Something New From the Kaibab

Something New From the Kaibab By Lora E. Pratt THE populace of the world shed their cocoons of dark and neutral colors and gather about them such harmonies as blend with the new season. Some will sail to foreign shores to search for new old things — to gay Paris, quaint old England, Ger- many, and through the crags and peaks of Switzerland, to sunny south sea islands, and so on around the world. A great many millions will see America. A few of these will seek the world of untrodden, undiscovered things that are unusual to our ways but vaguely suggestive of deep meaning and reality to another, past, age. To these few, who seek the unbeaten track, the primitive path of my narrative will not be entirely without interest. It was 8:00 a. m., July 11; the rush of packing for a two- months' stay of trail making through the Grand Canyon was fin- ished. With some relief we settled back in the car that was to take us from Kanab to where the road ended, wherever that was. Passing the first rising slopes of the Kaibab forest, we leave the scrub cedar for the scrub pine, and as the ascent reaches out to meet the higher altitude the giant yellow pines raise their heads from 70 to 150 feet into the blue. Thus we enter into the gateway of one of the greatest forests in the world, the Kaibab. Kaibab is an Indian name, it means "Mountain Lying Down." Indeed, this mountain looks as though it were lying down, with its gigantic base to the southward. At noon we stopped at the first evidence of human civilization, the V. T. Park ranch, on which is a hotel built for the tourist. An hour later we took the road toward Point Sublime. Within twelve miles of Point Sublime we took an old branch road towards the northwest and before the sun set reached an old swampy lake used by the wild cattle and deer ranging in this part of the forest. Five miles below this we pitched our tents and prepared supper. With the first streamer of dawn we were up. The world of pine trees lay shrouded with mist and dew. We were camped on the very rim of Swamps Point and below us, like a phantom of the night, stretched the great gorge of the mighty Grand Canyon of the Colorado. That morning the trail work was to start. Into the walls of the canyon was to be cut a five-foot mule or pack-train trail to the

836 IMPROVEMENT ERA bottom of Powell's Saddle and back up the other side of the canyon out on Powell's Plateau. The thick growth of underbrush, Man- sanita and Lorbe Mansanita, that grow on the almost perpendicular walls of the canyon, had to be gone through in order to survey; and a level made on which they could make the least curves with a 20% slope trail. This took three days' time and in the meantime I did a little surveying and seeking myself; that is, Doc. and I did. We were out for something new and we found everything we were after. As the sun rose on the fourth day of our camping out, it found two pieces of human clay, clinging, sliding and scratching through the brush that lined the first fifty yards of the wall of Powell's canyon. Slowly but surely we struggled on. When we reached the Saddle, it was nearly eleven o'clock and the hot rays of the canyon heat, after the shade of the pines, seemed to cut through us. We had given up finding something new or interesting when, upon making our way down what some old prospector, for some reason of his own, had called Datem canyon, we suddenly rounded an old jut- ting cliff and came face to face with what seemed to be a large hole in the side of the wall. On closer examination we found a heavy black streak of iron ore running over the face of the rock and marks that clearly indicated the use of a pick and blasting powder. Heavy quartz lay on the floor and lined the hole. We were not miners and, knowing practically nothing of minerals, we could not determine whether this quartz was a rich gold quartz or not; however, from appearances we decided this must be a gold claim; so we began looking around for other relics or something to give us a clue as to who had been here before us. Between two rocks we found a tin can, rusty and turned up-side down; attaching some significance to the can's being found in this position we looked inside it. Worn, yellow and musty, dated some time back in 1800, was a filed mining claim. The name was old and blurred and hard to read. Perhaps at that moment about the same thoughts were running through our minds: Who was this old prospector? What was his story? Whence did he come? Why was a filed mining claim over what we had found all that there was to tell of him? Silent and reflecting over our find, we moved on. We had gone about half a mile, perhaps, when we heard a faint roar as of gushing waters at a distance. Questioningly we looked around us. In front of us and a little higher than where we were standing, was a heavy green thicket, too green to be on a dry slope. Working laboriously on, we made our way to this spot. A tiny trickle of water, as from a spring, ran down the embankment. With a pocket knife we cut the soft

SOMETHING NEW FROM THE KAIBAB 837 — — «■■»-«.. iij«,' ** 5S*ia^ft^^?? ' M Top: Bright Angel Point, Grand Canyon. Bottom: The "first evidence of human civilization" in the Kaibab. rock around the side of the stream and suddenly, like a fountain, the water burst forth. It seemed that there must be some river or

838 IMPROVEMENT ERA I lake feeding the stream and that the water was hidden under the mountain. We had not particularly known what we were looking for when we started on this wild trip off the beaten trail, but we knew now that we had found and were finding something important. Curiosity is an instinct which has done probably more for the world's advancement than anything else. It may be that this instinct does not always turn out for the best, but at any rate most people are pro- vided with a portion of it. It was curiosity that made most of our finds and to us made our days worth while during our stay at the rim and down in the canyon. We decided to christen the spring, "Queen Ann Spring," mostly because we ate dinner there and, while enjoying some Queen Ann cherries, we were reminded that a very dear friend's name is Ann. Whether that christening will endure or not I don't know; but it was always called that by the trail gang. Following the cliff and winding down the canyon, we climbed and stumbled until we reached a huge cave. A shower had started and we were feeling a bit exhausted by this time, and we sat there under Nature's shelter, much as her cliff-dwelling people must have done during mountain showers. While here we picked out a spot that looked very enticing, as it was shut in by a growth of oak trees, and after the storm had passed we broke trail to it. At one point, as we came close to the ledge, a soft, murmuring roar, very much like the first we had heard when we found Queen Ann's Spring, came to our ears and, as we followed closely, the roar seemed to deepen until we could stand off a number of feet and hear it plainly, but we could find no opening. We had a drill with us and, as the wall appeared to be but soft sand-stone, we decided to drill into it and see if the water was close enough to reach. About an hour later we had a small stream running, and before we left it had in- creased to about twice the size of the first spring. Whether the top of Swamps Point, the east side of Datem canyon running south and the east side of Powell's canyon running north from the Saddle are but a shell, cup shape, with a lake spring beneath, or whether there is an underground lake of clear, pure water there, I do not know; but it is a very interesting thought. Our day had been profitable thus far. We had descended to a lower ledge, on our way back, and were only about fifty yards from the saddle when we picked up a stone about twelve inches by eighteen inches, which proved to be an old Indian grinding mill. It was smooth and like the ones found in museums today. We de- cided it must have rolled down from above, so we climbed up about four ledges, where we found several pieces of broken pottery. Here

SOMETHING NEW FROM THE KAIBAB 839 we came to a perpendicular wall jutting towards the top, at the foot of which were piled small round and square foundations about five feet in diameter. The cracks in the ledge had been stuffed with mud. Digging some of the mud out, we found stored away both old corn and a few cobs. How corn could have grown, or where, I am unable to answer. Perhaps in the age marked with Indian pottery, Indian paints and agile, miniature people there was a tribe which found this place a safe and savage home, and out of its heart called the corn to bloom, and the rocks to raise shelter, until some other, stronger faction stood against them and left but this garbled story of a home and people. So the days passed, and the trail crept on, making each day a new scene for those who go deeper into the wild country to find more to see and remember and to teach. On August the fifth we moved camp from Swamps Point down into Powell's Saddle. A good trail was cut to the first spring we found, Queen Ann's, and from there we got all our drinking water; then we made trail up the floor of the canyon towards the north, to a natural spring, Powell's. Perhaps of all the trails we cut, this was the most beautiful, for it was almost straight and was overhung by colorful oak and maple, trailing wild vines, and edged with wild flowers and shrubbery. It is a natural boulevard; so pretty we called it "Lover's Lane." Then upward swept our trail, a winding ribbon, writing defiance against the wild. The sun rose spendidly out of the dawn on the 15 th day of August. Climbing about a mile to the level of the plateau, we started to cross that lonely looking piece of country. The whole flat sur- face of its head was covered with giant yellow pines. The wild life was abundant; the white-tailed squirrel, known only to exist on the Kaibab, whisked through the trees and scolded and chattered to us as we passed. The floor of the plateau was a velvet carpet of green grass. We hiked twelve miles across it. The point on which we stood is called Dutton Point. Here the plateau loses its pine- trees, and Mansanita and Lorbe Mansanita take their place, with a scattering of sage brush. Looking down from this point, one gets the most magnificent view of the whole canyon. On our way back to camp that afternoon, we came to an old camp of one of our most important and interesting characters of the West, Uncle Jim Owens. Uncle Jim is still living and may be found either at the Bar Z ranch, helping the cowboys get along, or at some station on the mountain. This camp is a relic of the old days of Uncle Jim Owens. Perhaps I should say the young days when catching cougars, which were a menace to the cattle and deer, was his

840 IMPROVEMENT ERA main sport. He would go into the wilds with his blooded dogs and come back loaded with pelts and live cougars. His dogs would tree the live cougars, and then he would lasso them and tie them. This was a very dangerous job, but Uncle Jim was as fearless as he was kind hearted. The feet of the dead cougars he generally tacked to a tree in camp. The old camp consisted of a number of these trees, loaded with the remains of cougar feet and deer horns — a land- mark of an early pioneer. At sunset we reached the edge of the plateau again. As we slid down between the boulders, the golden gleam back of us reflected from the peaks of the great Grand Canyon, turned the forest on the opposite side into a flame of fire and the old castle ledges became re- flecting marble. There is something different in the formation of this opposite wall, the top row of ledges is a cascade of cone-shaped tow- ers, each perfect in formation. In these walls are found sea animals. The fossils that have been picked up in the rock on the trail are history, written by the hand of nature, of animals which are now extinct. About a half mile from camp and very close to Queen Ann's Spring and the cliff dwellings, is an Indian painting. Perhaps this is the greatest of all our finds. It is a piece of art that has far outlived its author and his people. The painting and all the pieces of pottery I have found that are colored resemble very much the square Egyptian style of painting. The last night of our stay was like a great eternal terminal. Doc. and I slipped out on the Point to watch the sunset colors. As we stood there, thrilling with the beauty that flamed before us, the whole mountain plateau burst into color. It became a leaping fire, while grey clouds rolled like smoke out of the depths. There was a thundering roar; the red walls of Thunder River to the north of us broke into flame, and then all the forest; and the mighty gorge of the Colorado to the south shone with white statues and became a city of ghosts with only grey mist rising out of it. Terrified and dumb we stood on the rim, thrilled with the beauty, awed by the terror of the unknown and mighty. Suddenly the storm broke, the world became dark as pitch. Soaked and unable to speak, we got back to the shelter of a tent that had been put up. That night the thunder shook the very earth and many a sturdy pine tree sank be- neath the flash of lightning. The morning came clear, and we turned our faces homeward, towards civilization. Passing the scrub trees, we faced the beauty of the painted desert and went on, over Purple-sage flat, to the old vermilion cliffs that shelter Kanab. Kanab, Utah