Part 23

Previous to Major Powell’s bold expedition down this subterranean river, about twenty years ago, it was practically a _terra_ (or rather _aqua_) _incognita_. For a party of scientific men and artists to venture in a few frail boats down this sun-forsaken river, shut in for over five hundred miles by precipitous walls rising sometimes over a mile and a half on both sides, not knowing how soon they would be dashed to pieces on the rocks below a water-fall, or sucked into a suffocating tunnel, or starved to death by losing their provisions, was surely one of the most heroic deeds on record, comparable to Columbus’s expedition on the unknown, illimitable ocean in search of a new world. It was a Jules Verne novel realized; and I know of no romance more fascinating in its narrative and more poetic in its descriptions of scenery, than Major Powell’s account of this expedition, which is unfortunately buried amidst the government reports of geological surveys. At least four hundred rapids, eddies, whirlpools, falls, and cascades were encountered, and many were the hair-breadth escapes. They were chilled at night, and in the daytime the thermometer sometimes rose to 115°, in this river dungeon, amidst a forest-like gloom; but still they had to go on, for return was impossible, as they knew very well before they started. Sometimes the water hurried along their boats with the speed of railroad trains. The rocks on both sides would roll the water into the centre in great waves, and the boats would go leaping and bounding over these “like black-tail deer jumping the logs” which strew the forests. Indians have come to grief here. In the onomatopoetic description given by one of them, “The rocks h-e-a-p high; the water go h-oo-woogh, h-oo-woogh; water-pony [boat] h-e-a-p buck; water catch ’em; no see.”

I cannot resist the temptation to quote two more brief passages from Major Powell’s pages, describing portions of the Marble and Grand Cañons. “The walls of the Cañon, twenty-five hundred feet high, are of marble, of many beautiful colors, and often polished below by the waves, or 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, which gleams in iridescent beauty.” “In other regions the rocks, when not covered with soil, or more vigorous vegetation, are at least lichened, or stained, and the rocks themselves are of sombre hue, but in this region they are naked, and many of them brightly colored, as if painted by artist-gods; not stained and daubed with inharmonious hues, but beautiful as flowers and gorgeous as the clouds. Such are the walls of the Grand Cañon of the Colorado where it divides the twin plateaus.”

No one can read even these few extracts without feeling convinced of the truth of Captain Dutton’s remark that the Colorado Cañon is “a great innovation in modern ideas of scenery, and in our conception of the grandeur, beauty, and power of nature”; and without wishing to see a portion at least of this Cañon. The Atlantic and Pacific Railroad is at present the only one which brings tourists into its vicinity; and the station to get off at is Peach Spring, about eighteen hours’ ride from Los Angeles, and situated twenty-three miles south of the Grand Cañon. The region between Los Angeles and Peach Spring presents many attractive features. First comes the city of Pasadena, with its large hotel, charmingly situated near the foot of the mountains, the sides of which present a peculiar wavy appearance. In some places they are curiously furrowed and crevassed, as if the very mountains had split themselves up into town lots during “boom” times. The surface is bare in the autumn except for a few trees near the rocky summits; but in spring the lower slopes are covered by millions of fragrant flowers, springing as by magic from the dust. Other picturesquely situated villages follow, some of which are destined no doubt to become flourishing towns. At present they are a curious compound of unfinished buildings, tents, and Mexican mud or adobe houses.

As the train proceeds in a northeastern direction, towards Barstow, the region of alternative ocean and mountain breezes is gradually left behind, and an arid desert of cactus, sand, and rocks is traversed. The sun’s rays, no longer tempered by the ocean and mountain refrigerators, have it all their own way, and the wind is powerless in their clutches. For although a strong breeze is blowing, it feels like a blast from a hot furnace, so that one hesitates whether to keep the car windows open and desiccate, or closed and suffocate. Peach Spring I found to be an Arizona village consisting of five saloons, six dwelling-houses, a “stage” office, and an Indian camp in the background. It is so called, apparently, because no _peach_ grows within a hundred miles, and because the only _spring_ in the neighborhood is four miles from the depot, whence the water is pumped to the station with an engine fed with coal that is brought there from the station. Mr. Farlee, the man who has this coal contract, also undertakes to convey tourists to the Grand Cañon. He is an intelligent man, whose enterprise has built a fair road, twenty-three miles in length, generally along or in a dry river-bed, which, after every freshet, calls for extra labor in clearing away the rocks wildly strewn about by the strong current. As there is no possibility of missing this road, I secured a pony of Mr. Farlee, and started alone for the Cañon; and on the whole way I saw no soul except an Indian, who rather suspiciously went behind a tree near the road as I approached. Being weaponless, I met any possible scalp-hunting propensities on his part by a cordial “Good morning,” which he as cordially echoed. The Indians of this neighborhood are lazy, and, with few exceptions, refuse to do any work even for good pay. Their filthiness, also, is great; and no wonder, considering that the nearest spring is four miles away and monopolized by the railroad company.

A mile or two beyond this spring is another one, where the horse may be watered. During the remaining eighteen miles there is only one spring, and if the traveller misses that, he has to suffer agonies of thirst, unless he has wisely provided himself with a flask of tea or lemonade. The brisk, hot breeze which sometimes blows only aids the physiological desiccating process, and the result is a temporary dipsomania, in the frenzy of which one would gladly give a gold coin for a glass of lemonade. Nothing but forbidding cactus and a few similar tough and spiny plants can resist this heat; hence the whole region seems barren, and the few animals one may chance to see—a hawk, butterfly, rabbit, or catamount—but add to the desolation of the scene. There is not a sound in the air, and the silence is as absolute as on an Alpine snowfield, or in mid-ocean during a calm. The slightest sound made in urging on the weary horse is echoed by the hill-sides though they are several miles away.

The mountain scenery is unique and grand, and becomes more so the nearer we approach the Grand Cañon. For the road is a regular _descensus Averno_, taking us deeper and deeper down between the mountain walls; and when we reach the end of it we are almost a mile nearer the sea-level than we were at Peach Spring.

At a spot about a mile from the river Mr. Farlee intends to erect a large hotel. Sandstone, granite, and other fine building-material lie about in profusion, and only need to be hewn and piled up architecturally. At present there is nothing but a very primitive hut, with accommodations for about a dozen persons. The inn is run by one man, whose special duty it also is to keep his end of the road in order; and a lonely life he must lead in this solitary hut, twenty miles from any other human habitation. When there are no guests to take care of, he fills his canteen with water and starts up the valley, to roll the stones out of the road. In the evening he wraps himself in his blanket and goes to sleep, with the starry firmament for a roof, regardless of possible disagreeable neighbors, such as centipedes or rattlesnakes. He says he sleeps in the open air two-thirds of the time, and has not been ill for thirty-five years. Yet the heat in this part of the Cañon (which is so deep that stars are often visible in the daytime, and at night I saw a million more stars than ever before) must be a terrible strain on his system, as it sometimes rises to 120° in the shade, with not a breath of air.

I shall never forgive this man, or his employer, for having nothing sour in the house except a spoonful of very bad vinegar—no pickles, lemons, or even a grain of lemon sugar, which, by the way, every traveller in hot regions should always carry with him. So I had to content myself, on arrival, with tea and water. The water is good, although superstitious people might hesitate to drink it, as it comes from a brook—Diamond Creek—which seems to be bewitched. Just in front of the hotel a portion of this creek, about half a mile in length, disappears every day towards noon, although above and below this place it flows on merrily and abundantly. About ten o’clock at night the water suddenly returns to the deserted portion of its bed. Mr. Farlee has repeatedly dug down many feet to find the subterranean brook-bed, but in vain. It almost seems as if the water, after leaving the cool and deep Diamond Cañon, were afraid of being absorbed by the superheated air in the open space in which the hotel is situated, and therefore concealed itself underground.

I still felt so desiccated, after my four cups of tea and about ten glasses of lukewarm water, that I made the man in charge of the hotel promise to wake me at 10 P.M., as soon as the mysterious creek commenced to run again. He did so, depositing a bucket of the water at my bed, and it was delightfully cool and refreshing. A breeze had sprung up, and the night air was tolerably cool; but the man slept out of doors all the same.

Possibly there may be a poetic Indian legend accounting in some such manner for the fact that even the broad Colorado River has in this region dug its way into the bowels of the earth so deeply that it now runs more than a mile below the summit of its precipitous banks. Yet, after all, there lies more poetry and sublimity in the scientific account of the manner in which the soft water has, by infinitesimal degrees, worn its channel through these hard rocks, and even through the lava, with which Major Powell thinks this river-bed has been filled more than once: “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!” But it must be frankly admitted that those who visit the Grand Cañon, with anticipations at fever heat from reading Powell’s exciting and poetic description of his adventurous trip down the Colorado, will be somewhat disappointed at first sight of this river. It is about a mile from Farlee’s inn, and is reached by following Diamond Creek, which empties into it. On comparing the mud color of the Colorado with the crystalline purity of this creek, one realizes to what the latter might owe its name.[2] Rapid the Colorado is, and broad, and its walls do rise to the height of a mile, but they slope and recede towards the background, and in vain does the tourist look for the “granite prison walls” rising abruptly from the edge of the water, and almost meeting above so as to shut out the daylight, their sides adorned with floating clouds and with the water-falls and cascades of tributary streams.

[2] It is said, however, that the creek owes its name to the fact that diamonds were once “planted” here, to deceive investors.

Yet in truth it is foolish to look for all these things here—to expect that all the wonders of Mr. Powell’s long and perilous tour should be concentrated in one place for the convenience of tourists. The fact is, that the most sublime portions of the Cañon are at present inaccessible except to those who are willing to undergo the same dangers and hardships as Major Powell. One can readily believe the legends of parched travellers wandering along the brink of this Cañon for days, and “perishing with thirst at last, in sight of the river which was roaring its mockery into dying ears.” Powell himself once spent four days wandering along the river, trying to get down. Diamond Creek seems to afford the only entrance to the Grand Cañon. The Atlantic and Pacific Railroad entertains a project of building an eighty-mile branch road from Flagstaff to the Cañon. Such a road would offer many attractions, as it would pass by some of the ancient cliff dwellings and the snow-capped San Francisco Mountains. It would, however, arrive at the top instead of at the bottom of the Cañon, which would thus lose some of its cathedral grandeur. Possibly the tourists might be let down to the river by means of a miner’s shaft, in which case a ride of a few miles down the river on a boat (or “water-pony,” as the Indians call it) should be added to the programme. But this would be at the Marble Cañon. For the Grand Cañon, Peach Spring will probably remain the stopping station; and for their partial disappointment in the Grand Cañon itself, tourists will be amply repaid by a visit to the Diamond Cañon, which is reached by going up Diamond Creek, a few miles from Mr. Farlee’s inn. Here they will find what they longed to see,—perpendicular, awe-inspiring walls, not, indeed, a mile, but more than half a mile, in height (twenty-seven hundred feet), topped with fanciful pinnacles and domes, and producing a feeling of gloomy sublimity as refreshing to the soul as the coolness of this granite prison is to the body.

Diamond Cañon and the Grand Cañon may be visited on the day of arrival at Farlee’s inn. Leaving the afternoon of the second day for the return to Peach Spring, no visitor should fail to ascend Prospect Point, which forms one of the banks of the river, in the morning. It is an hour’s hard climb from the inn, but it repays the toil a hundred-fold. From the summit one obtains several picturesque glimpses of the yellow Colorado, afar down, where it seems a mere brook; and of course the surrounding mountains do not appear in their true size and grandeur until one sees them from this elevated point of view. These mountains all have a curious family likeness. Their basis is always formed by a striated, vertical layer, reddish or brown; then follows a story or layer which slopes like a roof, suggesting human architectural efforts, but on a scale of infinite grandeur; and above this are several more distinct strata towering straight into the skies. It is the constant sight of these superb and unique mountains, on the way from Peach Spring, that partly prevents tourists from being as deeply impressed as they would otherwise be at first sight of the Grand Cañon. “They get their belly full before they reach the river,” as Mr. Farlee forcibly remarked.

After leaving Peach Spring, east-bound tourists may, if they have time, stop over at several places of interest which will claim a day each,—cliff dwellings, San Francisco Mountains, Pueblo villages, Santa Fé, etc. If they lack time, the car window still affords many pleasant sights which charm, even after the Grand Cañon, including the Cañon Diablo, two hundred and twenty-two feet deep, which the train bridges in the midst of a plain. Beyond Albuquerque the evidence multiplies that water is more abundant, and New Mexico has many picturesque and healthful spots, with wooded hills and green meadows, which only await the arrival of pioneers to be soon converted into populous and flourishing districts. Small pine forests make their appearance, and one readily understands why they are locally known as “parks,” so clear are they of all underbrush and rubbish. In Kansas, bits of local color present themselves in the shape of immense herds of cattle, the three guardian angels of one of which (alias cowboys) race with the train quite successfully for a short distance. But while all these incidents and scenes are apt to be soon forgotten, the Grand Cañon remains stereotyped in the memory, where fresh copies can always be produced at will. “Great as is the fame of the Grand Cañon of the Colorado, the half remains to be told,” as Captain Dutton remarks in his “Tertiary History of the Grand Cañon,” the eighth chapter of which, “The Panorama from Point Sublime,” is one of the most valuable essays on natural æsthetics ever written, and should be read by all who make the Great American Scenic Tour.

INDEX.

Abalone shells, 69.

Alaska, 231–247.

Anaheim, 36.

Astoria, 187.

Avalon, 69.

Banff, 267.

Berkeley, 123.

Berries, Oregon, 179.

Big Trees, 102.

Cable-cars, 108, 111.

Cactus, 37.

California, Preface, 1–154.

Camping, 31.

Canadian National Park, 268–276.

Canadian Pacific Railroad, 248–261.

Carson City, 142.

Cascade Range, 184.

Catalina Island, 45, 58–74.

Cattle-raising, 20.

Chinese in California, 80, 112–120; in Oregon, 166–171, 186.

Chula Vista, 52.

Clatsop, 176.

Climate, in Southern California, Preface, 7, 25–31, 34, 49, 60, 78; in San Francisco, 123, 127; in Oregon, 161; in Washington, 230.

Coal, in Washington, 221.

Columbia River, 182–202, 258, 266.

Coronado, 49.

Crater Lake, 156.

Dalles, the, 201.

Desert, 3, 80.

Devil’s Head Lake, 271.

Diamond Creek, 303.

Donner Lake, 128.

El Paso, 3.

Elsinore Lake, 47.

Eucalyptus, 9.

Farming, 19.

Ferns, 173, 178.

Fir-trees, 181, 237.

Fishing, Catalina Island, 71; Tahoe Lake, 137; Columbia River, salmon, 186; Devil’s Head Lake, 272; Yellowstone, 290.

Flowers, in California, 26, 48, 69, 78, 83, 106; in Oregon, 179.

Foothills, 21.

Forest colors, 266; fires, 219, 248.

Frazer River, 235.

Fruit, Southern California, 10; Oregon, 160, 180.

Fullerton, 6.

Glacier Bay, 246; Glacier House, 259.

Goats, wild, 67.

Grand Cañon, Colorado, 295–305; Yellowstone, 291.

Grapes, 12.

Hood, Mt., 163, 184, 190, 200, 204–206.

Humming-birds, 64.

Ilwaco, 173.

Indians, Alaskan, 241; relics, Catalina Islands, 69; camp at Sisson’s, 153.

Irrigation, 22–25.

Japan Current, 61.

Japanese and Indians, 243.

Juneau, 241.

Klamath Lake, 156.

Laguna, 47.

Limes _versus_ Lemons, 54.

Livingston, 279.

Los Angeles, 2, 4–14, 16, 18.

Lumber in Washington, 220.

Mariposa Grove, 102.

Mariposa lily, 69.

Mexican border, 49.

Mexicans, 79.

Minnewonka Lake, 271.

Mojave Desert, 80.

Mountain forests, 261.

Muir Glacier, 245.

Mustard fields, 55, 58.

National City, 51.

Nevada, 140.

New Orleans, 2.

Oakland, 123.

Olympia, 225.

Olympic mountains, 226.

Opium dens, 116.

Orange, 40.

Oranges, 36–48.

Oregon, Preface, 85, 155–206.

Oregon mountains, 163.

Oregon snow-peaks, 162, 184, 204–206, 230.

Ostrich farm, 11.

Pacific Coast, mountainous character of, 108.

Pampas plumes, 13.

Pasadena, 279.

Peach Spring, 298.

Pelicans, 72.

Pepper-trees, 9.

Portland, 162–171, 184.

Port Townsend, 230.

Prohibition in California, 44.

Puget Sound, 217–230.

Quail, 13, 64.

Rabbit-hunting, 37.

Railroads, transcontinental, Preface, ix; Southern Pacific, 1; California Southern, 46; California Central, 56; Central Pacific, 127; Oregon and California, 149; Northern Pacific, 213, 218, 279; Canadian Pacific, 248; Atlantic and Pacific, 294.

Rain, 155.

Rainier, Mt., 210.

Rattlesnakes, 65.

Raymond, 81.

Rivers, 155, 183.

Riverside, 41.

Rocky Mountains, 264.

Rural cities of the future, 31.

St. Elias, Mt., 233.

St. Helens, Mt., 207.

Salem, Oregon, 165.

Salmon-canneries, 186.

Scenery, American, 205.

Selkirk Mountains, 259.

Shoalwater Bay, 173.

Snow-peaks, in Oregon and Washington, 203–216.

Tacoma, 162, 218–223.

Tacoma, Mt., 209–216, 223.

Tahoe Lake, 129–140.

Tia Juana, 52.

Trees, Big, 102.

Truckee, 128.

Vancouver, 249.

Vegetables in California, 10.

Victoria, 249.

Vine disease, 12.

Virginia City, 143.

Washington, 207–230.

Washington snow-peaks, 162, 184, 204–216, 230.

Water-falls, Yosemite, 89, 96, 98; Columbia River, 194; Yellowstone, 291.

Wawona, 82, 102.

Whitney, Mt., 150.

Willamette River, 155, 164.

Willamette Valley, 158.

Windmills, 7.

Wine, California, 12.

Winnipeg, 279.

Winter bathing in California, 60.

Yale, 254.

Yellowstone Lake, 289.

Yellowstone Park, 279–293.

Yosemite Valley, 80–107.

Presswork by Berwick & Smith, Boston. Typography by J. S. Cushing & Co., Boston.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

Illustrations in this eBook have been positioned between paragraphs and outside quotations.

The index was not checked for proper alphabetization or correct page references.

Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within the text and consultation of external sources.

Some hyphens in words have been silently removed, some added, when a predominant preference was found in the original book.

Except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the text, and inconsistent or archaic usage, have been retained.

Pg xv: ‘Fraser’ replaced with ‘Frazer’ 8: ‘severals’ replaced with ‘several’ 25: ‘Frenso’ replaced with ‘Fresno’ 34: Added ‘a’ in ‘within a stone’s throw’ 44: ‘household gods’ replaced with ‘household goods’ 53: ‘statment’ replaced with ‘statement’ 71: ‘rythmically’ replaced with ‘rhythmically’ 90: ‘irridescent’ replaced with ‘iridescent’ 110: ‘decending’ replaced with ‘descending’ 120: ‘millionnaires’ replaced with ‘millionaires’ 128: ‘precipitious’ replaced with ‘precipitous’ 141: Removed duplicate ‘the’ in “post by the roadside.” 155: ‘Umqua’ replaced with ‘Umpqua’ 158: ‘southward’ replaced with ‘northward’ 173: ‘venders’ replaced with ‘vendors’ 200: ‘hunded’ replaced with ‘hundred’ 202: ‘Pailroad’ replaced with ‘Railroad’ 226: ‘suprises’ replaced with ‘surprises’ 254: ‘FRASER’ replaced with ‘FRAZER’ 304: ‘Sante’ replaced with ‘Santa’.