Part 19

"Jerk quick and hard when we raise the boxes," the referee directed. "If they see each other at once, you boys aren't so liable to get bit up."

"Jerk them out," bellowed Frank.

They jerked. The onlookers gasped; then howled! then roared!!

The gladiators fled! Nor stood on the order of their going.

In the middle of the ring, firmly anchored to the ropes, were two articles of crockery well known to our grand-mothers in the days when the plumbing was all outside.

So ended the Glorious Fourth.

Chapter XII: GRAND CANYON UPS AND DOWNS

I was busy baking pies one morning when White Mountain sauntered into the kitchen and stood watching me. "How soon can you be ready to start across the Canyon?" he asked, as carelessly as though I had not been waiting for that priceless moment nearly two years.

"How soon?" I was already untying my apron. "Right now!"

"Oh, not that sudden. I mean can you be ready to start in the morning?"

And with no more ceremony than that my wonderful adventure was launched. Long before dawn the next morning I was up and dressed in breeches, wool shirt, laced boots, and a wide felt hat, and felt like a full-fledged "dude." The Chief had insisted that I should ride a mule, but I had my own notions about that and "Supai Bob" was my mount. This was an Indian racing horse, and the pride of Wattahomigie's heart, but he cheerfully surrendered him to me whenever I had a bad trail to ride. He was high from the ground, long-legged, long-necked and almost gaunt, but gentle and sure-footed.

We left El Tovar before anybody was stirring and while the depths of the Canyon were still lost in darkness. At the head of the trail I involuntarily pulled up short. "Leave hope behind all ye who enter here," flashed through my brain. Dante could have written a much more realistic Inferno had he spent a few days in the Grand Canyon absorbing local color. Far below, the trail wound and crawled, losing itself in purple shadows that melted before the sun as we descended. The world still slept, with the exception of a few saucy jays who flew about us loudly claiming the heavens, the earth, and the waters beneath, should there be any. Two hours of steady descent brought us to the base of the red-wall limestone. In that two hours we had passed from the belt of pine and shrub to the one of sagebrush and cactus. Half an hour farther, and we arrived at Indian Gardens, a clump of willows and cottonwoods shading a stream of cold bubbling water from a never-failing spring. This little stream is full of delicious watercress, and more than once on festive occasions a ranger had gone down and brought back a supply to garnish the turkey. Not until I made the ride myself could I appreciate his service. At one time this spot was cultivated by the Havasupai Indians; hence the name. Every dude that has followed a Fred Harvey guide down the trail remembers this God-given oasis with gratitude. Water and shade and a perfectly good excuse for falling out of the saddle! No flopping mule ears; no toothache in both knees; no yawning void reaching up for one. Ten whole minutes in Paradise, and there's always a sporting chance that Gabriel may blow his horn, or an apoplectic stroke rescue one, before the heartless guide yells: "All aboard."

We filled our canteens from the spring, for this is really the last good water until the bridge is crossed, and rode across the Tonto Trail along the plateau for five miles, through sagebrush, cactus, and yucca. Here and there a chuckwalla darted across the trail or a rock squirrel sat on his haunches and scolded as we passed. Nothing broke the monotony of the ride. At one point on the ride the trail hangs over the edge of Pipe Creek, a mere little chasm two thousand feet deep. Anywhere else this crevice between sheer walls of blackened, distorted, jagged rocks would be considered one of the original Seven Wonders. Placed as it is, one tosses it a patronizing glance, stifles a yawn, and rides on. A mile or so along we crossed a trickle of water coming from Wild Burro Springs, so named because the burros common to this region come there to drink. Just as we drew rein to allow our horses to quench their thirst, the sultry silence was shattered beyond repair. Such a rasping, choking, jarring sound rolled and echoed back and forth from crag to crag! "What's that?" I gasped, after I had swallowed my heart two or three times. The Chief pointed to a rock lying a few feet away. Over the top of this an enormous pair of ears protruded, and two big, solemn eyes were glued on us unblinkingly. It was only a wee wild burro, but what a large voice he owned! The thousand or more of these small gray and black animals are a heritage from the day of the prospector. Some of them are quite tame. One called "Bright Angel" was often utilized by tourists as a mount while they had pictures snapped to take to the admiring family left behind.

We passed on across the plateau and rounded O'Neill Butte, named for Bucky O'Neill, one of Roosevelt's Rough Riders killed at San Juan Hill, and we suddenly came to the "sure 'nuff" jumping-off place at the edge of Granite Gorge. One should have at least a week's warning before this scene is thrown upon the screen. I think it was here that Irvin Cobb tendered his resignation--effective immediately. Straight down, fifteen hundred feet beneath one, flows the Colorado. There are no words to describe this. One must see it for one's self. Down, down, back and forth zigzags that trail, jumping from crag to crag and mesa to mesa, finally running on to the mere thread suspended from wall to wall high above the sullen brown torrent. When once started down this last lap of the journey riverward, one finds that the trail is a great deal smoother than that already traveled. But the bridge! Picture to yourself a four-foot wooden road, four hundred and twenty feet long, fenced with wire, and slung on steel cables fifty feet above a rushing muddy river, and you will see what I was supposed to ride across. My Indian horse stopped suddenly, planted himself firmly--and looked. I did likewise.

"Those cables look light," I said, seeking some excuse to stay right where I was. But the Chief calmly informed me that they were "heavy enough." I presume he should know, having helped to carry them down that twelve-mile trail. Pride alone prevented me from turning and fleeing back up that steep trail like a fly up a wall. I looked at White Mountain. He was riding serenely on, never doubting my close attendance at his horse's heels. I told myself that I had undoubtedly reached a bridge that had to be crossed, and so I spoke firmly, or as firmly as possible under the circumstances, to Supai Bob. No results. Bob was as unresponsive as any other Indian when he doesn't want to "savvy." I coaxed, I pulled, I pushed. I spanked with a board. Bob was not interested in what was across the river. Then and there I formed a high regard for that pony's sound judgment and will-power. At last the Chief looked back and saw my predicament. He turned his horse loose to continue across alone and came back over the wildly swaying bridge to me.

"What's the matter?"

Just as if he couldn't well see! I glared at him and he grinned.

"Why don't you talk to him in Supai language?"

"Speak to him yourself," I snapped and stalked out on that heaving horror. I never learned the details of the conversation, but a clatter of hoofs sounded behind me and Bob anchored his nose against my shoulder, there to remain until terra firma was regained. I worried all the rest of the way over and back about having to get him across again, but returning, he walked on to the bridge as if crossing it were his life work.

On the north end of the bridge where the cables are anchored is a labyrinth of trails crossing and recrossing. The Chief explained that Bright Angel, the little wild burro, had made those at a time when high water had marooned him on that small area. While the bridge was being built he hung around constantly, and when it was completed he was the first animal allowed to cross it. I wonder what he thought of the promised land he had gazed at so longingly for years. Poor Brighty fell a victim to a tramp who refused to listen to advice, and crossed to the North Rim after the snows had come. Perhaps he had reasons for hiding away, but he took little Brighty from his winter home in the bottom of the Canyon to carry his pack for him. After being snowed in for several weeks in a cattle cabin several miles back from the Rim, Brighty died of starvation and was eaten by the man. Brighty had plenty of friends that miss him when they go down into the Canyon, and it will fare badly with his murderer if any of the rangers or guides see him again.

Beside the trail, just across the bridge, is a prehistoric ruin. When Major Powell landed there on his first trip down the Colorado River in 1869, he found broken pottery, an old "matate" and many chipped flints, indicating that this had been the home of an arrowmaker. The mealing stone, or matate, can be seen at Phantom Ranch, half a mile on along the trail.

And just at this point of the trip we came to a tragic spot, the one where Rees Griffith lies buried beside his own well-built trail. It had been in the dead of winter when Rees was buried there by his friends, and now the summer's scorching sun was streaming down on his grave. The colorful lines of the half-breed Deprez drifted through my mind:

And there he lies now, and nobody knows; And the summer shines, and the winter snows, And the little gray hawk floats aloft in the air, And the gray coyote trots about here and there, And the buzzard sails on, And comes back and is gone, Stately and still like a ship on the sea; And the rattlesnake slides and glitters and glides Into his rift in a cottonwood tree.

Just that lonely and already forgotten was the resting-place of the master trail-builder.

It was noontime now, and all our grub, with the exception of a box of crackers and a jar of fig jam, likewise our bedding, was far ahead on a pack mule which had decided not to stop for lunch or dinner. Since we were not consulted in the matter we lunched on jam and crackers and then dined on crackers and jam. We hung the remainder of the feast in a tree and breakfasted on it a week later on our return trip.

When one tries to describe the trail as it was to the North Rim in those days, words prove weak. The first twelve miles we had already traveled are too well known to need description; the remaining twenty--all rebuilt since that time--defy it. Sometimes the trail ran along in the creek bed for yards and yards. This made it impassable during the spring freshets. Arizona horses are trained to drink at every opportunity for fear there may never be another chance, and our mounts had learned their lesson well. They tried to imbibe at every crossing, and long after they were loaded to the gunwales they dipped greedy noses into the current.

Six miles north of the river we turned aside from the main trail and followed a path a few rods to Ribbon Falls. We had intended to spend the night there, and I supposed we were to sleep standing up; but there was Chollo, our prodigal pack mule, who had found a luscious patch of grass near the Falls and decided to make it her first stopping-place. In that manner we recovered the bedding roll. White Mountain murmured a few sweet nothings into her innocent ear and anchored her firmly to a stake. That didn't please her at all. She complained loudly to her wild brethren, and they sympathized in heart-comforting brays from all points near at hand. Our horses were given grain and turned into the grassy cove, and supper was prepared. And while the coffee boiled we had a refreshing swim in Nature's bathtub at the bottom of the Falls. High above, the crystal stream bursts forth from the red cliff and falls in a sparkling cascade seventy feet, to strike against a big rock upholstered in softest green. Here it forms a morning-glory pool of almost icy coolness. Hot coffee and bacon with some of White Mountain's famous biscuits baked in a reflector tasted like a feed at Sherry's. I watched the Chief mix his biscuits while I lay resting against the piled-up saddles. I wondered how he intended to cook them, but managed to keep still and find out for myself. He took a folded piece of tin from his pack and with a few magic passes turned it into a roof-shaped structure resting on its side on two short steel legs. Another twist of the wrist lifted a little tin shelf into place. This contraption was set about a yard from the glowing fire and the pan of biscuits was placed on the shelf. As I stared at the open-work baker the biscuits puffed into lightness and slowly turned a rich tempting brown. After we had eaten the last one and the camp was put in order, we sat watching a fat moon wallow lazily up from behind the Rim. Strange forms crept into sight with the moon-rise--ruined Irish castles, fortresses hiding their dread secrets, sculptured groups, and weird goblins. By and by a few stars blossomed--great soft golden splashes, scattered about in an inverted turquoise bowl. The heavens seemed almost at our fingertips from the bottom of this deep southern gorge.

While Bright Angel Creek murmured a soft accompaniment, the Chief told me how it received its name. An old legend says: Among the first Spanish explorers a small party attempted to cross the Colorado Canyon. They wandered down on to the plateau north of the river, and there their food and water gave out. Many hundreds of feet below them at the bottom of a sheer precipice flowed the great river. Their leader swooned from thirst and exhaustion. It seemed certain that death was near. Above them towered a wall they could not surmount. Just as they were ready to throw themselves into the river so far below, their leader revived and pleaded with them to keep going a little longer. He said: "In my dreams I have seen a beautiful luminoso angelo with sparkling water dripping from his pinions. He beckons us on, and promises to lead to water." They took fresh courage and struggled on in desperation, when, lo, at their very feet flowed a crystal stream of life-giving water. In remembrance of the vision this stream was called "Bright Angel." Pretty as this legend is, the bestowal of the name is now officially credited to Major Powell.