CHAPTER XX
RAINBOW BRIDGE
IT was as exciting as a well-fought football game to watch the horses, when at last they straggled down from Oljeto, to be cajoled and subsequently roped. Having spent the winter away from humans, they had forgotten our self-willed ways, and developed wills of their own. Though bony from a hard winter, they had plenty of fight left in their mud-caked hides. We all sat on the corral fence and joyfully watched a Navajo herder tobogganned over rocks and cactus, at the end of a taut rope, while an old white horse, pink from a bath in the creek, looked over his shoulder and laughed, as he kept the rope humming. The Navajo must have thanked fate for his leather chaps, which smoked with the friction. The horses were a gamble. Our unexpected arrival left no time for them to be fed and hardened for the trip. We had to take them as they were. From the fence we made bids for our choice. Our amateur judgments were received with respectful attention. Toby wanted a little horse with flat sides and an easy trot. I asked for the biggest horse they had, knowing from former experience that on a long, hard trip a big horse is less likely to tire, and a long trot is easier on the rider. Martha wanted a pony with a lope, but, speechless with disgust, was given a little white mule called Annie. She broke off a branch of yucca blossom for a whip, and withthis held upright and her demure look, she reminded us of the popular picture of the Holy Child riding to Jerusalem.
At about four in the afternoon,—an outrageous hour,—we started across a long draw and over flat lands, not especially interesting, except for the wealth of wild flowers beneath us. Our party was imposing, with our two guides and two helpers. Our five pack horses ambled discontentedly along as pack animals will do, as if they had a grudge against somebody and meant when the opportunity came to release it. Our Navajo who looked after the horses was named Hostein Chee, which is to say, Red Man. He was not so named for his race, but because, for some mysterious reason that may or may not have involved Mrs. Hostein Chee in malicious gossip, like Sally in the cowboy ballad he “had a baby, and the baby had red hair.”
Hostein Chee rode his horse like a centaur. His riding costume was moccasins, overalls, an old sack coat, and a mangy fur cap with a band of quarters and dimes, his most cherished possession. He wore an armlet of turquoise and mellow carved silver. The Navajos of former days used these ornaments on their left wrist to steady their arrows as they aimed them at Utes or Apaches, but those they make today with raised designs and encrusted gems are only for display.
Once we passed a small camp of Navajos, and at a word from Mr. Wetherell, Hostein Chee rode off, and a quarter of an hour later rejoined us with a dressed sheep hanging to his saddle horn. A sharp knife is slung from the belt of all Navajo shepherdesses, and their dexterity in handling it is marvellous.
Ahead of us the pack horses jogged reluctantly, as if they knew they were in for it. The trail we were to make has the reputation of being difficult if not dangerous in its rough footing, widely separated camps and lack of water. Yet the beginning was uneventful enough. For a dozen miles we wound through Marsh Pass, with the typical desert scenery of hot, burnt plains, rolling hills and low cliffs, and dry river beds. Then we turned at right angles into Segi, or Lake Canyon, winding east to west between bright pink sandstone bluffs, outlined in whimsical shapes against a clear gold sky. The green, grassy valley abounded in the sweet flowers of the desert, a strange contrast to the bare, stark and forbidding rocks hemming it in.
We persuaded our horses to a trot, for we still had miles to go. At twilight, when the heat suddenly changed to a frosty cool, we turned into a side canyon whose narrow walls rose higher as we progressed. The horses slipped and tumbled in the dark. Unexpectedly, Toby and I found ourselves struggling alone up a path which became more precarious every minute. Our horses finally refused to advance, and dismounting, we saw that we had mistaken for a trail a blind shelf of the bank high above the stream. The ledge narrowed till there was scarcely room to turn around; the horses’ feet slipped among the loose boulders. We could see little but the blazing stars overhead. We could hear nothing; our party had ridden far ahead without missing us. At last a faint call drifted to us, and soon a guide appeared to our rescue. Turning down the stream-bed we made our way after him to camp, a mile further, where the others were already dismounted, and the pack unloaded.
Tired and ravenous, we rested on our saddles while the horses strayed off, munching the fine, sweet grass. If Mr. Wetherell was tired he showed no sign, though since morning he had been busy. While the other men unpacked bedding and arranged camp, he dug a deep pit, placing burning logs within. The pit finished, he buried the mutton that a few hours ago was a happy sheep, and covered it lightly. Before we could believe it possible, it was cooked. Steaming and crisp it was sliced and distributed, and the mutton which had been a sheep became as rapidly a remnant.
The day had been sultry, but we were glad now of the roaring fire. It sent a glare on the face of the red cliffs on the opposite bank, not unlike El Capitan of Yosemite in contour. We looked and forgot them again, to look again and be surprised to see them in place of the sky. Not till we threw our heads far back could we see their edge. The pleasant sound of the little stream came incessantly from below. His silver glittering in the firelight, Hostein Chee sat smoking a cigarette, like a Buddha breathing incense. I went to him, and tried to bargain my Ingersoll wrist-watch for his armlet. I let him hear it tick.
“Wah-Wah-Tay-See, Little Firefly,” I said, in the Indian language of the poet, pointing out the radium hands. “Light me with your little candle. I give you this?”
Hostein Chee accepted it with a child-like smile.
“And you give me this?” I said, touching his armlet.
“No good,” said Hostein Chee, drawing back in alarm. But I had difficulty in getting my watch back. Each night of the trip thereafter, we went through the samegame, the Red Man accepting my watch with gratification, but showing the same surprised obstinacy when I tried to take the armlet, and polite regret at having to return my watch. In the end, he lost the name bestowed on him by a derisive community, and became Wah-Wah-Tay-See for the rest of the trip.
Sleep that night was more romantically staged than under ordinary circumstances. The cold, glacial tang of high altitude nipped us pleasantly. The cliffs shut us in, not forbiddingly but protectingly. The firelight was cozy and homelike. We made a little oasis of human companionship in this wide primeval solitude, but our spirits were high enough not to feel our isolation. Rather, we had an increased elation and sense of freedom. What myriads of people, jostling each other every day, never get more than a few feet away from their kind! We had a sense of courage toward life new to us all. The mere fact of our remoteness helped us shake off layers and layers of other people’s personality, which we had falsely regarded as our own and showed us new selves undreamed of. We laugh, at the movies, at the frequency with which the hero goes “out there, away from all this” to “find himself.” Yet I think everyone should, once in a while, leave routine and safety behind, with water that runs from faucets, beds under roofs, and food coming daily from baker and grocer, and policemen on every corner. Too much security stales the best in us.
It seemed the middle of the night when we were wakened by the sound of galloping hoofs. From our tent window, we saw the morning sky painting an orange band against the cliffs, and Hostein Chee driving the outfit upthe ravine. On his pony’s saddle hung the carcass of a second sheep, for from today we were to leave fresh meat behind us. Even the Navajos and Piutes seldom wander far into this hinterland of nowhere. We snatched a few minutes more of sleep, guiltily, while through our door came sounds of preparation for breakfast. We shivered and piled on more coats. At last the crackle of the fire promised warmth; we crawled out, washed in the stream, and found breakfast ready and the packers impatiently waiting for tents and gunnysacks.
“Look,” said somebody, pointing. Mr. Wetherell smiled. To our right, sheltering us with its six hundred feet of red wall rose a cliff, curved half-way up like an inverted bowl, and blackened with streaks where water had once run. The same water had carved the bowl, and had it worked awhile longer it would have bored through the cliff and made a natural bridge. As it was, it formed a simple but perfect shelter for a large cliff city, so completely the color of the cliff that but for the black window holes, we should never have found them for ourselves.
With all the joy of discoverers we speedily climbed the precipitous bank to the narrow shelf on which the ancient city was built. Strung together on their precarious ledge like beads on a necklace were rows of rooms, compared to which a kitchenette in a New York apartment would be spacious. Above them were second and third stories, the ceilings long ago fallen, and only a few decayed piñonvegasto show where they had been. On one building the tumbled masonry exposed a framework of willow wattles. A thousand years before, perhaps, some Indian had cut the saplings fresh from the brookwhere we had just bathed. The great stone slabs of the altars and the cedar beams must have been dragged up from below,—a stupendous work of patient human ants. In the fine, crumbly floor dust, we found innumerable bits of pottery, painted in the early red, black and white, and fragments of the still earlier thumb-nail. Toby tirelessly collected armfuls of them, and tied them in bandana handkerchiefs. The place had hardly been excavated. We pawed the dust, each believing we might discover some souvenir the Smithsonian would envy us, and ethnologists refer to wistfully in their reports, yet somehow, we did not. But many interesting things came to light, feathers twisted together into ropes, obsidian arrow-heads, sticks notched by a stone adze, grinding stones such as the Hopis use today, and the altar stones found in each apartment. No wonder their builders worshipped, living so near Heaven.
These ruins, called Beta-Takin, or “Hillside House” were well named. Above was only the deep blue sky, framed in the smooth red arch that roofed these swallows’ nests. Below were steep slopes of crumbling sandstone, the glowing flowers near the river, and beyond, castellated peaks of bold outline. I climbed with caution to the furthest tip of the crescent town, and my traitor knees began to crumple like paper. I had suddenly begun to wonder, at the wrong moment, whether any cliff dwelling babies had ever fallen over that edge.
Hostein Chee was finishing his last diamond hitch when we returned to camp. Our horses were changed; some who yesterday had been mere pack animals were promoted to the rank of saddle horses. The Golfer had drawn a powerful black mule, and had mounted himjauntily. The Golfer was new to horses, but anyone could ride a mule. Just then, as he bent to adjust a stirrup, the familiar jingle of the departing pack and the music of Hostein Chee’s alien profanity came to those long ears. Forgetting his recent rise in station, the mule leaped eagerly forward to join his mates. Briar and bush did not stop the pair; they tore downhill over boulders and through thickets. Young alders slapped the Golfer in the face, but he hung on until the mule, in despair at seeing demure Annie trot out of his vision, took the stream at a leap. At that moment, those who were ahead say that the black mule caught up with Annie.
The Golfer had lost interest in the amorous pursuit, and was sitting up picking the cactus thorns out of himself when we arrived.
“What happened?” we asked, in the way people will ask questions.
“I’d thought I’d get off,” answered the Golfer.
But thereafter, he and the black mule became firm, if not fast companions.
The gorge we had passed through in the dark we retraced to find full of color. Great aspens bordered the heights, while the river bed was full of flowers. As we came to the opening the canyon broadened, and the reddish cliffs became higher and took on strange shapes of beasts and humans. A whole herd of elephants carved in the sandstone seemed guarding the entrance into Segi canyon, meticulously complete, even to white tusks, wrinkled trunks and little eyes, as if these had been the freehand plans the Creator of elephants had sketched on the wall before he began to work them out according to blue-print.
We worked through and across Segi canyon until we stood on a ledge of rock, and looked over miles of rose, purple and stormy blue, toward corrugated walls high enough to fence in the world. And then began a descent of two hours, while the sun blazed up in this shadeless waste of rocks. We scrambled over boulders bigger than our horses, dragging the reluctant animals after us on the rein, ready to dodge quickly if they slipped. A few lizards glided under cover as we advanced, the only living creatures in sight, though from the heights came occasionally the melancholy story of a ring-dove or a hoot-owl. The trail clung to sheer walls, its switchbacks rougher and at times far steeper than the Grand Canyon trails. Since its discovery ten years ago, little has been done to improve it, necessarily, because of its extreme length and the fact that it is not situated in a national park. For these reasons, it will probably never lose its primitive wildness.
We lunched under a few spreading junipers, where water in muddy rock basins was to be found. The sun was low when we started again, for in that country it does not pay to ride through the heat of mid-day. The region, broken no longer by gigantic canyons, softened to a dull monotony of sage and rolling hills. Camp was already made, when at evening we rode into a small, semi-enclosed valley at a short distance from a second cliff-town, under an arched recess of rock high above us. While the men unpacked, Martha, Toby and I found a tiny pool yielding a basin full of water, but ice-cold, it soothed our weary bodies wonderfully. About all we need for our physical selves in this world is a bath after dust and heat, food after hunger, sleep after weariness,warmth after cold, and freedom from worry,—and camp life completely satisfies for a time, because these simple desires are both intensely stimulated and gratified. Our campfire warmed the chill night air, and gave us an hour’s relaxation and gayety. But sleep could not be held off long, and at nine, we all retired to our tents under a thicket of junipers.
segiNAVAJO MOUNTAIN FROM THE MOUTH OF SEGI CANYON.A herd of elephants carved in sandstone guarded the entrance to Segi Canyon.
NAVAJO MOUNTAIN FROM THE MOUTH OF SEGI CANYON.
A herd of elephants carved in sandstone guarded the entrance to Segi Canyon.
These cliff dwellings yielded Toby magnificent specimens. Behind camp lay a small hill mostly of pottery fragments. She attacked it and single handed soon reduced it to a hummock. The bandana would hold no more, and her sweater and pea jacket bulged at the pockets, and when I opened our pack I found crumbled pottery mingling with our toothbrushes.
The next day brought us into more dramatic scenery. Once more we toiled up and up through an unimaginably vast and lonely country, whose barrenness of rock and sage was softened by a wilderness of flowers, of new and strange varieties. The cactus blossoms, most brilliant and fragile of desert flowers, with the texture of the poppy and the outline of the wild rose, ranged from the most subtle tones of golden brown, tea rose color and faded reds to flaming, uncompromising rainbow hues. We passed a bush with white waxen flowers like apple blossoms, called Fendler’s Rod, and another with mahogany branches, smooth to feel, with fragrant yellow bloom; blue larkspur in profusion, the Indian paintbrush in every shade from scarlet through pink and cerise to orange and yellow. Wild hyacinths began to appear in the cooler, tenderer shades of early spring, and a new flower, very lovely, called penstaces, in pink and purple.The mariposa lily of southern Arizona appeared here as waxy cream and twice as large as we had ever seen it.
Once out of Piute Canyon, we camped at the Tanks, a series of waterholes worn in a dry river bed of solid rock. A group of piñons sheltered our camp, but before the tents were fairly up a downpour of rain drove us wet and uncomfortable to huddle together in one tent. The horses slanted into the driving storm with drooping heads and limp haunches. Saddles and provisions were hastily covered with Navajo rugs. Through it all Hostein Chee in overalls and drenched sack coat moved about his business with neither joy nor sorrow. He showed no animation until over the great roaring fire our supper was cooked, and he could once more, with bland and innocent smile shake the bag of sugar into his coffee, murmuring “Sooga.”
The sheep killed by the Navajos had not died in vain. Again it formed the staple of our meal. With each appearance it seemed to lose some of its resiliency. Mutton, most unimaginative of meats, with the rain drizzling on it was less inviting than ever. Nor was it improved by being set down on the ground, where a shower of sand was unwittingly shaken into it by each person who went to the fire to fill his tin plate. Still we chewed on, and in the end besides the exercise, got a little nourishment. We did not care; we wanted to eat, and get back to our tents out of the downpour. It was one of those days all campers know and enjoy—afterward.
I woke toward morning and peered through the tent window to see dawn banding the windy sky. Against its dramatic light, stood Hostein Chee, the Red Man, besidea campfire blazing shoulder high. His body slanting back, his face frozen to exalted calm, he gazed fixedly at the glory of the sky. His inscrutable nature seemed touched and wakened. I called softly to Toby.
“Look—he is saying a prayer to the dawn!”
We looked reverently. The white men were sleeping, but the Indian kept his vigil. He raised both arms above his head, removed his hat,—and scratched vigorously. This done, he repeated the process wherever he felt the need. Toby’s awed interest turned to mirth, mainly at my expense. Yet even engaged in so primitive a gesture as scratching, Wah-Wah invested it with the stately grace we noticed in his every move. Though I knew I should not, I watched him make his toilet, fascinated. He removed the trousers he slept in, and in which we daily saw him accoutred, revealing (I had turned away in the interim) an under pair, similarly tailored, of a large black and red checked flannel. He scratched thoroughly, took off his vest, scratched, and then dressed. Then he blew his nose as Adam and Eve must have, and shouted “De-jiss-je!”
That, as nearly as I can spell it, is the only Navajo any of us managed to learn. Mr. Wetherell so frequently addressed Hostein this way that we thought it was his name, and called him by it, even after we learned that it meant “Light a fire.” The little jest always brought a silent smile to the face of the Navajo, and he would mimic our mimicry. We christened an unnamed canyon for him De-jiss-je Boco, where we lunched at noon, and cached part of the pack till the return trip. Here was a delicious stream, running between sandstone rocks, into which horses and all put our heads anddrank. The sun steamed upon the land of rocks until the heat made us droop, and our horses, poor beasts, were rapidly wearing down from the trail. Only piñons, with hardy roots gripping the red wastes of rock, and thorny cactus, grew in this vast echo-land. Rocks! I could not have believed there were so many in the universe. It looked like the Pit out of which the gods had taken material to build the world, or the abyss where they threw the remnants afterward.
For the first time we saw purple sage, whose scent is indescribably sweet. This rare variety is found only in this region. Its leaf is dark green and differently shaped from ordinary sage. We were nearing great Navajo, whose bare stark head topped all other hills from Mt. Henry in Utah to the San Francisco peaks in the south. Soon we were in the lee of it, climbing beside it, but closer and closer to its heights.
De-jiss-je looked at the cloudless sky, and suggested it might rain. To my surprise the others agreed. The sky was velvet blue and the air as dry and sparkling as ever. Yet we had hardly rounded the shoulder of Navajo when thick, broken clouds shrouded it in terrible grandeur, and the wind swirled them against that rocky mass. The storm broke immediately in wildest fury, and we saw the giant in its proper surroundings, storm wrapped and terrible. I never saw a more majestic storm in more titanic setting. Low waves of prairie, stretching for miles, were broken here and there into strange monoliths and grotesque needles, around which the lightning played sharp and short as a whip snapping,—rose-colored, deep green. The sky turned purple-blue, cut and slashed by gashes of blinding white. Grayed bysheets of rain, the red rocks took on a sulphurous look. Far off to our right a rainbow canyon opened, almost as vast and quite as brilliant as the Grand Canyon of Colorado, reaching to the horizon.
navajoRAINBOW BRIDGE TRAIL.Near Navajo Mountain, whose bare, stark head topped all other hills.
RAINBOW BRIDGE TRAIL.
Near Navajo Mountain, whose bare, stark head topped all other hills.
Though the storm cracked above our heads, it was too beautiful and too awful to fear. We whipped on our slickers. In a second they were drenched, and streams were running to our saddles and soaking us. Toby, protecting her camera with one hand, and her person from the banging of a bag of pottery, wearing the slicker the cow had chewed short, was quickly drenched, and rode in dejected silence. Ahead, the helper, whose thin shirt streamed rivers, shouted in glee, and drove on the stumbling pack-beasts with variegated profanity. The guides took the onslaught of the storm unmoved, dripping like male Naiads. Sometimes the thunder smashed so near it seemed as if our horses had been struck, sometimes it cracked on the cliffs beside us.
The scenery became increasingly dramatic. We were out of the piñon, and riding through nothing but granite and sandstone. An hour passed, while we huddled uncomfortably, fearing to move lest a rivulet find a new and hitherto unwet channel on our bodies. Then as suddenly as it began the storm ceased, and just in time, for we were nearing the crux of the trail,—Bald Rock. Even Roosevelt described this pass as dangerous. The storm had increased the danger. Five minutes more of rain, and the rocks would have been too slippery to cross; as it was, we barely kept our footing.
Bald Rock is a huge dome of solid granite, bordering a precipice several hundred feet deep, overlooking tangled and twisted crags. Crossing it was like crossingthe surface of an inverted bowl. Worn smooth by erosion, the only semblance of foothold it offered was a seam a few inches wide near the edge. With the dome polished by rain, it was not easy to keep both footing and nerve. Our tendency was to move cautiously, when the safest way was at a jog trot, though the mental hazard of the drop at the edge made the latter course hard. Even the bronchos shared our caution. We naturally had dismounted, though the intrepid Hostein Chee rode his horse part way across. The horses dug their hoofs in hard, and even then they slipped and scrambled about helplessly. One balked, and another fell several feet. For a moment it looked as if his bones would be left to whiten in the chasm below, but goaded by the Navajo he regained his feet, and, trembling, crossed safely.
Beyond came a still worse spot,—a narrow ledge, with cliffs on one side shouldering one toward the edge. Here the horses were halted until blankets and armfuls of grass could be placed along the slanting ledge. In all, we were half an hour passing Bald Rock. Though this is the worst bit of trail on the way to the Bridge, and enough to give one a little thrill, there is nothing to dread under ordinary conditions. Nevertheless, I should not like to cross Bald Rock after dark.
baldCROSSING BALD ROCK, ON RAINBOW BRIDGE TRAIL.The worst bit of trail on the way to the bridge.
CROSSING BALD ROCK, ON RAINBOW BRIDGE TRAIL.
The worst bit of trail on the way to the bridge.
To our left, beyond masses of smooth, marvelously contorted sandstone rose white cliffs, seared and ghostly, and beyond them, far reaches of mountain, with Navajo king of all. Clouds and mist encircled its slopes, but the peak rose clear above them into a thunderous sky. We kept the grand old mountain in sight for several miles, then dipped into a small and lovely valley, full of flowers and watered by a winding stream. This wasSurprise Valley, famous in the movies as the scene of a thrilling tale of a man and woman walled in for years by one boulder pushed to block the only entrance. It is a pity to spoil the thrill, but I could not see how any one boulder, however large, could block all exit from this valley. Nevertheless its seclusion and unexpectedness make it a delight. The inevitable cliffs surround it in a red circle, and once within, a stranger could look for hours for the trail out.
Thus far, the trail had been not only beautiful, but climacteric, and from this point to the great arch it was entirely outside one’s experience. We had to recreate our sense of proportions to fit the gigantic land. I felt as if I had been shipwrecked on the moon. We who started feeling fairly important and self-satisfied and had become daily more insignificant, were mere specks in a landscape carved out by giants,—a landscape of sculptors, done by some Rodin of the gods, who had massed and hurled mountains of rock about, twisted them in a thousand fantastic figures, as if they had been mere handfuls of clay. Against the prodigious canyons down which our tired beasts slowly carried us, we were too small to be seen. Nonnezoche Boco,—“Rainbow Canyon,” in the Navajo,—brought us into an ever narrowing pass with terra-cotta walls rising thousands of feet on every side, and a turbulent stream, much interrupted by boulders, at the bottom. Sometimes we threaded the valley floor, and sometimes mounted to a shelf along the edge. Finally, when it seemed impossible for Nature to reserve any climax for us, we looked to the left,—and saw an anticlimax. We had been straining our eyes straight ahead, each eager for the first sight of the Bridge, the mammothbridge, highest in the world. As we crossed the canyon, looking down its length we saw a toy arch nestled among the smooth cliffs, like a mouse among elephants.
Not till we had wound down the trail overlooking the river and leading under the bridge, not till we dismounted under the buttresses of the arch, and saw that they themselves were young hills did we get an idea of its majesty. Our Navajo walked around it, for no good Navajo will pass under the sacred arch unless he knows the prayer suitable to this occasion. We followed Hostein Chee, and camped on a slope on the other side. From this angle the bridge appeared stupendous, towering above cliffs really much higher, but seeming less by the perspective. Unlike so many of Nature’s freaks, it required no imagination to make it look like an arch. Symmetrical and rhythmic of outline, with its massive buttresses in beautiful proportion to the rest, it spans the San Juan, which, cutting through the narrow canyon, curves about to form deep pools into which we lost no time in plunging, after our hot and nearly bathless journey.
Whoever called it a bridge misnamed it, for it bridges nothing. Before seeing it we had ambitions to climb to the top, and walk across, and while I daresay we should all have gone if any one of us had insisted on attempting it, we may have been secretly relieved that nobody insisted too hard. It means a stiff climb negotiated with ropes, up an adjacent cliff. From the level top of this cliff one works around to a monument rock near the southwest end of the arch where a single piñon grows from a niche. A rope is swung from the cliff above, fastened in the piñon, and over a twenty-foot gap, at a height of three hundred feet and more above the rock-strewnriver, one jumps to the shelving arch of the bridge. Returning is even worse than going—I believe only eight people have ever mounted the bridge.
rainbowRAINBOW BRIDGE, UTAH.Symmetrical and rhythmic of outline, it spans the San Juan.
RAINBOW BRIDGE, UTAH.
Symmetrical and rhythmic of outline, it spans the San Juan.
The Golfer meanwhile had reached the tee of his ambitions, with two dozen balls and his trusty brassie. We came on him at the edge of the tumbled river, casting a doubtful eye up the rough slopes and crag-strewn course.
“Bunkered, by gosh,” we heard him say.
“If you don’t mind a little climb,” said the guide, “I think we can fix you all right.”
Accordingly we stuffed our pockets with golf-balls, while the Golfer tied the remainder to his waist, and began to climb one of the smooth cliffs to the right of the arch, with the understanding that whoever had good courage might go on to the top of the bridge. The last lap of the climb brought us to a ledge which went sheer in the air for about twenty feet (it seemed like two hundred), without visible means of support. But nothing daunts an Old-Timer. Ours twirled his rope, lassoed an overhanging shrub at the top of the ledge, and shinnied up like a cat, twisted it twice about the shrubs and then around his wrists, and one by one, each according to his nature,—but not like a cat,—we followed.
Toby, who is a reincarnated mountain goat, scrambled up with careless abandon. Murray took it without comment. Martha, suddenly stricken with horizontal fever, was yanked up bodily. When it came to my turn, I got halfway up without trouble, but there the thought struck me that Mr. Wetherell was a dreadfully peaked man to be the only thing between me and the San Juan river. I wished that he had sat still in his youth long enough tofatten up a bit. I called to him to sit heavy, and he called back to straighten my knees and keep away from the cliff. My knees, however, will not straighten on high; instead they vibrate excitably. As for throwing my body voluntarily out from that friendly cliff,—the only bit of mother earth, though at a peculiar angle, within several hundred feet,—it hardly seemed sensible. I did not wait to reach the top to decide that it was too hot to climb to the bridge, and I think the others went through a similar mental process, for when I thankfully was pulled over the edge, I heard several people say, “Awfully hot, isn’t it? Pretty hot to go much further?”
The Golfer was the last and heaviest to come up the rope. Halfway up, his arms shot out wildly, and I heard a gasp of horror, and far below, plop, plop, saw one hard rubber ball after another leap as the chamois from crag to crag, and join the river below. He had tied the box of balls insecurely, it seemed. For the moment we could hardly have felt worse if it had been the Golfer himself. A baker’s dozen went where no caddy could find them. From our pockets we collected eleven balls, with which to perform the deed which had brought us toilfully through these perils.
We could see only the keystone of the Bridge from the summit of our cliff, but its surface offered a good approach. Murray took the first drive. His ball made a magnificent arc, grazed the top of the Bridge, seemed to hesitate a moment, then fell on the near side. Then came the Golfer’s turn. He approached it several times, but something seemed wrong. He cast a look in our direction. We had been frivolously talking. He drove, but the ball glanced to one side and disappeared.
“Better luck,” he said, passing the club to Murray. But Murray had no better luck, and the two alternated until it seemed as if the San Juan must be choked with golf balls.
“It’s an easy drive. Any duffer could do it,” said the Golfer impatiently. Apparently there was something about the drive more difficult than it looked. Perspective was lost in the clear air, and the jumble of rocks before us seemed closer than they were. With only two balls remaining, the Golfer again took his turn, after several brilliant failures on both sides. Once more he turned a majestic glance toward us. A bee had crawled down my back, and Martha was removing it, but after that glance we let the bee stay where he was. A hushed silence fell on our little group at this historic moment. Since Adam and Eve, we were the first group of people ever gathered together in this lonely, inaccessible spot for the purpose of driving a golf-ball over the Rainbow Bridge. No cheers came from the assemblage as the Golfer addressed the ball innumerable times, and at last raised his brassie and drove.
“Keep your eye on the ball,” said someone. We did so, and our several eyes soared toward the arch, struck the rock towering beside the bridge, and ricochetted over the far side. Technically, though by a fluke, we had the ball over. I say we, because we all worked as hard as the Golfer and Murray. Murray refused the last ball, and just because he didn’t have to, the Golfer drove this easily and surely over. We had achieved our purpose. We were the first to put a golf ball over Rainbow Bridge, not a great contribution to history or science, but giving us a certain hilarious satisfaction. It is not so easy to befirst at anything in these days, when everything has been tried already. Toby who once stigmatized the ambition as “cheap,” crossed her fingers as the Golfer launched his last ball, and photographed him in the act for the benefit of posterity. Our Old-Timer, another scoffer, later spent an hour hunting the triumphal ball, and on retrieving it from the river bank, begged it for a souvenir. Anyone who doubts the authenticity of our feat may see the ball at Kayenta today. And even Hostein Chee, alias Wah-Wah, alias De-jiss-je, salvaged a half-dozen of the lost balls, and was seen patiently hacking away at them with the Golfer’s best brassie. And he was remarkably good at it, too.
The campfire, built that night under the sweeping black arch, seemed like home amid the looming cliffs and monoliths. The air was full of that strangest, most arresting odor in the desert,—the smell of fresh, running water.
I lay awake for hours, watching the stars wheel over the curve of the arch. It was not surprising that the Navajos held this spot in superstitious reverence, as the haunt of gods. We were all, I think, in a state of suspended attention, waiting for something to happen which never did happen. Soon the moon, startlingly brilliant in the high air, circled over to the wall topping the southwest side of the bridge, and upon this lofty screen the arch was reproduced in silhouette. Why this should have seemed the last touch to the strange beauty of the place I do not know, but when I waked Toby to watch it, we lay there, almost holding our breath, until the shadow had made its arc down the side of the cliff and disappeared.
After a week’s travel to reach the Bridge, to turn homeward instantly seemed ridiculous. The first day took us a weary twenty-five miles back to De-jiss-je Camp, prodding our exhausted animals every step of the way, till we too were exhausted. We intended to circle back through Utah, crossing Piute and Nakis Canyons at the upper end and touching the lower edge of the Monument country. Always a wearing trip, ours to the Bridge and back was more than usually so, because our unexpected arrival at Kayenta had given no chance to get the horses in condition. Tired animals mean forced camps, irregular and scanty meals, and consequently less sleep and more fatigue,—a vicious circle.
We ate the last of the mutton that night. Tough and sandy and gristly it proved, but the stew from it was fairly delicious. When the meal ended, Wah-Wah borrowed a needle and thread, and smilingly announced to our circle that he intended to mend his outer garments. Without further ceremony, he pulled his shirt and trousers off, leaving only his checkerboard underdrawers. Pleased at the concentration of interest, which he attributed to his skill at sewing, he beamed upon us all. “Disgusting old heathen,” said Martha.
But Hostein Chee was not without friends. Next morning with a show of great enthusiasm an old Navajo rode up, greeted him, and thereafter, either lured by Red Man’s companionship or hope of a free lunch thrice daily made himself just useful enough to be permitted to follow our camp. Fat and venerable, with flowing shirt and gray hair tied in a chignon, and hung with jewelry he looked so like an old woman that we dubbed him Aunt Mary. His manners were no better than poorHostein Chee’s, but his manner was superb. Under his outer trousers, which flapped loose, he wore bed ticking, which served him for napkin, handkerchief, and towel, with princely dignity employed. Between the two Navajos our stock of sugar ran very low. He did us a good turn, however, by riding off to a nearby Ute camp and obtaining fresh horses. All those we had started with had succumbed. Not only Martha, but all of us were glad to exchange mounts for the tough little mules which had carried the packs in and were now willing to carry us out of Nonnezoche Boco. Toby bestrode Annie, who from being despised and rejected of all was now the prize. She never wandered, kept at an even pace, and never missed the trail. Annie is one of the few people in the world who could find her way to the bridge and back without a guide.
Another day brought us to the borders of Utah and Arizona. The Rainbow Bridge belongs to Utah, a day over the line. Piute Canyon crosses both states. We had passed it in Arizona and were now to cross it in Utah. But both states claim the glory of owning the most magnificent territory in the Union. If the Grand Canyon were more tremendous than any one thing we saw in these three days’ march, still it has not the cumulative effect of grandeur piled upon grandeur. Since the discovery of the Bridge in 1909 its discoverers and an increasing number of people who have seen this country have advocated making it a National Park. It is certain no park we now have could rival its stupendous uniqueness.
Canyon after canyon opened before us, painted in the distance with every hue imaginable. Piute Canyon wasbuff and pink; Copper canyon, following soon after, a gorgeous blaze of rich red and deep blue tones. Then came a succession of three smaller canyons each turned a different hue by the sun, the distance and the substance of the rock. We ascended and descended in the blazing heat, until it seemed as if all life had been a going up and a coming down. Toward sunset on the ninth day, a trail overlooking a long narrow valley ended abruptly in a pass cut through solid boulders which we could barely ride through. Beyond, unexpectedly, a broad vista of the Monument country spread like a vision of the promised land. Isolated cliffs pointed the valley, in every grotesque form. Rocks as high as Cleopatra’s Needle and the arch of Napoleon, and similarly shaped; new world sphinxes, organ rocks, trumpeting angels, shapes of beasts and men had been carved here in past ages by the freaks of wind and water. One of the busiest corners of the earth ages ago and now the loneliest and most desolate, its beauty was like a woman’s who had survived every passion, and lives in retrospect.
El Capitan, rising alone from the yellow sands, sailed before us like a full-rigged ship from sunset to the next morning, when we rode our last eighteen miles to Kayenta. The sight of it, and the orange dunes beyond spurred us all. Spontaneously we broke into a twelve mile canter. The little white mule Annie who had finally fallen to me, kept her freshness and speed and general pluckiness. She out-distanced them all by a length. We made a ludicrous picture as we came flying over the rocks and dunes and desert, shouting and galloping. Even the pack beasts, worn to bone since they departed from the corral, smelled Kayenta, and there was nostopping them. Navajos rode out to join us, leaving their herd of a thousand sheep to cross our path at their peril. We arrived not half an hour after the Indian messenger, sent ahead to tell of our coming.
How civilized the remote little trading post seemed! How ultra-æsthetic to eat at a table with napkins and table linen, food passed by a neat Navajo maid! What throngs of people inhabited Kayenta,—more than we had met altogether in ten days! We bathed who had not seen water, we feasted and relaxed, and bought Navajo necklaces in the store. To our surprise the same old women we had left behind us were still alive and scarcely grayer or more toothless; we had not been away for years, as had seemed from our isolation in the still canyons where all sense of time disappeared and we lived in eternity along with the rocks and sky.
That evening, as we sat on wool bags heaped high near the post, a group of young Navajos came and announced they wished to welcome our return with a serenade. They grouped in a circle, very bashful at our applause, and while one held a lantern, began to sing their ancient tribal songs. I shall never forget the weird setting of rolling hills of orange sand, and moonlighted red cliffs behind the circle of their dark figures. Lightly swaying to the music, they began a savage chanting, with rhythmically placed falsetto yelps and guttural shouts. Their voices had real beauty, and the music suited their surroundings. They started with a mild song of hunting or love, but soon they were singing war songs. Our blood stirred to an echo of something we knew many lives ago. The lantern light made a wilder, wider arc; the shouts became more fierce; the group swayed fasterand swung into a wide ellipse. Worked upon by the hypnotism of their war-music, they locked arms about each other in tight grip; for the moment they were ages away from Carlisle. The blackness, the orange hills, the swinging light, the shouts, the listening stillness of the desert,—that will always be Kayenta for me.
cliffsMONUMENT COUNTRY, RAINBOW TRAIL.Isolated cliffs pointed the valley in every grotesque form.
MONUMENT COUNTRY, RAINBOW TRAIL.
Isolated cliffs pointed the valley in every grotesque form.
trailRAINBOW BRIDGE TRAIL.
RAINBOW BRIDGE TRAIL.