
Although we land and call for them to return, not an Indian can be seen.

Two or three miles farther down, in turning a short bend of the river,
we come upon another camp. So near are we before they can see us that I
can shout to them, and, being able to speak a little of their language,
I tell them we are friends; but they all flee to the rocks, except a
man, a woman, and two children. We land and talk with them. They are
without lodges, but have built little shelters of boughs, under which'
they wallow in the sand. The man is dressed in a hat; the woman, in a
string of beads only. At first they are evidently much terrified; but
when I talk to them in their own language and tell them we are friends,
and inquire after people in the Mormon towns, they are soon reassured
and beg for tobacco. Of this precious article we have none to spare.
Sumner looks around in the boat for something to give them, and finds a
little piece of colored soap, which they receive as a valuable
present,--rather as a thing of beauty than as a useful commodity,
however. They are either unwilling or unable to tell us anything about
the Indians or white people, and so we push off, for we must lose no

We camp at noon under the right bank. And now as we push out we are in
great expectancy, for we hope every minute to discover the mouth of the
Rio Virgen. Soon one of the men exclaims: "Yonder's an Indian in the
river." Looking for a few minutes, we certainly do see two or three
persons. The men bend to their oars and pull toward them. Approaching,
we see that there are three white men and an Indian hauling a seine, and
then we discover that it is just at the mouth of the long-sought river.

As we come near, the men seem far less surprised to see us than we do to
see them. They evidently know who we are, and on talking with them they
tell us that we have been reported lost long ago, and that some weeks
before a messenger had been sent from Salt Lake City with instructions
for them to watch for any fragments or relics of our party that might
drift down the stream.

Our new-found friends, Mr. Asa and his two sons, tell us that they are
pioneers of a town that is to be built on the bank. Eighteen or twenty
miles up the valley of the Rio Virgen there are two Mormon towns, St.
Joseph and St. Thomas. To-night we dispatch an Indian to the
last-mentioned place to bring any letters that may be there for us.

Our arrival here is very opportune. When we look over our store of
supplies, we find about 10 pounds of flour, 15 pounds of dried apples,
but 70 or 80 pounds of coffee.

_August 81.--_This afternoon the Indian returns with a letter informing
us that Bishop Leithhead of St. Thomas and two or three other Mormons
are coming down with a wagon, bringing us supplies. They arrive about
sundown. Mr. Asa treats us with great kindness to the extent of his
ability; but Bishop Leithhead brings in his wagon two or three dozen
melons and many other little luxuries, and we are comfortable once more.

_September 1.--_This morning Sumner, Bradley, Hawkins, and Hall, taking
on a small supply of rations, start down the Colorado with the boats. It
is their intention to go to Fort Mojave, and perhaps from there overland
to Los Angeles.

Captain Powell and myself return with Bishop Leithhead to St. Thomas.
From St. Thomas we go to Salt Lake City.



A year has passed, and we have determined to resume the exploration of
the canyons of the Colorado. Our last trip was so hurried, owing to the
loss of rations, and the scientific instruments were so badly injured,
that we are not satisfied with the results obtained; so we shall once
more attempt to pass through the canyons in boats, devoting two or three
years to the trip.

It will not be possible to carry in the boats sufficient supplies for
the party for that length of time; so it is thought best to establish
depots of supplies, at intervals of 100 or 200 miles along the river.

Between Gunnison's Crossing and the foot of the Grand Canyon, we know of
only two points where the river can be reached--one at the Crossing of
the Fathers, and another a few miles below, at the mouth of the Paria,
on a route which has been explored by Jacob Hamblin, a Mormon
missionary. These two points are so near each other that only one of
them can be selected for the purpose above mentioned, and others must be
found. We have been unable up to this time to obtain, either from
Indians or white men, any information which will give us a clue to any
other trail to the river.

At the headwaters of the Sevier, we are on the summit of a great
watershed. The Sevier itself flows north and then westward into the lake
of the same name. The Rio Virgen, heading near by, flows to the
southwest into the Colorado, 60 or 70 miles below the Grand Canyon. The
Kanab, also heading near by, runs directly south into the very heart of
the Grand Canyon. The Paria, likewise heading near by, runs a little
south of east and enters the river at the head of Marble Canyon. To the
northeast from this point, other streams which run into the Colorado
have their sources, until, 40 or 50 miles away, we reach the
southern branches of the Dirty Devil River, the mouth of which stream is
but a short distance below the junction of the Grand and Green.

The Paunsa'gunt Plateau terminates in a point, which is bounded by a
line of beautiful pink cliffs. At the foot of this plateau, on the west,
the Rio Virgen and Sevier River are dovetailed together, as their minute
upper branches interlock. The upper surface of the plateau inclines to
the northeast, so that its waters roll off into the Sevier; but from the
foot of the cliffs, quite around the sharp angle of the plateau, for a
dozen miles, we find numerous springs, whose waters unite to form the
Kanab. A little farther to the northeast the springs gather into streams
that feed the Paria. Here, by the upper springs of the Kanab, we make a
camp, and from this point we are to radiate on a series of trips,
southwest, south, and east.

Jacob Hamblin, who has been a missionary among the Indians for more than
twenty years, has collected a number of Kai'vavits, with
Chuar'-ruumpeak, their chief, and they are all camped with us. They
assure us that we cannot reach the river, that we cannot make our way
into the depths of the canyon, but promise to show us the springs and
water pockets, which are very scarce in all this region, and to give us
all the information in their power. Here we fit up a pack train, for our
bedding and instruments and supplies are to be carried on the backs of
mules and ponies.

_September 5, 1870.--_The several members of the party are engaged in
general preparation for our trip down to the Grand Canyon.

Taking with me a white man and an Indian, I start on a climb to the
summit of the Paunsa'gunt Plateau, which rises above us on the east. Our
way for a mile or more is over a great peat bog, which trembles under
our feet, and now and then a mule sinks through the broken turf and we
are compelled to pull it out with ropes. Passing the bog, our way is up
a gulch at the foot of the Pink Cliffs, which form the escarpment, or
wall, of the great plateau. Soon we leave the gulch and climb a long
ridge which winds around to the right toward the summit of the great

Two hours' riding, climbing, and clambering bring us near the top. We
look below and see clouds drifting up from the south and rolling
tumultuously toward the foot of the cliffs beneath us. Soon all the
country below is covered with a sea of vapor--a billowy, raging,
noiseless sea--and as the vapory flood still rolls up from the south,
great waves dash against the foot of the cliffs and roll back; another
tide comes in, is hurled back, and another and another, lashing the
cliffs until the fog rises to the summit and covers us all. There is a
heavy pine and fir forest above, beset with dead and fallen timber, and
we make our way through the undergrowth to the east.

It rains. The clouds discharge their moisture in torrents, and we make
for ourselves shelters of boughs, only to be soon abandoned, and we
stand shivering by a great fire of pine logs and boughs, which the
pelting storm half extinguishes.

One, two, three, four hours of the storm, and at last it partially
abates. During this time our animals, which we have turned loose, have
sought for themselves shelter under the trees, and two of them have
wandered away beyond our sight. I go out to follow their tracks, and
come near to the brink of a ledge of rocks, which, in the fog and mist,
I suppose to be a little ridge, and I look for a way by which I can go
down. Standing just here, there is a rift made in the fog below by some
current or blast of wind, which reveals an almost bottomless abyss. I
look from the brink of a great precipice of more than 2,000 feet; but
through the mist the forms are half obscured and all reckoning of
distance is lost, and it seems 10,000 feet, ten miles--any distance the
imagination desires to make it.

Catching our animals, we return to the camp. We find that the little
streams which come down from the plateau are greatly swollen, but at
camp they have had no rain. The clouds which drifted up from the south,
striking against the plateau, were lifted up into colder regions and
discharged their moisture on the summit and against the sides of the
plateau, but there was no rain in the valley below.

_September 9.--_We make a fair start this morning from the beautiful
meadow at the head of the Kanab, cross the line of little hills at the
headwaters of the Rio Virgen, and pass, to the south, a pretty valley.
At ten o'clock we come to the brink of a great geographic bench--a line
of cliffs. Behind us are cool springs, green meadows, and forest-clad
slopes; below us, stretching to the south until the world is lost in
blue haze, is a painted desert--not a desert plain, but a desert of
rocks cut by deep gorges and relieved by towering cliffs and pinnacled
rocks--naked rocks, brilliant in the sunlight.

By a difficult trail we make our way down the basaltic ledge, through
which innumerable streams here gather into a little river running in a
deep canyon. The river runs close to the foot of the cliffs on the
right-hand side and the trail passes along to the right. At noon we rest
and our animals feed on luxuriant grass.

Again we start and make slow progress along a stony way. At night we
camp under an overarching cliff.

_September 10._--Here the river turns to the west, and our way,
properly, is to the south; but we wish to explore the Rio Virgen as far
as possible. The Indians tell us that the canyon narrows gradually a few
miles below and that it will be impossible to take our animals much
farther down the river. Early in the morning I go down to examine the
head of this narrow part. After breakfast, having concluded to explore
the canyon for a i few miles on foot, we arrange that the main party
shall climb the cliff and go around to a point 18 or 20 _\_ miles below,
where, the Indians say, the animals can be taken down by the river, and
three of us set out on, foot.

The Indian name of the canyon is Paru'nuweap, or Roaring Water Canyon.
Between the little river and the foot of the walls is a dense growth of
willows, vines, and wild rosebushes, and with great difficulty we make
our way through this tangled mass. It is not a wide stream--only 20 or
30 feet across in most places; shallow, but very swift. After spending
some hours in breaking our way through the mass of vegetation and
climbing rocks here and there, it is determined to wade along the
stream. In some places this is an easy task, but here and there we come
to deep holes where we have to wade to our armpits. Soon we come to
places so narrow that the river fills the entire channel and we wade
perforce. In many places the bottom is a quicksand, into which we sink,
and it is with great difficulty that we make progress. In some places
the holes are so deep that we have to swim, and our little bundles of
blankets and rations are fixed to a raft made of driftwood and pushed
before us. Now and then there is a little flood-plain, on which we can
walk, and we cross and recross the stream and wade along the channel
where the water is so swift as almost to carry us off our feet and we
are in danger every moment of being swept down, until night comes on.
Finding a little patch of flood-plain, on which there is a huge pile of
driftwood and a clump of box-elders, and near by a mammoth stream
bursting from the rocks, we soon have a huge fire. Our clothes are
spread to dry; we make a cup of coffee, take out our bread and cheese
and dried beef, and enjoy a hearty supper. We estimate that we have
traveled eight miles to-day.

The canyon here is about 1,200 feet deep. It has been very narrow and
winding all the way down to this point.

_September 11.--_Wading again this morning; sinking in the quicksand,
swimming the deep waters, and making slow and painful progress where the
waters are swift and the bed of the stream rocky.

The canyon is steadily becoming deeper and in many places very
narrow--only 20 or 30 feet wide below, and in some places no wider, and
even narrower, for hundreds of feet overhead. There are places where the
river in sweeping by curves has cut far under the rocks, but still
preserves its narrow channel, so that there is an overhanging wall on
one side and an inclined wall on the other. In places a few hundred feet
above, it becomes vertical again, and thus the view to the sky is
entirely closed. Everywhere this deep passage is dark and gloomy and
resounds with the noise of rapid waters. At noon we are in a canyon
2,500 feet deep, and we come to a fall where the walls are broken down
and huge rocks beset the channel, on which we obtain a foothold to reach
a level 200 feet below. Here the canyon is again wider, and we find a
flood-plain along which we can walk, now on this, and now on that side
of the stream. Gradually the canyon widens; steep rapids, cascades, and
cataracts are found along the river, but we wade only when it is
necessary to cross. We make progress with very great labor, having to
climb over piles of broken rocks.

Late in the afternoon we come to a little clearing in the valley and see
other signs of civilization and by sundown arrive at the Mormon town
of Schunesburg; and here we meet the train, and feast on melons and

_September 12._--Our course for the last two days, through Paru'nuweap
Canyon, was directly to the west. Another stream comes down from the
north and unites just here at Schunesburg with the main branch of the
Rio Virgen. We determine to spend a day in the exploration of this
stream. The Indians call the canyon through which it runs,
Mukun'tu-weap, or Straight, Canyon. Entering this, we have to wade
upstream; often the water fills the entire channel and, although we
travel many miles, we find no flood-plain, talus, or broken piles of
rock at the foot of the cliff. The walls have smooth, plain faces and
are everywhere very regular and vertical for a thousand feet or more,
where they seem to break back in shelving slopes to higher altitudes;
and everywhere, as we go along, we find springs bursting out at the foot
of the walls, and passing these the river above becomes steadily
smaller. The great body of water which runs below bursts out from
beneath this great bed of red sandstone; as we go up the canyon, it
comes to be but a creek, and then a brook. On the western wall of the
canyon stand some buttes, towers, and high pinnacled rocks. Going up the
canyon, we gain glimpses of them, here and there. Last summer, after our
trip through the canyons of the Colorado, on our way from the mouth of
the Virgen to Salt Lake City, these were seen as conspicuous landmarks
from a distance away to the southwest of 60 or 70 miles. These tower
rocks are known as the Temples of the Virgen.

Having explored this canyon nearly to its head, we return to
Schunesburg, arriving quite late at night.

Sitting in camp this evening, Chuar'ruumpeak, the chief of the
Kai'vavits, who is one of our party, tells us there is a tradition among
the tribes of this country that many years ago a great light was seen
somewhere in this region by the Paru'shapats, who lived to the
southwest, and that they supposed it to be a signal kindled to warn them
of the approach of the Navajos, who lived beyond the Colorado River to
the east. Then other signal fires were kindled on the Pine Valley
Mountains, Santa Clara Mountains, and Uinkaret Mountains, so that all
the tribes of northern Arizona, southern Utah, southern Nevada, and
southern California were warned of the approaching danger; but when the
Paru'shapats came nearer, they discovered that it was a fire on one of
the great temples; and then they knew that the fire was not
kindled by men, for no human being could scale the rocks. The
_Tu'muurrugwait'sigaip,_ or Rock Rovers, had kindled a fire to
deceive the people. So, in the Indian language this is called
_Tu'muurruwait'sigaip Tuweap',_ or Rock Rovers' Land.

_September 13._--We start very early this morning, for we have a long
day's travel before us. Our way is across the Rio Virgen to the south.
Coming to the bank of the stream here, we find a strange metamorphosis.
The streams we have seen above, running in narrow channels, leaping and
plunging over the rocks, raging and roaring in their course, are here
united and spread in a thin sheet several hundred yards wide and only a
few inches deep, but running over a bed of quicksand. Crossing the
stream, our trail leads up a narrow canyon, not very deep, and then
among the hills of golden, red, and purple shales and marls. Climbing
out of the valley of the Rio Virgen, we pass through a forest of dwarf
cedars and come out at the foot of the Vermilion Cliffs. All day we
follow this Indian trail toward the east, and at night camp at a great
spring, known to the Indians as Yellow Rock Spring, but to the Mormons
as Pipe Spring; and near by there is a cabin in which some Mormon
herders find shelter. Pipe Spring is a point just across the Utah line
in Arizona, and we suppose it to be about 60 miles from the river. Here
the Mormons design to build a fort another year, as an outpost for
protection against the Indians. We now discharge a number of the
Indians, but take two with us for the purpose of showing us the springs,
for they are very scarce, very small, and not easily found. Half a dozen
are not known in a district of country large enough to make as many
good-sized counties in Illinois.  There are no running streams, and
these springs and water pockets are our sole dependence.

Starting, we leave behind a long line of cliffs, many hundred feet high,
composed of orange and vermilion sandstones. I have named them
"Vermilion Cliffs." When we are out a few miles, I look back and see the
morning sun shining in splendor on their painted faces; the salient
angles are on fire, and the retreating angles are buried in shade, and I
gaze on them until my vision dreams and the cliffs appear a long bank of
purple clouds piled from the horizon high into the heavens. At noon we
pass along a ledge of chocolate cliffs, and, taking out our sandwiches,
we make a dinner as we ride along.

Yesterday our Indians discussed for hours the route which we should
take. There is one way, farther by 10 or 12 miles, with sure water;
another, shorter, where water is found sometimes; their conclusion was
that water would be found now; and this is the way we go, yet all day
long we are anxious about it. To be out two days with only the water
that can be carried in two small kegs is to have our animals suffer
greatly. At five o'clock we come to the spot, and there is a huge water
pocket containing several barrels. What a relief! Here we camp for the

_September 15.--_Up at daybreak, for it is a long day's march to the
next water. They say we must "run very hard" to reach it by dark.

Our course is to the south. From Pipe Spring we can see a mountain, and
I recognize it as the one seen last summer from a cliff overlooking the
Grand Canyon; and I wish to reach the river just behind the mountain.
There are Indians living in the group, of which it is the highest, whom
I wish to visit on the way. These mountains are of volcanic origin, and
we soon come to ground that is covered with fragments of lava. The way
becomes very difficult. We have to cross deep ravines, the heads of
canyons that run into the Grand Canyon. It is curious now to observe the
knowledge of our Indians. There is not a trail but what they know; every
gulch and every rock seems familiar. I have prided myself on being able
to grasp and retain in my mind the topography of a country; but these
Indians put me to shame. My knowledge is only general, embracing the
more important features of a region that remains as a map engraved on my
mind; but theirs is particular. They know every rock and every ledge,
every gulch and canyon, and just where to wind among these to find a
pass; and their knowledge is unerring.  They cannot describe a country
to you, but they can tell you all the particulars of a route.

I have but one pony for the two, and they were to ride "turn about"; but
Chuar'ruumpeak, the chief, rides, and Shuts, the one-eyed, barelegged,
merry-faced pigmy, walks, and points the way with a slender cane; then
leaps and bounds by the shortest way, and sits down on a rock and waits
demurely until we come, always meeting us with a jest, his face a rich
mine of sunny smiles.

At dusk we reach the water pocket. It is in a deep gorge on the flank of
this great mountain. During the rainy season the water rolls down the
mountain side, plunging over precipices, and excavates a deep basin in
the solid rock below. This basin, hidden from the sun, holds water the
year round.

_September 16._--This morning, while the men are packing the animals, I
climb a little mountain near camp, to obtain a view of the country. It
is a huge pile of volcanic scoria, loose and light as cinders from a
forge, which give way under my feet, and I climb with great labor; but,
reaching the summit and looking to the southeast, I see once more the
labyrinth of deep gorges that flank the Grand Canyon; in the multitude,
I cannot determine whether it is itself in view or not. The memories of
grand and awful months spent in their deep, gloomy solitudes come up,
and I live that life over again for a time.

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 any 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 shall
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

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. Chuar'ruumpeak 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 Chuar'ruumpeak 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
Chuar'ruumpeak 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 biscuits 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 Canyon, and I 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 canyon. 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 canyon cliffs to the southwest.  They say that
their village is now about 30 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
_tugwi'nagunt_ in camp; that is, if there is any one present who is
skilled in relating their mythology. Chuar'ruumpeak says
Tomor'rountikai, 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 _tugwi'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, unusually good living, it is decided that the night shall be spent
in relating mythology. I ask Tomor'rountikai to tell us about the So'kus
Wai'unats, or One-Two Boys, and to this he agrees.

The long winter evenings of an Indian camp are usually devoted to the
relation of mythologic 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.


Tumpwinai'rogwinump, He Who Had A Stone Shirt, killed Sikor', 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.

One day they were digging flag roots on the margin of the river and
putting them in a heap on the bank. When they had been at work a little
while, the boy perceived that the roots came up with greater ease than
was customary and he asked the old woman the cause of this, but she did
not know; and, as they continued their work, still the reeds came up
with less effort, at which their wonder increased, until the grandmother

"Surely, some strange thing is about to transpire."

Then the boy went to the heap where they had been placing the roots, and
found that some one had taken them away, and he ran back, exclaiming,

"Grandmother, did you take the roots away?"

And she answered,

"No, my child; perhaps some ghost has taken them off; let us dig no
more; come away."

But the boy was not satisfied, as he greatly desired to know what all
this meant; so he searched about for a time, and at length found a man
sitting under a tree, and taunted him with being a thief, and threw mud
and stones at him until he broke the stranger's leg. The man answered
not the boy nor resented the injuries he received, but remained silent
and sorrowful; and when his leg was broken he tied it up in sticks and
bathed it in the river and sat down again under the tree and beckoned
the boy to approach. When the lad came near, the stranger told him he
had something of great importance to reveal.

"My son," said he, "did that old woman ever tell you about your father
and mother?"

"No," answered the boy; "I have never heard of them."

"My son, do you see these bones scattered on the ground? Whose bones are

"How should I know?" answered the boy. "It may be that some elk or deer
has been killed here."

"No," said the old man.

"Perhaps they are the bones of a bear"; but the old man shook his head.

So the boy mentioned many other animals, but the stranger still shook
his head, and finally said,

"These are the bones of your father; Stone Shirt killed him and left him
to rot here on the ground like a wolf."

And the boy was filled with indignation against the slayer of his

Then the stranger asked,

"Is your mother in yonder lodge?"

"No," the boy replied.

"Does your mother live on the banks of this river?"

"I don't know my mother; I have never seen her; she is dead," answered
the boy.

"My son," replied the stranger, "Stone Shirt, who killed your father,
stole your mother and took her away to the shore of a distant lake, and
there she is his wife to-day."

And the boy wept bitterly and, while the tears filled his eyes so that
he could not see, the stranger disappeared. Then the boy was filled with
wonder at what he had seen and heard, and malice grew in his heart
against his father's enemy. He returned to the old woman and said,

"Grandmother, why have you lied to me about my father and mother?"

But she answered not, for she knew that a ghost had told all to the boy.
And the boy fell upon the ground weeping and sobbing, until he fell into
a deep sleep, when strange things were told him.

His slumber continued three days and three nights and when he awoke he
said to his grandmother:

"I am going away to enlist all nations in my fight."

And straightway he departed.

(Here the boy's travels are related with many circumstances concerning
the way he was received by the people, all given in a series of
conversations, very lengthy; so they will be omitted.)

Finally he returned in advance of the people whom he had enlisted,
bringing with him Shinau'av, the Wolf, and Togo'av, the Rattlesnake.
When the three had eaten food, the boy said to the old woman:

"Grandmother, cut me in two!"

But she demurred, saying she did not wish to kill one whom she loved so

"Cut me in two!" demanded the boy; and he gave her a stone ax, which he
had brought from a distant country, and with a manner of great authority
he again commanded her to cut him in two. So she stood before him and
severed him in twain and fled in terror. And lo!  each part took the
form of an entire man, and the one beautiful boy appeared as two, and
they were so much alike no one could tell them apart.

When the people or natives whom the boy had enlisted came pouring into
the camp, Shinau'av and Togo'av were engaged in telling them of the
wonderful thing that had happened to the boy, and that now there were
two; and they all held it to be an augury of a successful expedition to
the land of Stone Shirt. And they started on their journey.

Now the boy had been told in the dream of his three days' slumber, of a
magical cup, and he had brought it home with him from his journey among
the nations, and the So'kus Wai'unats carried it between them, filled
with water. Shinau'av walked on their right and Togo'av on their left,
and the nations followed in the order in which they had been enlisted.
There was a vast number of them, so that when they were stretched out in
line it was one day's journey from the front to the rear of the column.

When they had journeyed two days and were far out on the desert, all the
people thirsted, for they found no water, and they fell down upon the
sand groaning and murmuring that they had been deceived, and they cursed
the One-Two.

But the So'kus Wai'unats had been told in the wonderful dream of the
suffering which would be endured, and that the water which they carried
in the cup was to be used only in dire necessity; and the brothers said
to each other:

"Now the time has come for us to drink the water."

And when one had quaffed of the magical bowl, he found it still full;
and he gave it to the other to drink, and still it was full; and the
One-Two gave it to the people, and one after another did they all drink,
and still the cup was full to the brim.

But Shinau'av was dead, and all the people mourned, for he was a great
man. The brothers held the cup over him and sprinkled him with water,
when he arose and said:

"Why do you disturb me? I did have a vision of mountain brooks and
meadows, of cane where honey dew was plenty."

They gave him the cup and he drank also; but when he had finished there
was none left. Refreshed and rejoicing, they proceeded on their journey.

The next day, being without food, they were hungry, and all were about
to perish; and again they murmured at the brothers and cursed them. But
the So'kus Wai'unats saw in the distance an antelope, standing on an
eminence in the plain, in bold relief against the sky; and Shinau'av
knew it was the wonderful antelope with many eyes which Stone Shirt kept
for his watchman; and he proposed to go and kill it, but Togo'av
demurred and said:

"It were better that I should go, for he will see you and run away."

But the So'kus Wai'unats told Shinau'av to go; and he started in a
direction away to the left of where the antelope was standing, that he
might make a long detour about some hills and come upon him from the
other side.

Togo'av went a little way from camp and called to the brothers:

"Do you see me!"

They answered they did not.

"Hunt for me."

While they were hunting for him, the Rattlesnake said:

"I can see you; you are doing so and so," telling them what they were
doing; but they could not find him.

Then the Rattlesnake came forth declaring:

"Now you know that when I so desire I can see others and I cannot be
seen. Shinau'av cannot kill that antelope, for he has many eyes, and is
the wonderful watchman of Stone Shirt; but I can kill him, for I can go
where he is and he cannot see me."

So the brothers were convinced and permitted him to go; and Togo'av went
and killed the antelope. When Shinau'av saw it fall, he was very angry,
for he was extremely proud of his fame as a hunter and anxious to have
the honor of killing this famous antelope, and he ran up with the
intention of killing Togo'av; but when he drew near and saw the antelope
was fat and would make a rich feast for the people, his anger was

"What matters it," said he, "who kills the game, when we can all eat

So all the people were fed in abundance and they proceeded on their

The next day the people again suffered for water, and the magical cup
was empty; but the So'kus Wai'unats, having been told in their dream
what to do, transformed themselves into doves and flew away to a lake,
on the margin of which was the home of Stone Shirt.

Coming near to the shore, they saw two maidens bathing in the water; and
the birds stood and looked, for the maidens were very beautiful. Then
they flew into some bushes near by, to have a nearer view, and were
caught in a snare which the girls had placed for intrusive birds.

The beautiful maidens came up and, taking the birds out of the snare,
admired them very much, for they had never seen such birds before. They
carried them to their father, Stone Shirt, who said:

"My daughters, I very much fear these are spies from my enemies, for
such birds do not live in our land."

He was about to throw them into the fire, when the maidens besought him,
with tears, that he would not destroy their beautiful birds; but he
yielded to their entreaties with much misgiving. Then they took the
birds to the shore of the lake and set them free.

When the birds were at liberty once more they flew around among the
bushes until they found the magical cup which they had lost, and taking
it up they carried it out into the middle of the lake and settled down
upon the water, and the maidens supposed they were drowned.

The birds, when they had filled their cup, rose again and went back to
the people in the desert, where they arrived just at the right time to
save them with the cup of water, from which each drank; and yet it was
full until the last was satisfied, and then not a drop remained.

The brothers reported that they had seen Stone Shirt and his daughters.

The next day they came near to the home of the enemy, and the brothers,
in proper person, went out to reconnoiter. Seeing a woman
gleaning seeds, they drew near, and knew it was their mother, whom Stone
Shirt had stolen from Sikor', the Crane. They told her they were her
sons, but she denied it and said she had never had but one son; but the
boys related to her their history, with the origin of the two from one,
and she was convinced. She tried to dissuade them from making war upon
Stone Shirt, and told them that no arrow could possibly penetrate his
armor, and that he was a great warrior and had no other delight than in
killing his enemies, and that his daughters also were furnished with
magical bows and arrows, which they could shoot so fast that the arrows
would fill the air like a cloud, and that it was not necessary for them
to take aim, for their missiles went where they willed; they _thought_
the arrows to the hearts of their enemies; and thus the maidens could
kill the whole of the people before a common arrow could be shot by a
common person. But the boys told her what the spirit had said in the
long dream and that it had promised that Stone Shirt should be killed.
They told her to go down to the lake at dawn, so as not to be endangered
by the battle.

During the night the So'kus Wai'unats transformed themselves into mice
and proceeded to the home of Stone Shirt and found the magical bows and
arrows that belonged to the maidens, and with their sharp teeth they cut
the sinew on the backs of the bows and nibbled the bow strings, so that
they were worthless. Togo'av hid himself under a rock near by.

When dawn came into the sky, Tumpwinai'ro-gwinump, the Stone Shirt man,
arose and walked out of his tent, exulting in his strength and security,
and sat down upon the rock under which Togo'av was hiding; and he,
seeing his opportunity, sank his fangs into the flesh of the hero. Stone
Shirt sprang high into the air and called to his daughters that they
were betrayed and that the enemy was near; and they seized their magical
bows and their quivers filled with magical arrows and hurried to his
defense. At the same time, all the nations who were surrounding the camp
rushed down to battle. But the beautiful maidens, finding their weapons
were destroyed, waved back their enemies, as if they would parley; and
standing for a few moments over the body of their slain father, sang the
death song and danced the death dance, whirling in giddy circles about
the dead hero and wailing with despair, until they sank down and

The conquerors buried the maidens by the shores of the lake; but
Tumpwinai'rogwinump was left to rot and his bones to bleach on the
sands, as he had left Sikor'.

There is this proverb among the Utes: "Do not murmur when you suffer in
doing what the spirits have commanded, for a cup of water is provided";
and another: "What matters it who kills the game, when we can all eat of

It is long after midnight when the performance is ended. The story
itself is interesting, though I had heard it many times before; but
never, perhaps, under circumstances more effective. Stretched beneath
tall, somber pines; a great camp fire; by the fire, men, old, wrinkled,
and ugly; deformed, blear-eyed, wry-faced women; lithe, stately young
men; pretty but simpering maidens, naked children, all intently
listening, or laughing and talking by turns, their strange faces and
dusky forms lit up with the glare of the pine-knot fire. All the
circumstances conspired to make it a scene strange and weird. One old
man, the sorcerer or medicine man of the tribe, peculiarly impressed me.
Now and then he would interrupt the play for the purpose of correcting
the speakers or impressing the moral of the story with a strange dignity
and impressiveness that seemed to pass to the very border of the
ludicrous; yet at no time did it make me smile.

The story is finished, but there is yet time for an hour or two of
sleep. I take Chuar'ruumpeak to one side for a talk. The three men who
left us in the canyon last year found their way up the lateral gorge, by
which they went into the Shi'wits Mountains, lying west of us, where
they met with the Indians and camped with them one or two nights and
were finally killed. I am anxious to learn the circumstances, and as the
people of the tribe who committed the deed live but a little way from
these people and are intimate with them, I ask Chuar'ruumpeak to make
inquiry for me.  Then we go to bed.

_September 17.--_Early this morning the Indians come up to our camp.

They have concluded to send out a young man after the Shi'vwits. The
runner fixes his moccasins, puts some food in a sack and water in a
little wickerwork jug, straps them on his back, and starts at a good
round pace.

We have concluded to go down the canyon, hoping to meet the Shi'vwits on
our return. Soon we are ready to start, leaving the camp and pack
animals in charge of the two Indians who came with us. As we move out
our new guide comes up, a blear-eyed, weazen-faced, quiet old man, with
his bow and arrows in one hand and a small cane in the other. These
Indians all carry canes with a crooked handle, they say to kill
rattlesnakes and to pull rabbits from their holes. The valley is high up
in the mountain and we descend from it by a rocky, precipitous trail,
down, down, down for two long, weary hours, leading our ponies and
stumbling over the rocks. At last we are at the foot of the mountain,
standing on a little knoll, from which we can look into a canyon below.

Into this we descend, and then we follow it for miles, clambering down
and still down. Often we cross beds of lava, that have been poured into
the canyon by lateral channels, and these angular fragments of basalt
make the way very rough for the animals.

About two o'clock the guide halts us with his wand, and, springing over
the rocks, he is lost in a gulch. In a few minutes he returns, and tells
us there is a little water below in a pocket. It is vile and our ponies
refuse to drink it. We pass on, still descending. A mile or two from the
water basin we come to a precipice more than 1,000 feet to the bottom.
There is a canyon running at a greater depth and at right angles to
this, into which this enters by the precipice; and this second canyon is
a lateral one to the greater one, in the bottom of which we are to find
the river. Searching about, we find a way by which we can descend along
the shelves and steps and piles of broken rocks.

We start, leading our ponies; a wall upon our left; unknown depths on
our right. At places our way is along shelves so narrow or so sloping
that I ache with fear lest a pony should make a misstep and knock a man
over the cliffs with him. Now and then we start the loose rocks under
our feet, and over the cliffs they go, thundering down, down, the echoes
rolling through distant canyons. At last we pass along a level shelf for
some distance, then we turn to the right and zigzag down a steep slope
to the bottom. Now we pass along this lower canyon for two or three
miles, to where it terminates in the Grand Canyon, as the other ended in
this, only the river is 1,800 feet below us, and it seems at this
distance to be but a creek. Our withered guide, the human pickle, seats
himself on a rock and seems wonderfully amused at our discomfiture, for
we can see no way by which to descend to the river. After some minutes
he quietly rises and, beckoning us to follow, points out a narrow
sloping shelf on the right, and this is to be our way. It leads along
the cliff for half a mile to a wider bench beyond, which, he says, is
broken down on the other side in a great slide, and there we can get to
the river. So we start out on the shelf; it is so steep we can hardly
stand on it, and to fall or slip is to go--don't look to see!

It is soon manifest that we cannot get the ponies along the ledge. The
storms have washed it down since our guide was here last, years ago. One
of the ponies has gone so far that we cannot turn him back until we
find a wider place, but at last we get him off. With part of the men, I
take the horses back to the place where there are a few bushes growing
and turn them loose; in the meantime the other men are looking for some
way by which we can get down to the river. When I return, one, Captain
Bishop, has found a way and gone down. We pack bread, coffee, sugar, and
two or three blankets among us, and set out. It is now nearly dark, and
we cannot find the way by which the captain went, and an hour is spent
in fruitless search. Two of the men go away around an amphitheater, more
than a fourth of a mile, and start down a broken chasm that faces us who
are behind. These walls, that are vertical, or nearly so, are often cut
by chasms, where the showers run down, and the top of these chasms will
be back a distance from the face of the wall, and the bed of the chasm
will slope down, with here and there a fall. At other places huge rocks
have fallen and block the way. Down such a one the two men start. There
is a curious plant growing out from the crevices of the rock. A dozen
stems will start from one root and grow to the length of eight or ten
feet and not throw out a branch or twig, but these stems are thickly
covered with leaves. Now and then the two men come to a bunch of dead
stems and make a fire to mark for us their way and progress.

In the meantime we find such a gulch and start down, but soon come to
the "jumping-off place," where we can throw a stone and faintly hear it
strike, away below. We fear that we shall have to stay here, clinging to
the rocks until daylight. Our little Indian gathers a few dry stems,
ties them into a bundle, lights one end, and holds it up. The others do
the same, and with these torches we find a way out of trouble. Helping
each other, holding torches for each other, one clinging to another's
hand until we can get footing, then supporting the other on his
shoulders, thus we make our passage into the depths of the canyon.

And now Captain Bishop has kindled a huge fire of driftwood on the bank
of the river. This and the fires in the gulch opposite and our own
flaming torches light up little patches that make more manifest the
awful darkness below. Still, on we go for an hour or two, and at last we
see Captain Bishop coming up the gulch with a huge torchlight on his
shoulders. He looks like a fiend, waving brands and lighting the fires
of hell, and the men in the opposite gulch are imps, lighting delusive
fires in inaccessible crevices, over yawning chasms; our own little
Indian is surely the king of wizards, so I think, as I stop for a few
moments on a rock to rest. At last we meet Captain Bishop, with his
flaming torch, and as he has learned the way he soon pilots us to the
side of the great Colorado. We are athirst and hungry, almost to
starvation. Here we lie down on the rocks and drink, just a mouthful or
so, as we dare; then we make a cup of coffee, and spreading our blankets
on a sand beach the roaring Colorado lulls us to sleep.

_September 18._--We are in the Grand Canyon, by the side of the
Colorado, more than 6,000 feet below our camp on the mountain side,
which is 18 miles away; but the miles of horizontal distance represent
but a small part of the day's labor before us. It is the mile of
altitude we must gain that makes it a Herculean task. We are up early_;_
a little bread and coffee, and we look about us. Our conclusion is that
we can make this a depot of supplies, should it be necessary; that we
can pack our rations to the point where we left our animals last night,
and that we can employ Indians to bring them down to the water's edge.

On a broad shelf we find the ruins of an old stone house, the walls of
which are broken down, and we can see where the ancient people who lived
here--a race more highly civilized than the present--had made a garden
and used a great spring that comes out of the rocks for irrigation. On
some rocks near by we discover some curious etchings. Still searching
about, we find an obscure trail up the canyon wall, marked here and
there by steps which have been built in the loose rock, elsewhere hewn
stairways, and we find a much easier way to go up than that by which we
came down in the darkness last night. Coming to the top of the wall, we
catch our horses and start. Up the canyon our jaded ponies toil and we
reach the second cliff; up this we go, by easy stages, leading the
animals. Now we reach the offensive water pocket; our ponies have had no
water for thirty hours, and are eager even for this foul fluid. We
carefully strain a kettleful for ourselves, then divide what is left
between them--two or three gallons for each; but it does not satisfy
them, and they rage around, refusing to eat the scanty grass. We boil
our kettle of water, and skim it; straining, boiling, and skimming make
it a little better, for it was full of loathsome, wriggling larvae, with
huge black heads. But plenty of coffee takes away the bad smell, and so
modifies the taste that most of us can drink, though our little Indian
seems to prefer the original mixture. We reach camp about sunset, and
are glad to rest.

_September 19._--We are tired and sore, and must rest a day with our
Indian neighbors. During the inclement season they live in shelters made
of boughs or the bark of the cedar, which they strip off in long shreds.
In this climate, most of the year is dry and warm, and during such time
they do not care for shelter. Clearing a small, circular space of
ground, they bank it around with brush and sand, and wallow in it during
the day and huddle together in a heap at night--men, women, and
children; buckskin, rags, and sand. They wear very little clothing, not
needing much in this lovely climate.

Altogether, these Indians are more nearly in their primitive condition
than any others on the continent with whom I am acquainted. They have
never received anything from the government and are too poor to tempt
the trader, and their country is so nearly inaccessible that the white
man never visits them. The sunny mountain side is covered with: wild
fruits, nuts, and native grains, upon which they subsist. The _oose,_
the fruit of the yucca, or Spanish bayonet, is rich, and not unlike the
pawpaw of the valley of the Ohio. They eat it raw and also roast it in
the ashes. They gather the fruits of a cactus plant, which are rich and
luscious, and eat them as grapes or express the juice from them, making
the dry pulp into cakes and saving them for winter and drinking the wine
about their camp fires until the midnight is merry with their revelries.

They gather the seeds of many plants, as sunflowers, golden-rod, and
grasses. For this purpose they have large conical baskets, which hold
two or more bushels. The women carry them on their backs, suspended from
their foreheads by broad straps, and with a smaller one in the left hand
and a willow-woven fan in the right they walk among the grasses and
sweep the seed into the smaller basket, which is emptied now and then
into the larger, until it is full of seeds and chaff; then they winnow
out the chaff and roast the seeds. They roast these curiously; they put
seeds and a quantity of red-hot coals into a willow tray and, by rapidly
and dexterously shaking and tossing them, keep the coals aglow and the
seeds and tray from burning. So skilled are the crones in this work they
roll the seeds to one side of the tray as they are roasted and the coals
to the other as if by magic.

Then they grind the seeds into a fine flour and make it into cakes and
mush. It is a merry sight, sometimes, to see the women grinding at the
mill. For a mill, they use a large flat rock, lying on the ground, and
another small cylindrical one in their hands. They sit prone on the
ground, hold the large flat rock between the feet and legs, then fill
their laps with seeds, making a hopper to the mill with their dusky
legs, and grind by pushing the seeds across the larger rock, where they
drop into a tray. I have seen a group of women grinding together,
keeping time to a chant, or gossiping and chatting, while the younger
lassies would jest and chatter and make the pine woods merry with their

Mothers carry their babes curiously in baskets. They make a wicker board
by plaiting willows and sew a buckskin cloth to either edge, and this is
fulled in the middle so as to form a sack closed at the bottom. At the
top they make a wicker shade, like "my grandmother's sunbonnet," and
wrapping the little one in a wild-cat robe, place it in the basket, and
this they carry on their backs, strapped over the forehead, and the
little brown midgets are ever peering over their mothers' shoulders. In
camp, they stand the basket against the trunk of a tree or hang it to a

There is little game in the country, yet they get a mountain sheep now
and then or a deer, with their arrows, for they are not yet supplied
with guns. They get many rabbits, sometimes with arrows, sometimes with
nets. They make a net of twine, made of the fibers of a native flax.
Sometimes this is made a hundred yards in length, and is placed in a
half-circular position, with wings of sage brush. Then they have a
circle hunt, and drive great numbers of rabbits into the snare, where
they are shot with arrows. Most of their bows are made of cedar, but the
best are made of the horns of mountain sheep. These are soaked in water
until quite soft, cut into long thin strips, and glued together; they
are then quite elastic. During the autumn, grasshoppers are very
abundant, can be gathered by the bushel. At such a time, they dig a
hole in the sand, heat stones in a fire near by, put some hot stones in
the bottom of the hole, put on a layer of grasshoppers, then a layer of
hot stones, and continue this, until they put bushels on to roast. There
they are.

When cold weather sets in, these insects are numbed and left until cool,
when they are taken out, thoroughly dried, and ground into meal.
Grasshopper gruel or grasshopper cake is a great treat.

Their lore consists of a mass of traditions, or mythology. It is very
difficult to induce them to tell it to white men; but the old Spanish
priests, in the days of the conquest of New Mexico, spread among the
Indians of this country many Bible stories, which the Indians are
usually willing to tell. It is not always easy to recognize them; the
Indian mind is a strange receptacle for such stories and they are apt to
sprout new limbs. Maybe much of their added quaint-ness is due to the
way in which they were told by the "fathers." But in a confidential way,
while alone, or when admitted to their camp fire on a winter night, one
may hear the stories of their mythology. I believe that the greatest
mark of friendship or confidence that an Indian can give is to tell you
his religion. After one has so talked with me I should ever trust him;
and I feel on very good terms with these Indians since our experience of
the other night.

A knowledge of the watering places and of the trails and passes is
considered of great importance and is necessary to give standing to a

This evening, the Shi'vwits, for whom we have sent, come in, and after
supper we hold a long council. A blazing fire is built, and around this
we sit--the Indians living here, the Shi'vwits, Jacob Hamblin, and

This man, Hamblin, speaks their language well and has a great influence
over all the Indians in the region round about. He is a silent, reserved
man, and when he speaks it is in a slow, quiet way that inspires great
awe. His talk is so low that they must listen attentively to hear, and
they sit around him in deathlike silence. When he finishes a measured
sentence the chief repeats it and they all give a solemn grunt.  But,
first, I fill my pipe, light it, and take a few whiffs, then pass it to
Hamblin; he smokes, and gives it to the man next, and so it goes around.
When it has passed the chief, he takes out his own pipe, fills and
lights it, and passes it around after mine. I can smoke my own pipe in
turn, but when the Indian pipe comes around, I am nonplused. It has a
large stem, which has at some time been broken, and now there is a
buckskin rag wound around it and tied with sinew, so that the end of the
stem is a huge mouthful, exceedingly repulsive. To gain time, I refill
it, then engage in very earnest conversation, and, all unawares, I pass
it to my neighbor unlighted.

I tell the Indians that I wish to spend some months in their country
during the coming year and that I would like them to treat me as a
friend. I do not wish to trade; do not want their lands. Heretofore I
have found it very difficult to make the natives understand my object,
but the gravity of the Mormon missionary helps me much. I tell them that
all the great and good white men are anxious to know very many things,
that they spend much time in learning, and that the greatest man is he
who knows the most; that the white men want to know all about the
mountains and the valleys, the rivers and the canyons, the beasts and
birds and snakes. Then I tell them of many Indian tribes, and where they
live; of the European nations; of the Chinese, of Africans, and all the
strange things about them that come to my mind. I tell them of the
ocean, of great rivers and high mountains, of strange beasts and birds.
At last I tell them I wish to learn about their canyons and mountains,
and about themselves, to tell other men at home; and that I want to take
pictures of everything and show them to my friends. All this occupies
much time, and the matter and manner make a deep impression.

Then their chief replies: "Your talk is good, and we believe what you
say. We believe in Jacob, and look upon you as a father. When you are
hungry, you may have our game. You may gather our sweet fruits. We will
give you food when you come to our land. We will show you the springs
and you may drink; the water is good. We will be friends and when you
come we will be glad. We will tell the Indians who live on the other
side of the great river that we have seen Ka'purats, and that he is the
Indians' friend. We will tell them he is Jacob's friend. We are very
poor. Look at our women and children; they are naked. We have no horses;
we climb the rocks and our feet are sore. We live among rocks and they
yield little food and many thorns. When the cold moons come, our
children are hungry. We have not much to give; you must not think us
mean. You are wise; we have heard you tell strange things. We are
ignorant. Last year we killed three white men. Bad men said they were
our enemies. They told great lies. We thought them true.  Wo were mad;
it made us big fools. We are very sorry. Do not think of them; it is
done; let us be friends. We are ignorant--like little children in
understanding compared with you. When we do wrong, do not you get mad
and be like children too.

"When white men kill our people, we kill them. Then they kill more of
us. It is not good. We hear that the white men are a great number. When
they stop killing us, there will be no Indian left to bury the dead. We
love our country; we know not other lands. We hear that other lands are
better; we do not know. The pines sing and we are glad. Our children
play in the warm sand; we hear them sing and are glad. The seeds ripen
and we have to eat and we are glad. We do not want their good lands; we
want our rocks and the great mountains where our fathers lived. We are
very poor; we are very ignorant; but we are very honest. You have horses
and many things. You are very wise; you have a good heart. We will be
friends. Nothing more have I to say."

Ka'purats is the name by which I am known among the Utes and Shoshones,
meaning "arm off." There was much more repetition than I have given, and
much emphasis. After this a few presents were given, we shook hands, and
the council broke up.

Mr. Hamblin fell into conversation with one of the men and held him
until the others had left, and then learned more of the particulars of
the death of the three men. They came upon the Indian village almost
starved and exhausted with fatigue. They were supplied with food and put
on their way to the settlements. Shortly after they had left, an Indian
from the east side of the Colorado arrived at their village and told
them about a number of miners having killed a squaw in drunken brawl,
and no doubt these were the men; no person had ever come down the
canyon; that was impossible; they were trying to hide their guilt. In
this way he worked them into a great rage. They followed, surrounded the
men in ambush, and filled them full of arrows.

That night I slept in peace, although these murderers of my men, and
their friends, the Uinkarets, were sleeping not 500 yards away. While we
were gone to the canyon, the pack train and supplies, enough to make an
Indian rich beyond his wildest dreams, were all left in their charge,
and were all safe; not even a lump of sugar was pilfered by the

_September 20._--For several days we have been discussing the relative
merits of several names for these mountains. The Indians call them
Uinkarets, the region of pines, and we adopt the name. The great
mountain we call Mount Trumbull, in honor of the senator. To-day the
train starts back to the canyon water pocket, while Captain Bishop and
I climb Mount Trumbull. On our way we pass the point that was the last
opening to the volcano.

It seems but a few years since the last flood of fire swept the valley.
Between two rough, conical hills it poured, and ran down the valley to
the foot of a mountain standing almost at the lower end, then parted,
and ran on either side of the mountain. This last overflow is very
plainly marked; there is soil, with trees and grass, to the very edge
of it, on a more ancient bed. The flood was, everywhere on its border,
from 10 to 20 feet in height, terminating abruptly and looking like a
wall from below. On cooling, it shattered into fragments, but these are
still in place and the outlines of streams and waves can be seen. So
little time has elapsed since it ran down that the elements have not
weathered a soil, and there is scarcely any vegetation on it, but here
and there a lichen is found. And yet, so long ago was it poured from the
depths, that where ashes and cinders have collected in a few places,
some huge cedars have grown. Near the crater the frozen waves of black
basalt are rent with deep fissures, transverse to the direction, of the
flow. Then we ride through a cedar forest up a long ascent, until we
come to cliffs of columnar basalt. Here we tie our horses and prepare
for a climb among the columns. Through crevices we work, till at last we
are on the mountain, a thousand acres of pine laud spread out before us,
gently rising to the other edge. There are two peaks on the mountain. We
walk two miles to the foot of the one looking to be the highest, then a
long, hard climb to its summit. What a view is before us! A vision of
glory! Peaks of lava all around below us. The Vermilion Cliffs to the
north, with their splendor of colors; the Pine Valley Mountains to the
northwest, clothed in mellow, perspective haze; unnamed mountains to the
southwest, towering over canyons bottomless to my peering gaze, like
chasms to nadir hell; and away beyond, the San Francisco Mountains,
lifting their black heads into the heavens. We find our way down the
mountain, reaching the trail made by the pack train just at dusk, and
follow it through the dark until we see the camp fire--a welcome sight.

Two days more, and we are at Pipe Spring; one day, and we are at Kanab.
Eight miles above the town is a canyon, on either side of which is a
group of lakes. Four of these are in caves where the sun never shines.
By the side of one of these I sit, at my feet the crystal waters, of
which I may drink at will.



It is our intention to explore a route from Kanab to the Colorado River
at the mouth of the Paria, and, if successful in this undertaking, to
cross the river and proceed to Tusayan, and ultimately to Santa Fe, New
Mexico. We propose to build a flatboat for the purpose of ferrying over
the river, and have had the lumber necessary for that purpose hauled
from St. George to Kanab. From here to the mouth of the Paria it must be
packed on the backs of mules; Captain Bishop and Mr. Graves are to take
charge of this work, while with Mr. Hamblin I explore the Kaibab

_September 24_--To-day we are ready for the start. The mules are
packed and away goes our train of lumber, rations, and camping equipage.
The Indian trail is at the foot of the Vermilion Cliffs. Pushing on to
the east with Mr. Hamblin for a couple of hours in the early morning, we
reach the mouth of a dry canyon, which comes down through the cliffs.
Instead of a narrow canyon we find an open valley from one fourth to one
half a mile in width. On rare occasions a stream flows down this valley,
but now sand dunes stretch across it. On either side there is a wall of
vertical rock of orange sandstone, and here and there at the foot of the
wall are found springs that afford sweet water.

We push our way far up the valley to the foot of the Gray Cliffs, and by
a long detour find our way to the summit. Here again we find that
wonderful scenery of naked white rocks carved into great round bosses
and domes. Looking off to the north we can see vermilion and pink
cliffs, crowned with forests, while below us to the south stretch the
dunes and red-lands of the Vermilion Cliff region, and far away we can
see the opposite wall of the Grand Canyon. In the middle of the
afternoon we descend into the canyon valley and hurriedly ride, down to
the mouth of the canyon, then follow the trail of the pack train, for
we are to camp with the party to-night. We find it at the Navajo Well.
As we approach in the darkness the camp fire is a cheerful sight. The
Navajo Well is a pool in the sand, the sands themselves lying in a
basin, with naked, smooth rocks all about on which the rains are caught
and by which the sand in the basin is filled with water, and by digging
into the sand this sweet water is found.

_September 25._--At sunrise Mr. Hamblin and I part from the train once
more, taking with us Chuar, a chief of the Kaibabits, for a trip to the
south, for one more view of the Grand Canyon from the summit of the
Kaibab Plateau. All day long our way is over red hills, with a bold line
of cliffs on our left. A little after noon we reach a great spring, and
here we are to camp for the night, for the region beyond us is unknown
and we wish to enter it with a good day before us. The Indian goes out
to hunt a rabbit for supper, and Hamblin and I climb the cliffs. From an
elevation of 1,800 feet above the spring we watch the sun go down and
see the sheen on the Vermilion Cliffs and red-lands slowly fade into the
gloaming; then we descend to supper.

_September 26.--_Early in the morning we pass up a beautiful valley to
the south and turn westward onto a great promontory, from the summit of
which the Grand Canyon is in view. Its deep gorge can be seen to the
westward for 50 or 60 miles, and to the southeastward we look off into
the stupendous chasm, with its marvelous forms and colors.

Twenty-one years later I read over the notes of that day's experience
and the picture of the Grand Canyon from this point is once more before
me. I did not know when writing the notes that this was the grandest
view that can be obtained of the region from Fremont's Peak to the Gulf
of California, but I did realize that the scene before me was awful,
sublime, and glorious--awful in profound depths, sublime in massive and
strange forms, and glorious in colors. Years later I visited the same
spot with my friend Thomas Moran. From this world of wonder he selected
a section which was the most interesting to him and painted it. That
painting, known as "The Chasm of the Colorado," is in a hall in the
Senate wing of the Capitol of the United States. If any one will look
upon that picture, and then realize that it was but a small part of the
landscape before us on this memorable 26th day of September, he will
understand why I suppress my notes descriptive of the scene. The
landscape is too vast, too complex, too grand for verbal description.

We sleep another night by the spring on the summit of the Kaibab, and
next day we go around to Point Sublime and then push on to the very
verge of the Kaibab, where we can overlook the canyon at the mouth of
the Little Colorado. The day is a repetition of the glorious day before,
and at night we sleep again at the same spring. In the morning we turn
to the northeast and descend from Kaibab to the back of Marble Canyon
and cross it at the foot of the Vermilion Cliffs, and find our packers
camped at Jacob's Pool, where a spring bursts from the cliff at the
summit of a great hill of talus. In the camp we find a score or more of
Indians, who have joined us here by previous appointment, as we need
their services in crossing the river.

On the last day of September we follow the Vermilion Cliffs around to
the mouth of the Paria. Here the cliffs present a wall of about 2,000
feet in height,--above, orange and vermilion, but below, chocolate,
purple, and gray in alternating bands of rainbow brightness. The cliffs
are cut with deep side canyons, and the rainbow hills below are
destitute of vegetation. At night we camp on the bank of the Colorado
River, on the same spot where our boat-party had camped the year before.
Leaving the party in charge of Mr. Graves and Mr. Bishop, while they are
building a ferryboat, I take some Indians to explore the canyon of the
Paria. We find steep walls on either side, but a rather broad, flat
plain below, through which the muddy river winds its way over
quicksands. This stream we have to cross from time to time, and we find
the quicksands treacherous and our horses floundering in the trembling

These broad canyons, or canyon valleys, are carved by the streams in
obedience to an interesting law of corrasion. Where the declivity of the
stream is great the river corrades, or cuts its bottom deeper and still
deeper, ever forming narrow clefts, but when the stream has cut its
channel down until the declivity is greatly reduced, it can no longer
carry the load of sand with which it is fed, but drops a part of it on
the way. Wherever it drops it in this manner a sand bank is formed. Now
the effect of this sand bar is to turn the course of the river against
the wall or bank, and as it unloads in one place it cuts in another
below and loads itself again; so it unloads itself and forms bars, and
loads itself with more material to form bars, and the process of
vertical cutting is transformed into a process of lateral cutting.  The
rate of cutting is greatly increased thereby, but the wear is on the
sides and not on the bottom. So long as the declivity of the stream is
great, the greater the load of sand carried the greater the rate of
vertical cutting; but when the declivity is reduced, so that part of the
load is thrown down, vertical cutting is changed to lateral and the rate
of corrosion multiplied thereby. Now this broad valley canyon, or "box
canyon," as such channels are usually called in the country, has been
formed by the stream itself, cutting its channel at first vertically and
afterwards laterally, and so a great flood-plain is formed.

For a day we ride up the Paria, and next day return. The party in camp
have made good progress. The boat is finished and a part of the camp
freight has been transported across the river. The next day the
remainder is ferried over and the animals are led across, swimming
behind the ferryboat in pairs. Here a bold bluff more than 1,200 feet in
height has to be climbed, and the day is spent in getting to its summit.
We make a dry camp, that is, without water, except that which has been
carried in canteens by the Indians.

_October 4-_--All day long we pass by the foot of the Echo Cliffs, which
are in fact the continuation of the Vermilion Cliffs. It is still a
landscape of rocks, with cliffs and pinnacles and towers and buttes on
the left, and deep chasms running down into the Marble Canyon on the
right. At night we camp at a water pocket, a pool in a great limestone
rock. We still go south for another half day to a cedar ridge; here we
turn westward, climbing the cliffs, which we find to be not the edge of
an escarpment with a plateau above, but a long narrow ridge which
descends on the eastern side to a level only 500 or 600 feet above the
trail left below. On the eastern side of the cliff a great homogeneous
sandstone stretches, declining rapidly, and on its sides are carved
innumerable basins, which are now filled with pure water, and we call
this the Thousand Wells. We have a long afternoon's ride over sand
dunes, slowly toiling from mile to mile. We can see a ledge of rocks in
the distance, and the Indian with us assures us that we shall find water
there. At night we come to the cliff, and under it, in a great cave, we
find a lakelet. Sweeter, cooler water never blessed the desert.

While at Jacob's Pool, several days before, I sent a runner forward into
this region with instructions to hunt us up some of the natives and
bring them to this pool. When we arrive we are disappointed in not
finding them on hand, but a little later half a dozen men come in with
the Indian messenger. They are surly fellows and seem to be displeased
at our coming. Before midnight they leave. Under the circumstances I do
not feel that it is safe to linger long at this spot; so I do not lie
down to rest, but walk the camp among the guards and see that everything
is in readiness to move. About two o'clock I set a couple of men to
prepare a hasty lunch, call up all hands, and we saddle, pack, eat our
lunch, and start off to the southwest to reach the Moenkopi, where there
is a little rancheria of Indians, a farming settlement belonging to the
Oraibis, so we are told. We set out at a rapid rate, and when daylight
comes we are in sight of the canyon of the Moenkopi, into which we soon
descend; but the rancheria has been abandoned. Up the Moenkopi we pass
several miles, in a beautiful canyon valley, until we find a pool in a
nook of a cliff, where we feel that we can defend ourselves with
certainty, and here we camp for the night. The next day we go on to
Oraibi, one of the pueblos of the Province of Tusayan.

At Tusayan we stop for two weeks and visit the seven pueblos on the
cliffs. Oraibi is first reached, then Shumopavi, Shupaulovi, and
Mashongnavi, and finally Walpi, Sichumovi, and Hano.

In a street of Oraibi our little party is gathered. Soon a council is
called by the _cacique,_ or chief, and we are assigned to a suite of six
or eight rooms for our quarters. We purchase corn of some of the people,
and after feeding our animals they are intrusted to two Indian boys,
who, under the direction of the _cacique,_ take them to a distant mesa
to herd. This is my first view of an inhabited pueblo, though I have
seen many ruins from time to time. At first I am a little disappointed
in the people. They seem scarcely superior to the Shoshones and Utes,
tribes with whom I am so well acquainted. Their dress is less
picturesque, and the men have an ugly fashion of banging their hair in
front so that it comes down to their eyes and conceals their foreheads.
But the women are more neatly dressed and arrange their hair in
picturesque coils.

Oraibi is a town of several hundred inhabitants. It stands on a mesa or
little plateau 200 or 300 feet above the surrounding plain. The mesa
itself has a rather diversified surface. The streets of the town are
quite irregular, and in a general way run from north to south. The
houses are constructed to face the east. They are of stone laid in
mortar, and are usually three or four stories high. The second story
stands back upon the first, leaving a terrace over one tier of rooms.
The third is set back of the second, and the fourth back of the third;
so that their houses are terraced to face the east. These terraces on
the top are all flat, and the people usually ascend to the first terrace
by a ladder and then by another into the lower rooms. In like manner,
ladders or rude stairways are used to reach the upper stories. The
climate is very warm and the people live on the tops of their houses. It
seems strange to see little naked children climbing the ladders and
running over the house tops like herds of monkeys. After we have looked
about the town and been gazed upon by the wondering eyes of the men,
women, and children, we are at last called to supper. In a large central
room we gather and the food is placed before us. A stew of goat's flesh
is served in earthen bowls, and each one of us is furnished with a
little earthen ladle. The bread is a great novelty to me. It is made of
corn meal in sheets as thin and large as foolscap paper. In the corner
of the house is a little oven, the top of which is a great flat stone,
and the good housewife bakes her bread in this manner: The corn meal is
mixed to the consistency of a rather thick gruel, and the woman dips her
hand into the mixture and plasters the hot stone with a thin coating of
the meal paste. In a minute or two it forms into a thin paper-like cake,
and she takes it up by the edge, folds it once, and places it on a
basket tray; then another and another sheet of paper-bread is made in
like manner and piled on the tray. I notice that the paste stands in a
number of different bowls and that she takes from, one bowl and then
another in order, and I soon see the effect of this.  The corn before
being ground is assorted by colors, white, yellow, red, blue, and black,
and the sheets of bread, when made, are of the same variety of colors,
white, yellow, red, blue, and black. This bread, held on very beautiful
trays, is itself a work of art. They call it _piki._ After we have
partaken of goat stew and bread a course of dumplings, melons, and
peaches is served, and this finishes the feast.  What seem to be
dumplings are composed of a kind of hash of bread and meat, tied up in
little balls with cornhusks and served boiling hot.  They are eaten with
much gusto by the party and highly praised. Some days after we learned
how they are made; they are prepared of goat's flesh, bread, and
turnips, and kneaded by mastication. As we prefer to masticate our own
food, this dainty dish is never again a favorite.

In the evening the people celebrate our advent by a dance, such it
seemed to us, but probably it was one of their regular ceremonies.

After dark a pretty little fire is built in the chimney corner and I
spend the evening in rehearsing to a group of the leading men the story
of my travels in the canyon country. Of our journey down the canyon in
boats they have already heard, and they listen with great interest to
what I say. My talk with them is in the Mexican patois, which several of
them understand, and all that I say is interpreted.

The next morning we are up at daybreak. Soon we hear loud shouts coming
from the top of the house. The _cacique_ is calling his people. Then all
the people, men, women, and children, come out on the tops of their
houses. Just before sunrise they sprinkle water and meal from beautiful
grails; then they all stand with bare heads to watch the rising of the
sun. When his full orb is seen, once more they sprinkle the sacred water
and the sacred meal over the tops of the houses. Then the _cacique_ in a
loud voice directs the labor of the day. So his talk is explained to us.
Some must gather corn, others must go for wood, water must be brought
from the distant wells, and the animals of the strangers must be cared
for. Now the house tops present a lively scene. Bowls of water are
brought; from them the men fill their mouths and with dexterity blow
water over their hands in spray and wash their faces and lave their long
shining heads of hair; and the women dress one another's locks. With
bowls of water they make suds of the yucca plant, and wash and comb and
deftly roll their hair, the elder women in great coils at the back of
the head, the younger women in flat coils on their cheeks. And so the
days are passed and the weeks go by, and we study the language of the
people and record many hundreds of their words and observe their habits
and customs and gain some knowledge of their mythology, but above all do
we become interested in their religious ceremonies.

One afternoon they take me from Oraibi to Shupaulovi to witness a great
religious ceremony. It is the invocation to the gods for rain. We arrive
about sundown, and are taken into a large subterranean chamber, into
which we descend by a ladder. Soon about a dozen Shamans are gathered
with us, and the ceremony continues from sunset to sunrise. It is a
series of formal invocations, incantations, and sacrifices, especially
of holy meal and holy water. The leader of the Shamans is a great burly
bald-headed Indian, which is a remarkable sight, for I have never seen
one before. Whatever he says or does is repeated by three others in
turn. The paraphernalia of their worship is very interesting. At one end
of the chamber is a series of tablets of wood covered with quaint
pictures of animals and of corn, and overhead are conventional black
clouds from which yellow lightnings are projected, while drops of rain
fall on the corn below. Wooden birds, set on pedestals and decorated
with plumes, are arranged in various ways.  Ears of corn, vases of holy
water, and trays of meal make up a part of the paraphernalia of worship.
I try to record some of the prayers, but am not very successful, as it
is difficult to hold my interpreter to the work. But one of these
prayers is something like this:

"Muingwa pash lolomai, Master of the Clouds, we eat no stolen bread; our
young men ride not the stolen ass; our food is not stolen from the
gardens of our neighbors. Muingwa pash lolomai, we beseech of thee to
dip your great sprinkler, made of the feathers of the birds of the
heavens, into the lakes of the skies and sprinkle us with sweet rains,
that the ground may be prepared in the winter for the corn that grows in
the summer."

At one time in the night three women were brought into the _kiva._ These
women had a cincture of cotton about their loins, but were otherwise
nude. One was very old, another of middle age, and the third quite
young, perhaps fourteen or fifteen years old. As they stood in a corner
of the _kiva_ their faces and bodies were painted by the bald-headed
priest. For this purpose he filled his mouth with water and pigment and
dexterously blew a fine spray over the faces, necks, shoulders, and
breasts of the women. Then with his finger as a brush he decorated them
over this groundwork, which was of yellow, with many figures in various
colors. From that time to daylight the three women remained in the
_kiva_ and took part in the ceremony as choristers and dancing

At sunrise we are filed out of the _kiva,_ and a curious sight is
presented to our view. Shupaulovi is built in terraces about a central
court, or plaza, and in the plaza about fifty men are drawn up in a line
facing us. These men are naked except that they wear masks, strange and
grotesque, and great flaring headdresses in many colors.

Our party from the _kiva_ stand before this line of men, and the
bald-headed priest harangues them in words I cannot understand. Then
across the other end of the plaza a line of women is formed, facing the
line of men, and at a signal from the old Shaman the drums and the
whistles on the terraces, with a great chorus of singers, set up a
tumultuous noise, and with slow shuffling steps the line of men and the
line of women move toward each other in a curious waving dance. When the
lines approach so as to be not more than 10 or 12 feet apart, our party
still being between them, they all change so as to dance backward to
their original positions. This is repeated until the dancers have passed
over the plaza four times. Then there is a wild confusion of dances, the
order of which I cannot understand,--if indeed there is any system,
except that the men and women dance apart. Soon this is over, and the
women all file down the ladder into the _kiva_ and the men strip off
their masks and arrange themselves about the plaza, every one according
to his own wish, but as if in sharp expectancy; then the women return up
the ladder from the _kiva_ and climb to the tops of the houses and stand
on the brink of the nearer terrace. Now the music commences once more,
and the old woman who was painted in the _kiva_ during the night throws
something, I cannot tell what, into the midst of the plaza. With a shout
and a scream, every man jumps for it; one seizes it, another takes it
away from him, and then another secures it; and with shouts and screams
they wrestle and tussle for the charm which the old woman has thrown to
them. After a while some one gets permanent possession of the charm and
the music ceases. Then another is thrown into the midst. So these
contests continue at intervals until high noon.

In the evening we return to Oraibi. And now for two days we employ our
time in making a collection of the arts of the people of this town.
First, we display to them our stock of goods, composed of knives,
needles, awls, scissors, paints, dyestuffs, leather, and various fabrics
in gay colors. Then we go around among the people and select the
articles of pottery, stone implements, instruments and utensils made of
bone, horn, shell, articles of clothing and ornament, baskets, trays,
and many other things, and tell the people to bring them the next day to
our rooms. A little after sunrise they come in, and we have a busy day
of barter. When articles are brought in such as I want, I lay them
aside.  Then if possible I discover the fancy of the one who brings
them, and I put by the articles the goods which I am willing to give in
exchange for them. Having thus made an offer, I never deviate from it,
but leave it to the option of the other party to take either his own
articles or mine lying beside them. The barter is carried on with a
hearty good will; the people jest and laugh with us and with one
another; all are pleased, and there is nothing to mar this day of
pleasure. In the afternoon and evening I make an inventory of our
purchases, and the next day is spent in packing them for shipment. Some
of the things are heavy, and I engage some Indians to help transport the
cargo to Fort Wingate, where we can get army transportation.

_October 24-.--_To-day we leave Oraibi. We are ready to start in the
early morning. The whole town comes to bid us good-by. Before we start
they perform some strange ceremony which I cannot understand, but, with
invocations to some deity, they sprinkle us, our animals, and our goods
with water and with meal. Then there is a time of handshaking and
hugging. "Good-by; good-by; good-by!" At last we start. Our way is to
Walpi, by a heavy trail over a sand plain, among the dunes. We arrive a
little after noon. Walpi, Sichumovi, and Hano are three little towns on
one butte, with but little space between them; the stretch from town to
town is hardly large enough for a game of ball. The top of the butte is
of naked rock, and it rises from 300 to 400 feet above the sand plains
below by a precipitous cliff on every side. To reach it from below, it
must be climbed by niches and stairways in the rock. It is a good site
for defense. At the foot of the cliff and on some terraces the people
have built corrals of stone for their asses.  All the water used in
these three towns is derived from a well nearly a mile away--a deep pit
sunk in the sand, over the site of a dune-buried brook.

When we arrive the men of Walpi carry our goods, camp equipage, and
saddles up the stairway and deposit them in a little court. Then they
assign us eight or ten rooms for our quarters. Our animals are once more
consigned to the care of Indian herders, and after they are fed they are
sent away to a distance of some miles. There is no tree or shrub growing
near the Walpi mesa. It is miles away to where the stunted cedars are
found, and the people bring curious little loads of wood on the backs of
their donkeys, it being a day's work to bring such a cargo. The people
have anticipated our coming, and the wood for our use is piled in the
chimney corners. After supper the hours till midnight are passed in
rather formal talk.

Walpi seems to be a town of about 150 inhabitants, Sichumovi of less
than 100, and Hano of not more than 75. Hano, or "Tewa" as it is
sometimes called, has been built lately; that is, it cannot be more than
100 or 200 years old. The other towns are very old; their foundation
dates back many centuries--so we gather from this talk. The people of
Hano also speak a radically distinct language, belonging to another
stock of tribes. They formerly lived on the Rio Grande, but during some
war they were driven away and were permitted to build their home here.

Two days are spent in trading with the people, and we pride ourselves on
having made a good ethnologic collection. We are especially interested
in seeing the men and women spin and weave. In their courtyards they
have deep chambers excavated in the rocks. These chambers, which are
called _kivas,_ are entered by descending ladders. They are about 18 by
24 feet in size. The _kiva_ is the place of worship, where all their
ceremonies are performed, where their cult societies meet to pray for
rain and to prepare medicines and charms against fancied and real
ailments and to protect themselves by sorcery from the dangers of
witchcraft. The _kivas_ are also places for general rendezvous, and at
night the men and women bring their work and chat and laugh, and in
their rude way make the time merry. Many of the tribes of North America
have their cult societies, or "medicine orders," as they are sometimes
called, but this institution has been nowhere developed more thoroughly
than among the pueblo Indians of this region. I am informed that there
are a great number in Tusayan, that a part of their ceremonies are
secret and another part public, and that the times of ceremony are also
times for feasting and athletic sports.

Here at Walpi the great snake dance is performed. For several days
before this festival is held the people with great diligence gather
snakes from the rocks and sands of the region round about and bring them
to the _kiva_ of one of their clans in great numbers, by scores and
hundreds. Most of these snakes are quite harmless, but rattlesnakes
abound, and they are also caught, for they play the most important role
in the great snake dance. The medicine men, or priest doctors, are very
deft in the management of rattlesnakes. When they bring them to the
_kiva_ they herd all the snakes in a great mass of writhing, hissing,
rattling serpents. For this purpose they have little wands, to the end
of each one of which a bunch of feathers is affixed. If a snake attempts
to leave its allotted place in the _kiva_ the medicine man brushes it or
tickles it with the feather-armed wand, and the snake turns again to
commingle with its fellows. After many strange and rather wearisome
ceremonies, with dancing and invocations and ululations, the men of the
order prepare for the great performance with the snakes. Clothed only in
loincloth, each one seizes a snake, and a rattlesnake is preferred if
there are enough of them for all. It is managed in this way: The snake
is teased with the feather wand and his attention occupied by one man,
while another, standing near, at a favorable moment seizes the snake
just, back of the head. Then he puts the snake in his mouth, holding it
across, so that the head protrudes on one side and the body on the
other, which coils about his hand and arm. A few inches of the head and
neck are free, and with this free portion the snake struggles, squirming
in the air; but the attention of the snake is constantly occupied by the
attendant who carries the wand. Then the men of the priest order
carrying the snakes in their mouths arrange themselves in a line in the
court and move in a procession several times about the court, and then
engage in a dance. After the ceremony all of the snakes are carried to
the plain and given their freedom.

This snake dance was not witnessed at the time of the first visit, but
an account of it was then obtained, such as given above. It has since
been witnessed by myself and by others, and carefully prepared accounts
of the ceremonies have been published by different persons.

At last our work at Walpi is done, on October 27, and we arrange to
leave on the morrow.



_October 28_.--To-day we leave the Province of Tusayan for a journey
through the Navajo country. There is quite an addition to the party now,
for we have a number of Indians employed as freighters. Their asses are
loaded with heavy packs of the collections we have made in the various
towns of Tusayan. After a while we enter a beautiful canyon coming down
from the east, and by noon reach a spring, where we halt for
refreshment. The poor little donkeys are thoroughly wearied, but our own
animals have had a long rest and have been well fed and are all fresh
and active. On the rocks of this canyon picture-writings are etched, and
I try to get some account of them from the Indians, but fail.

After lunch we start once more. It is a halcyon day, and with a
companion I leave the train and push on for a view of the country. Away
we gallop, my Indian companion and I, over the country toward a great
plateau which we can see in the distance. The Salahkai is covered with a
beautiful forest. We have an exhilarating ride. When the way becomes
stony and rough we must walk our horses. My Indian, who is well mounted
on a beautiful bay, is a famous rider. About his brow a kerchief is
tied, and his long hair rests on his back. He has keen black eyes and a
beaked nose; about his neck he wears several dozen strings of beads,
made of nacre shining shells, and little tablets of turkis are
perforated and strung on sinew cord; in his ears he has silver rings,
and his wrists are covered with silver bracelets. His leggings are black
velvet, the material for which he has bought from some trader; his
moccasins are tan-colored and decorated with silver ornaments, and the
trappings of his horse are decorated in like manner. He carries his
rifle with as much ease as if it were a cane, and rides with wonderful
dexterity. We get on with jargon and sign language pretty well. At
night, after a long ride, I descend to the foot of the mesa, and near a
little lake I find the camp. The donkey train has not arrived, but soon
one after another the Indians come in with their packs, and with white
men, Oraibi Indians, Walpi Indians, and Navajos, a good party is

_October 29.--_We have a long ride before us to-day, for we must reach
old Fort Defiance. I stay with the train in order to keep everything
moving, for we expect to travel late in the night. On the way no water
is found, but in mid-afternoon the trail leads to the brink of a canyon,
and the Indians tell me there is water below; so the animals are
unpacked and taken down the cliff in a winding way among the rocks,
where they are supplied with water. Again we start; night comes on and
we are still in the forest; the trail is good, yet we make slow
progress, for some of the animals are weary and we have to wait from
time to time for the stragglers.  About ten o'clock we descend from the
plateau to the canyon beneath and are at old Port Defiance, and the
officers at the agency give us a hearty greeting.

We spend the 30th of October at the agency and see thousands of Indians,
for they are gathered to receive rations and annuities. It is a wild
spectacle; groups of Indians are gambling, there are several horse
races, and everywhere there is feasting. At night the revelry is
increased; great fires are lighted, and groups of Indians are seen
scattered about the plains.

_November 1.--_After a short day's ride we camp at Rock Spring. A
fountain gushes from the foot of the mesa. Then another day's ride
through a land of beauty. On the left there is a line of cliffs, like
the Vermilion Cliffs of Utah. In the same red sandstones and on the top
of the cliff the Kaibab scenery is duplicated. A great tower on the
cliff is known as "Navajo Church." Early in the afternoon we are at Fort
Wingate and in civilization once more. The fort is on a beautiful site
at the foot of the Zuni Plateau. And now our journey with the pack train
is ended, and I bid good-by to my Indian friends. My own pack train is
to go back to Utah, while from Fort Wingate I expect to go to Santa Fe
in an ambulance. But the region about is of interest for its wonderful
geologic structure and for the many ruins of ancient pueblos found in
the neighborhood. On the 2d of November Captain Johnson, an artillery
officer, takes me for a ride among the ruins. Many of these ancient
structures are found, but those which are of the most interest are the
round towers. Nothing remains of these but the bare walls. They average
from 18 to 20 feet in diameter, and are usually two or three stories
high. Probably they were built as places of worship.

Above Fort Wingate there is a great plateau; below, there stretches a
vast desert plain with mesas and buttes. The ruins are at the foot of
the plateau where the streams come down from the pine-clad heights.

On the 3d of November with a party of officers I visit Zuni in an
ambulance. The journey is 40 miles, along the foot of the plateau half
the way, and then we turn into the desert valley, in the midst of which
runs the Zuni River, sometimes in canyons cut in black lava. Zuni is a
town much like those already visited, except that it is a little larger.
Nothing can be more repulsive than the appearance of the streets;
irregular, crowded, and filthy, in which dogs, asses, and Indians are
mingled in confusion. In the distance Toyalone is seen, a great butte on
which an extensive ruin is found, the more ancient home of these people,
though Zuni itself appears to be hundreds of years old.  The people
speak a language radically different from that of Tusayan, and no other
tribe in the United States has a tongue related to it.

In the midst of the town there is an old Spanish church, partly in
ruins, but it is still graced with the wooden image of a saint, gayly
colored; and the old tongueless bell remains, for it was sounded with a
stone hammer held in the hand of the bellman; the marks of his blows are
deeply indented in the metal. Alvar Nunez Caveza de Vaca was the first
white man to see Zuni, when he wandered in that long journey from
Florida around by the headwaters of the Arkansas, through what is now
New Mexico and Arizona, southward to the City of Mexico. He had with him
a Barbary negro, who was killed by the Zuni, and his burial place is
still pointed out.

Among the Zuni, as among the tribes of Tusayan, the form of government
which prevails throughout the North American tribes is well illustrated.
Kinship is the tie by which the members of the tribe are bound together
as a common body of people. Each tribe is divided into a series of
clans, and a clan is a group of people that reckon kinship through the
family line. The children therefore belong to the clan of the mother.
Marriage is always without the clan; the husband and father must belong
to a different clan from the mother and children, and the children
belong to their mother and are governed by her brothers, or by her
mother's brothers if they be still living. The husband is but the guest
of the wife and the clan, and has no other authority in the family than
that acquired by personal character. If he is an able and wise man his
advice may be taken, but each clan is very jealous of its rights, and
the members do not submit to dictation from the guest husband. The woman
is not the ruler of the clan; the ruler is the patriarch or elder man,
or if he is not a man of ability a younger and more able man is chosen,
who by legal fiction is recognized as the elder. Over the officers of
the clan are the officers of the tribe,--a chief with assistant chiefs.
The organization by tribal governors varies from tribe to tribe.
Sometimes the chieftaincy is hereditary in a particular clan, but more
often the chieftaincy is elective. There is very little personal
property among the tribal people, such property being confined to
clothing, ornaments, and a few inconsiderable articles. The ownership of
the great bulk of the property inheres in the clan, such as their
houses, their patches of land, the food raised from the soil, and the
game caught in the chase. Sometimes the clans are grouped, two or more
constituting a phratry, and then there are other officers or chiefs
standing between the clan and tribal authority. Again, tribes are
sometimes organized into confederacies, and a grand confederate chief
recognized. In addition to the chieftaincy of confederate tribes,
phratries, and clans, there are councils; but these are not councils of
legislation in the ordinary sense. The councils are clans whose
decisions become a precedent. Tribal law is therefore court-made law,
and such customary law grows out of the exigencies which daily life
presents to the people. The problems as they arise are solved as best
they may be, and the deliberations of the councils look not to the
future but only to the present, and are invoked to settle controversy,
that peace may be maintained. Of course there is no written constitution
or body of laws, but there are traditional regulations which are well
preserved in the idioms of oral speech, every rule of procedure or of
justice being sooner or later coined into an aphorism.

It has been seen that a clan is a body of kinship in the female line;
but the members of the different clans are related to one another by
intermarriage. Thus the first tie is by affinity; but, as fathers belong
to other clans than the children, the tie is also by consanguinity. Thus
the entire tribe is a body of kindred, and the tribal organization is a
fabric with warp of streams of blood and woof of marriage ties. When
different tribes unite to form a confederacy for offensive or defensive
purposes, artificial kinship is established.  One tribe perhaps is
recognized as the grandfather tribe, another is the father tribe, a
third is the elder-brother tribe, a fourth is the younger-brother tribe,
etc. In these artificial kinships the members of one tribe address the
members of another tribe by kinship terms established in the treaty.
Strangers are sometimes adopted into a clan, and this gives them a
status in the tribe. The adoption is usually accomplished by the woman
claiming the individual as her youngest son or daughter, and such
adopted person has thereupon the status belonging to such a natural
child; and, though he be an adult, he calls the child born into the clan
before his advent, though it be but a year old, his elder brother or his
elder sister. Then often young men are advanced in the clan because of
superior ability, and this is done by giving them a kinship rank higher
than that belonging to their real age; so that it is not infrequently
found that old men address young men as their elder brothers and yield
to their authority. The ties of the tribe are kinship, and authority
inheres in superior age; but in order to adjust these rules so that the
abler men may be given control, artificial kinship and artificial age
are established. The civil chiefs direct the daily life of the people in
their labors.

To the civil organization of the tribe, as thus indicated, there is
added a military organization, and war chiefs are selected. But usually
these war chiefs are something more than war chiefs, for they also
constitute a constabulary to preserve peace and mete out punishment; and
young men from the various clans are designated as warriors and advanced
in military rank according to merit. There is thus a brotherhood of
warriors, and every man in this brotherhood recognizes all others of the
group as being elder or younger, and so assumes or yields authority in
all matters pertaining to war and the enforcement of criminal law.

In addition to the secular government there is always a cult
government. In every tribe there are Shamans, designated variously by
white men as "medicine men," "priests," "priest doctors," "theurgists,"
etc. In many tribes, perhaps in all, the people are organized into
Shamanistic societies; but that these societies are invariably
recognized is not certain. The Shamans are always found. Among the Zuni
there are thirteen of these cult societies. The purpose of Shamanistic
institutions is to control the conduct of the members of the tribe in
relation to mythic personages, the mysterious beings in which the savage
men believe. In the mind of the savage the world is peopled by a host of
mythic beings, anthropomorphic and zoomorphic. The difference between
man and brute recognized in civilization, is unrecognized in savagery.
All animal life is wonderful and magical co sylvan man. Wisdom, cunning,
skill, and prowess are attributed to the real animals to a degree often
greater than to man; and there are mythic animals as well as mythic
men--monsters dwelling in the mountains and caves or hiding in the
waters, who make themselves invisible as they pass over the land. Not
only are there great monsters, beasts, and reptiles in their mythology,
but there are wonderful insects and worms. All life is miraculous and
is worshiped as divine. The heavenly bodies, the sun and moon and stars,
are mythic animals, and all of the phenomena of nature are attributed to
these zoic beings. For example, the Indian knows nothing of the ambient
air. The wind is the breath of some beast, or it is a fanning which
rises from under the wings of a mythic bird. All the phenomena of
nature, the rising and setting of the sun, the waxing and waning of the
moon, the shining of the stars, the coming of comets, the flash of
meteors, the change of seasons, the gathering and vanishing of the
clouds, the blowing of the winds, the falling of the rain, the spreading
of the snow, and all other phenomena of physical nature, are held to be
the acts of these wonderful zoic deities. It is deemed of prime
importance that such deities should be induced to act in the interest of
men. Thus it is that Shamanistic government is held to be of as great
importance as tribal government, and the Shamans are the peers of the
chiefs. With some tribes the cult societies have greater powers than the
clan; with other tribes clan government is the more important; but
always there is a conflict of authority, and there is a perpetual war
between Shamanistic and civil government.

These Shamans and cult societies have a great variety of functions to
perform. All disease and all injuries are attributed to mythic beings or
to witchcraft, and on these pathologic ideas the medicine practices of
the people are based. The medicine men are sorcerers, who work wonders
in discovering witchcraft and averting its effects or in discovering the
disease-making animals and overcoming their power. So the Shamans and
the cult societies are the possessors of medicine and ceremonies
designed to prevent and cure human ailments. They also have charge of
the ceremonies necessary to avert disaster and to secure success in all
the affairs of life in peace and war; and they prescribe methods and
observances and furnish charms and amulets, and in every way possible
control human conduct in its relation to the unknown. No small part of
savage life is devoted to cult ceremonies and observances. The hunter
cannot penetrate the forest without his charm; the woman cannot plant
corn until a ceremony is performed for securing the blessings of some
divine being. Religious festivals and ceremonies are carried on for days
and weeks. A war must be submitted to the gods, and a sneeze demands a

Our arrival at Fort Wingate practically ended the exploration of the
great valley of the Colorado. This was in 1870. In 1891 we can look back
upon the completion of the survey of all of that region, for it has now
been carefully mapped. The geology of the country has been studied, and
the tribes which inhabit it have been subjects of careful research. This
work has been carried on by a large corps of men, and interesting
results have accrued.



The Grand Canyon is a gorge 217 miles in length, through which flows a
great river with many storm-born tributaries. It has a winding way, as
rivers are wont to have. Its banks are vast structures of adamant, piled
up in forms rarely seen in the mountains.

Down by the river the walls are composed of black gneiss, slates, and
schists, all greatly implicated and traversed by dikes of granite. Let
this formation be called the black gneiss. It is usually about 800 feet
in thickness.

Then over the black gneiss are found 800 feet of quartzites, usually in
very thin beds of many colors, but exceedingly hard, and ringing under
the hammer like phonolite. These beds are dipping and unconformable with
the rocks above; while they make but 800 feet of the wall or less, they
have a geological thickness of 12,000 feet. Set up a row of books
aslant; it is 10 inches from the shelf to the top of the line of books,
but there may be 3 feet of the books measured directly through the
leaves. So these quartzites are aslant, and though of great geologic
thickness, they make but 800 feet of the wall. Your books may have
many-colored bindings and differ greatly in their contents; so these
quartzites vary greatly from place to place along the wall, and in many
places they entirely disappear. Let us call this formation the
variegated quartzite.

Above the quartzites there are 500 feet of sandstones. They are of a
greenish hue, but are mottled with spots of brown and black by iron
stains. They usually stand in a bold cliff, weathered in alcoves. Let
this formation be called the cliff sandstone.

Above the cliff sandstone there are 700 feet of bedded sandstones and
limestones, which are massive sometimes and sometimes broken into thin
strata. These rocks are often weathered in deep alcoves. Let this
formation be called the alcove sandstone.

Over the alcove sandstone there are 1,600 feet of limestone, in many
places a beautiful marble, as in Marble Canyon. As it appears along the
Grand Canyon it is always stained a brilliant red, for immediately over
it there are thin seams of iron, and the storms have painted these
limestones with pigments from above. Altogether this is the red-wall
group. It is chiefly limestone. Let it be called the red wall limestone.

Above the red wall there are 800 feet of gray and bright red sandstone,
alternating in beds that look like vast ribbons of landscape. Let it be
called the banded sandstone.

And over all, at the top of the wall, is the Aubrey limestone, 1,000
feet in thickness. This Aubrey has much gypsum in it, great beds of
alabaster that are pure white in comparison with the great body of
limestone below. In the same limestone there are enormous beds of chert,
agates, and carnelians. This limestone is especially remarkable for its
pinnacles and towers. Let it be called the tower limestone.

Now recapitulate: The black gneiss below, 800 feet in thickness; the
variegated quartzite, 800 feet in thickness; the cliff sandstone, 500
feet in thickness; the alcove sandstone, 700 feet in thickness; the red
wall limestone, 1,600 feet in thickness; the banded sandstone, 800 feet
in thickness; the tower limestone, 1,000 feet in thickness.

These are the elements with which the walls are constructed, from black
buttress below to alabaster tower above. All of these elements weather
in different forms and are painted in different colors, so that the wall
presents a highly complex facade. A wall of homogeneous granite, like
that in the Yosemite, is but a naked wall, whether it be 1,000 or 5,000
feet high. Hundreds and thousands of feet mean nothing to the eye when
they stand in a meaningless front. A mountain covered by pure snow
10,000 feet high has but little more effect on the imagination than a
mountain of snow 1,000 feet high--it is but more of the same thing; but
a facade of seven systems of rock has its sublimity multiplied

Let the effect of this multiplied facade be more clearly realized. Stand
by the river side at some point where only the black gneiss is seen. A
precipitous wall of mountain rises over the river, with crag and
pinnacle and cliff in black and brown, and through it runs an angular
pattern of red and gray dikes of granite. It is but a mountain cliff
which may be repeated in many parts of the world, except that it is
singularly naked of vegetation, and the few plants that find footing are
of strange tropical varieties and are conspicuous because of their

Now climb 800 feet and a point of view is reached where the variegated
quartzites are seen. At the summit of the black gneiss a terrace is
found, and, set back of this terrace, walls of elaborate sculpture
appear, 800 feet in height. This is due to the fact that though the
rocks are exceedingly hard they are in very thin layers or strata, and
these strata are not horizontal, but stand sometimes on edge, sometimes
highly inclined, and sometimes gently inclined. In these variegated beds
there are many deep recesses and sharp salients, everywhere set with
crags, and the wall is buttressed by a steep talus in many places. In
the sheen of the midday sun, these rocks, which are besprinkled with
quartz crystals, gleam like walls of diamonds.

A climb of 800 feet over the variegated beds and the foot of the cliff
sandstone is reached. It is usually olive green, with spots of brown and
black, and presents 500 feet of vertical wall over the variegated
sandstone. The dark green is in fine contrast with the variegated beds
below and the red wall above.

Climb these 500 feet and you stand on the cliff sandstone. A terrace
appears, and sometimes a wall of terraces set with alcoves of marvelous
structure. Climb to the summit of this alcove sandstone--700 feet--and
you stand at the foot of the red wall limestone. Sometimes this stands
in two, three, or four Cyclopean steps--a mighty stairway. Oftener the
red wall stands in a vertical cliff 1,600 feet high. It is the most
conspicuous feature of the grand facade and imparts its chief
characteristic. All below is but a foundation for it; all above, but an
entablature and sky-line of gable, tower, pinnacle, and spire. It is not
a plain, unbroken wall, but is broken into vast amphitheaters, often
miles abound, between great angular salients. The amphitheaters also are
broken into great niches that are sometimes vast chambers and sometimes
royal arches 500 or 1,000 feet in height.

Over the red wall limestone, with its amphitheaters, chambers, niches,
and royal arches--a climb of 1,600 feet--is the banded sandstone, the
entablature over the niched and columned marble, an adamantine molding
800 feet in thickness, stretching along the walls of the canyon through
hundreds of miles. This banded sandstone has massive strata separated by
friable shales. The massive strata are the horizontal elements in the
entablature, but the intervening shales are carved with a beautiful
fretwork of vertical forms, the sculpture of the rills. The massive
sandstones are white, gray, blue, and purple, but the shales are a
brilliant red; thus variously colored bands of massive rock are
separated by bands of vertically carved shales of a brilliant hue.

On these highly colored beds the tower limestone is found, 1,000 feet in
height. Everywhere this is carved into towers, minarets, and domes, gray
and cold, golden and warm, alabaster and pure, in wonderful variety.

Such are the vertical elements of which the Grand Canyon facade is
composed. Its horizontal elements must next be considered. The river
meanders in great curves, which are themselves broken into curves of
smaller magnitude. The streams that head far back in the plateau on
either side come down in gorges and break the wall into sections. Each
lateral canyon has a secondary system of laterals, and the secondary
canyons are broken by tertiary canyons; so the crags are forever
branching, like the limbs of an oak. That which has been described as a
wall is such only in its grand effect. In detail it is a series of
structures separated by a ramification of canyons, each having its own
walls. Thus, in passing down the canyon it seems to be inclosed by
walls, but oftener by salients--towering structures that stand between
canyons that run back into the plateau. Sometimes gorges of the second
or third order have met before reaching the brink of the Grand Canyon,
and then great salients are cut off from the wall and stand out as
buttes--huge pavilions in the architecture of the canyon. The scenic
elements thus described are fused and combined in very different ways.

We measured the length of the Grand Canyon by the length of the river
running through it, but the running extent of wall cannot be measured in
this manner. In the black gneiss, which is at the bottom, the wall may
stand above the river for a few hundred yards or a mile or two; then, to
follow the foot of the wall, you must pass into a lateral canyon for a
long distance, perhaps miles, and then back again on the other side of
the lateral canyon; then along by the river until another lateral canyon
is reached, which must be headed in the black gneiss. So, for a dozen
miles of river through the gneiss, there may be a hundred miles of wall
on either side. Climbing to the summit of the black gneiss and following
the wall in the variegated quartzite, it is found to be stretched out to
a still greater length, for it is cut with more lateral gorges. In like
manner, there is yet greater length of the mottled, or alcove, sandstone
wall; and the red wall is still farther stretched out in ever branching
gorges. To make the distance for ten miles along the river by walking
along the top of the red wall, it would be necessary to travel several
hundred miles. The length of the wall reaches its maximum in the banded
sandstone, which is terraced more than any of the other formations. The
tower limestone wall is less tortuous.  To start at the head of the
Grand Canyon on one of the terraces of the banded sandstone and follow
it to the foot of the Grand Canyon, which by river is a distance of 217
miles, it would be necessary to travel many thousand miles by the
winding Way; that is, the banded wall is many thousand miles in length.

Stand at some point on the brink of the Grand Canyon where you can
overlook the river, and the details of the structure, the vast labyrinth
of gorges of which it is composed, are scarcely noticed; the elements
are lost in the grand effect, and a broad, deep, flaring gorge of many
colors is seen. But stand down among these gorges and the landscape
seems to be composed of huge vertical elements of wonderful form. Above,
it is an open, sunny gorge; below, it is deep and gloomy. Above, it is a
chasm; below, it is a stairway from gloom to heaven.

The traveler in the region of mountains sees vast masses piled up in
gentle declivities to the clouds. To see mountains in this way is to
appreciate the masses of which they are composed. But the climber among
the glaciers sees the elements of which this mass is composed,--that it
is made of cliffs and towers and pinnacles, with intervening gorges, and
the smooth billows of granite seen from afar are transformed into cliffs
and caves and towers and minarets. These two aspects of mountain scenery
have been seized by painters, and in their art two classes of mountains
are represented: mountains with towering forms that seem ready to topple
in the first storm, and mountains in masses that seem to frown defiance
at the tempests. Both classes have told the truth. The two aspects are
sometimes caught by our painters severally; sometimes they are combined.
Church paints a mountain like a kingdom of glory. Bierstadt paints a
mountain cliff where an eagle is lost from sight ere he reaches the
summit. Thomas Moran marries these great characteristics, and in his
infinite masses cliffs of immeasurable height are seen.

Thus the elements of the facade of the Grand Canyon change vertically
and horizontally. The details of structure can be seen only at close
view, but grand effects of structure can be witnessed in great panoramic
scenes. Seen in detail, gorges and precipices appear; seen at a
distance, in comprehensive views, vast massive structures are presented.
The traveler on the brink looks from afar and is overwhelmed with the
sublimity of massive forms; the traveler among the gorges stands in the
presence of awful mysteries, profound, solemn, and gloomy.

For 8 or 10 miles below the mouth of the Little Colorado, the river is
in the variegated quartzites, and a wonderful fretwork of forms and
colors, peculiar to this rock, stretches back for miles to a labyrinth
of the red wall cliff; then below, the black gneiss is entered and soon
has reached an altitude of 800 feet and sometimes more than 1,000 feet;
and upon this black gneiss all the other structures in their wonderful
colors are lifted. These continue for about 70 miles, when the black
gneiss below is lost, for the walls are dropped down by the West Kaibab
Fault, and the river flows in the quartzites.

Then for 80 miles the mottled, or alcove, sandstones are found in the
river bed. The course of the canyon is a little south of west and is
comparatively straight. At the top of the red wall limestone there is a
broad terrace, two or three miles in width, composed of hills of
wonderful forms carved in the banded beds, and back of this is seen a
cliff in the tower limestone. Along the lower course of this stretch the
whole character of the canyon is changed by another set of complicating
conditions. We have now reached a region of volcanic activity. After the
canyons were cut nearly to their present depth, lavas poured out and
volcanoes were built on the walls of the canyon, but not in the canyon
itself, though at places rivers of molten rock rolled down the walls
into the Colorado.

The next 80 miles of the canyon is a compound of that found where the
river is in the black gneiss and that found where the dead volcanoes
stand on the brink of the wall. In the first stretch, where the gneiss
is at the foundation, we have a great bend to the south, and in the last
stretch, where the gneiss is below and the dead volcanoes above, another
great southern detour is found. These two great beds are separated by 80
miles of comparatively straight river. Let us call this first great bend
the Kaibab reach of the canyon, and the straight part the Kanab reach,
for the Kanab Creek heads far off in the plateau to the north and joins
the Colorado at the beginning of the middle stretch. The third great
southern bend is the Shiwits stretch. Thus there are three distinct
portions of the Grand Canyon of the Colorado: the Kaibab section,
characterized more by its buttes and salients; the Kanab section,
characterized by its comparatively straight walls with volcanoes on the
brink; and the Shiwits section, which is broken into great terraces with
gneiss at the bottom and volcanoes at the top.

The Grand Canyon of the Colorado is a canyon composed of many canyons.
It is a composite of thousands, of tens of thousands, of gorges. In like
manner, each wall of the canyon is a composite structure, a wall
composed of many walls, but never a repetition. Every one of these
almost innumerable gorges is a world of beauty in itself. In the Grand
Canyon there are thousands of gorges like that below Niagara Palls, and
there are a thousand Yosemites. Yet all these canyons unite to form one
grand canyon, the most sublime spectacle on the earth. Pluck up Mt.
Washington by the roots to the level of the sea and drop it headfirst
into the Grand Canyon, and the dam will not force its waters over the
walls. Pluck up the Blue Ridge and hurl it into the Grand Canyon, and it
will not fill it.

The carving of the Grand Canyon is the work of rains and rivers. The
vast labyrinth of canyon by which the plateau region drained by the
Colorado is dissected is also the work of waters. Every river has
excavated its own gorge and every creek has excavated its gorge. When a
shower comes in this land, the rills carve canyons--but a little at each
storm; and though storms are far apart and the heavens above are
cloudless for most of the days of the year, still, years are plenty in
the ages, and an intermittent rill called to life by a shower can do
much work in centuries of centuries.

The erosion represented in the canyons, although vast, is but a small
part of the great erosion of the region, for between the cliffs blocks
have been carried away far superior in magnitude to those necessary to
fill the canyons. Probably there is no portion of the whole region from
which there have not been more than a thousand feet degraded, and there
are districts from which more than 30,000 feet of rock have been carried
away. Altogether, there is a district of country more than 200,000
square miles in extent from which on the average more than 6,000 feet
have been eroded. Consider a rock 200,000 square miles in extent and a
mile in thickness, against which the clouds have hurled their storms and
beat it into sands and the rills have carried the sands into the creeks
and the creeks have carried them into the rivers and the Colorado has
carried them into the sea. We think of the mountains as forming clouds
about their brows, but the clouds have formed the mountains. Great
continental blocks are upheaved from beneath the sea by internal
geologic forces that fashion the earth. Then the wandering clouds, the
tempest-bearing clouds, the rainbow-decked clouds, with mighty power and
with wonderful skill, carve out valleys and canyons and fashion hills
and cliffs and mountains. The clouds are the artists sublime.

In winter some of the characteristics of the Grand Canyon are
emphasized. The black gneiss below, the variegated quartzite, and the
green or alcove sandstone form the foundation for the mighty red wall.
The banded sandstone entablature is crowned by the tower limestone. In
winter this is covered with snow. Seen from below, these changing
elements seem to graduate into the heavens, and no plane of demarcation
between wall and blue firmament can be seen. The heavens constitute a
portion of the facade and mount into a vast dome from wall to wall,
spanning the Grand Canyon with empyrean blue. So the earth and the
heavens are blended in one vast structure.

When the clouds play in the canyon, as they often do in the rainy
season, another set of effects is produced. Clouds creep out of canyons
and wind into other canyons. The heavens seem to be alive, not moving as
move the heavens over a plain, in one direction with the wind, but
following the multiplied courses of these gorges. In this manner the
little clouds seem to be individualized, to have wills and souls of
their own, and to be going on diverse errands--a vast assemblage of
self-willed clouds, faring here and there, intent upon purposes hidden
in their own breasts. In the imagination the clouds belong to the sky,
and when they are in the canyon the skies come down into the gorges and
cling to the cliffs and lift them up to immeasurable heights, for the
sky must still be far away. Thus they lend infinity to the walls.

The wonders of the Grand Canyon cannot be adequately represented in
symbols of speech, nor by speech itself. The resources of the graphic
art are taxed beyond their powers in attempting to portray its features.
Language and illustration combined must fail. The elements that unite to
make the Grand Canyon the most sublime spectacle in nature are
multifarious and exceedingly diverse. The Cyclopean forms which result
from the sculpture of tempests through ages too long for man to compute,
are wrought into endless details, to describe which would be a task
equal in magnitude to that of describing the stars of the heavens or the
multitudinous beauties of the forest with its traceries of foliage
presented by oak and pine and poplar, by beech and linden and hawthorn,
by tulip and lily and rose, by fern and moss and lichen. Besides the
elements of form, there are elements of color, for here the colors of
the heavens are rivaled by the colors of the rocks. The rainbow is not
more replete with hues. But form and color do not exhaust all the divine
qualities of the Grand Canyon. It is the land of music. The river
thunders in perpetual roar, swelling in floods of music when the storm
gods play upon the rocks and fading away in soft and low murmurs when
the infinite blue of heaven is unveiled. With the melody of the great
tide rising and falling, swelling and vanishing forever, other melodies
are heard in the gorges of the lateral canyons, while the waters plunge
in the rapids among the rocks or leap in great cataracts. Thus the Grand
Canyon, is a land of song. Mountains of music swell in the rivers, hills
of music billow in the creeks, and meadows of music murmur in the rills
that ripple over the rocks. Altogether it is a symphony of multitudinous
melodies. All this is the music of waters. The adamant foundations of
the earth have been wrought into a sublime harp, upon which the clouds
of the heavens play with mighty tempests or with gentle showers.

The glories and the beauties of form, color, and sound unite in the
Grand Canyon--forms unrivaled even by the mountains, colors that vie
with sunsets, and sounds that span the diapason from tempest to tinkling
raindrop, from cataract to bubbling fountain. But more: it is a vast
district of country. Were it a valley plain it would make a state. It
can be seen only in parts from hour to hour and from day to day and from
week to week and from month to month. A year scarcely suffices to see it
all. It has infinite variety, and no part is ever duplicated. Its
colors, though many and complex at any instant, change with the
ascending and declining sun; lights and shadows appear and vanish with
the passing clouds, and the changing seasons mark their passage in
changing colors. You cannot see the Grand Canyon in one view, as if it
were a changeless spectacle from which a curtain might be lifted, but to
see it you have to toil from month to month through its labyrinths. It
is a region more difficult to traverse than the Alps or the Himalayas,
but if strength and courage are sufficient for the task, by a year's
toil a concept of sublimity can be obtained never again to be equaled on
the hither side of Paradise.


Apache Indians, home and character of the

Art, ancient, vestiges of, in the Gila and Colorado valleys

Bad lands, formation and characteristics of the

Bad lands of Green River

Baker, John, a famous mountaineer

Bierstadt, how he paints a mountain

Boats and cargoes, description of

Bosque Redondo, Navajos on a reservation at the

Bradley, G. T., a member of the expedition

Bradley rescues others from the water

Buttes, mesas, plateaus, distinction between

Canyon cutting in the upper Colorado basin

Cavate or cliff dwellings of the Tewan Indians

Caves in a volcanic crater used as habitations by Indians

Caves in cliffs used as habitations by Indians

Ceremony at Shupaulovi to bring rain

Chambers excavated in volcanic ashes by Indians for habitations

Chumehueva Indians, low condition and former home of the

Church, how he paints a mountain

Cinder-cone town formerly inhabited by Indians

Cliff dwellings of the Tewan Indians

Cliff village of Walnut Cany on

Collecting specimens of the art of Tusayan

Colorado Canyon broken by lateral canyons

Colorado Desert, singular characteristics of the

Crater town formerly inhabited by Indians

Cult societies among the Indiana

Death, supposed, of the author

Digger Indians, the original

Dunn, W. H., a member of the expedition

Dunn, W. H., abandons the party and is killed by Indians

Freebooters of the Plateau Province

Fremont's Peak, height of and view from

Garfield, J. A., insists on the publication of the history of the

Goodman, Frank, a member of the expedition

Goodman, Frank, leaves the party

Government, civil, military, and religious, among the tribes of Tusayan

Grand Canyon, how formed

Grand Canyon, the most sublime spectacle on earth

Grand Canyon walls, elements of and height of

Hall, Andrew, a member of the expedition

Hano, a visit to

Hano, location and language of

Hawkins, W. R., a member of the expedition

Rowland, O. G., a member of the expedition

Rowland, Seneca, a member of the expedition

Howland and Dunn abandon the party and are killed by Indians

Instruments, tools, rations, etc.

Irrigation and hydraulic works built by the Indians

Irrigation developed by the Navajo and other Indians

Killing by the Shivwits of the three men who left the party

Kinship ties among the tribes of North America

Kit Carson, leadership of, against the Navajos

Maricopa Indians, home and character of the

Marriage and kinship ties among the North American Indians

Mashongnavi, a visit to

Mashongnavi, location and language of

Medicine-man as historian, priest, and doctor

Men who composed the exploring party

Mesas, plateaus, buttes, distinction between

Mogollon Escarpment, description of the

Mojave Indians, former home and life of the

Moran, Thomas, how he paints a mountain

Moran, Thomas, painting of "The Chasm of the Colorado"

Myth, Indian, of the origin of the Colorado Canyon and River

Myth of the Sokus Waiunats, or One-Two Boys

Mythic stories of the Ute and other Indians

Navajo Indians, home, characteristics, language, art, etc., of the

Oraibi, a visit to

Oraibi, collecting the arts of the people of

Oraibi, life at

Oraibi, location and language of

Painted Desert region, description of the

Papago Indians, home and character of the

Pestilence and war causes of abandonment of pueblos and rancherias

Pima Indians, home and character of the

Plateaus, mesas, buttes, distinction between

Powell, W. H., a member of the expedition

Pueblo Indians, languages and culture of the

Rabbit snaring by the Utes

Rations, clothing, ammunition, tools, and scientific instruments

Rescued from a perilous position

Ruins in the Grand Canyon region

Ruins of ancient pueblo-building tribes in the valley of the Little
Colorado and vicinity

Ruins of ancient pueblo-building tribes on San Francisco Plateau

Ruins of cavate or cliff dwellings of the Tewan Indians

Scenic features of the Canyon land

Shivwits chief talks

Shoshone Indians, home and life of the

Shumopavi, a visit to

Shumopavi, location and language of

Shupaulovi, a visit to

Shupaulovi, location and language of

Sichumovi, a visit to

Sichumovi, location and language of

Snake dance at Walpi

Sokus Waiunats, or One-Two Boys

Spanish expeditions and conquerors in the Southwest

Starting from Green River City for the Canyon

Stories, mythic, of the Ute and other Indians

Storm below the beholder

Sumner, J. C., a member of the expedition

Thousand Wells

Timber region of Arizona, description of the

Trumbull. Mount, ascent of

Tusayan, the seven pueblos of

Tusayan, tribes of, government among the

Tusayan, two weeks spent at

Uinta Indians, home of the

Ute Indians, home, life, dress, etc., of the

Volcanic dust, enormous amount of, on Tewan Plateau

Walpi, a visit to

Walpi, location and language of

War and pestilence causes of abandonment of pueblos and rancherias

Yellowstone Park, the land of geyser wonders

Yuma Indians, former home and life of the

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