Down the Great Unknown

by Edward Dolnick

  TO RUTH AND LYNN, THE GIRLS IN MY LIFE

  We are now ready to start on our way down the Great Unknown . . . We are three quarters of a mile in the depths of the earth . . . We have an unknown distance yet to run; an unknown river yet to explore. What falls there are, we know not; what rocks beset the channel, we know not; what walls rise over the river, we know not. Ah, well! We may conjecture many things. The men talk as cheerfully as ever; jests are bandied about freely this morning; but to me the cheer is somber and the jests are ghastly.

  –John Wesley Powell, August 13, 1869

  CONTENTS

  Epigraph

  Chapter One: THE CHALLENGE

  Chapter Two: THE CREW

  Chapter Three: THE LAUNCH

  Chapter Four: ASHLEY FALLS

  Chapter Five: PARADISE

  Chapter Six: DISASTER

  Chapter Seven: SHILOH

  Chapter Eight: THE HORNETS’ NEST

  Chapter Nine: HELL’S HALF MILE

  Chapter Ten: FIRE

  Chapter Eleven: THE FIRST MILESTONE

  Chapter Twelve: HOAX

  Chapter Thirteen: LAST TASTE OF CIVILIZATION

  Chapter Fourteen: TRAPPED

  Chapter Fifteen: “HURRA! HURRA! HURRA!”

  Chapter Sixteen: OUTMATCHED

  Chapter Seventeen: FLASH FLOOD

  Chapter Eighteen: TO THE TAJ MAHAL

  Chapter Nineteen: GRAND CANYON

  Chapter Twenty: TIME’S ABYSS

  Chapter Twenty-one: THE GREAT UNKNOWN

  Chapter Twenty-two: SOCKDOLAGER

  Chapter Twenty-three: FIGHT

  Chapter Twenty-four: MISERY

  Chapter Twenty-five: SEPARATION RAPID

  Chapter Twenty-six: DELIVERANCE

  Chapter Twenty-seven: THE VANISHING

  Epilogue

  Notes

  Bibliography

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  To the Reader

  August 30, 1869, the Colorado River at the foot of the Grand Canyon

  The fishermen kept their gaze focused intently on the river, but it was not fish they were looking for. A splintered plank from a broken boat, a torn shirt, perhaps a lifeless body—these were the “fragments or relics” they had been instructed to watch for.

  Only a few miles upstream, six exhausted men in two boats pushed themselves into the current. Ragged, half-starved, burnt black by ninety-eight days in the desert sun, the men were in sorry shape. Explorers who dreamed of gold and glory, they had been given up for dead weeks before. “Fearful Disaster,” the Chicago Tribune had trumpeted on its front page on July 3. The entire party, save one man, had been “Engulfed in a Moment.”

  But they have not drowned. They are still alive, barely, still hoping they have food and strength enough to grope their way to safety.

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE CHALLENGE

  Noon, May 24, 1869

  The few inhabitants of Green River Station, Wyoming Territory, gather at the riverfront to cheer off a rowdy bunch of adventurers. Ten hardy men in four wooden boats had spent the morning checking their gear and their provisions one last time—bacon, flour, coffee, spare oars, sextants and barometers (their leader, the skinny, one-armed man in the Emma Dean, fancied himself a scientist). Their plan could hardly be simpler. They will follow the Green River downstream until it merges with the Grand to become the Colorado, and then they will stay with the Colorado wherever it takes them. They intend in particular to run the river through the fabled chasm variously called Big Canyon or Great Canyon or Grand Canyon, a region scarcely better known than Atlantis. No one has ever done it.

  The men hope to make their fortunes; their leader plans to emblazon his name across the heavens. They are brave, they have new boats and supplies to last ten months, they are at home in the outdoors. Most important, they are ready to risk their lives.

  At one o’clock, the Emma Dean, the Kitty Clyde’s Sister, the Maid of the Cañon, and the No Name push themselves out into the current. A small American flag mounted on the Emma Dean flaps proudly in the breeze. Most of the crew are still a bit bleary-eyed. As a farewell to civilization, they have done their best to drink Green River Station’s only saloon dry. Now they are suffering what one of them describes as “foggy ideas and snarly hair.” The small crowd gives a cheer, the leader doffs his hat, and the four boats disappear around the river’s first bend.

  John Wesley Powell, the trip leader, was a Civil War veteran who had lost his right arm at Shiloh. Thirty-five years old and unknown, Powell was a tenderfoot who barely knew the West, a geology professor at a no-name college, an amateur explorer with so little clout that he had ended up reaching into his own (nearly empty) pocket to finance this makeshift expedition. His appearance was as unimpressive as his résumé—at 5 feet, 6 1/2 inches and 120 pounds, he was small and scrawny even by the standards of the age, a stick of beef jerky adorned with whiskers.

  To Powell, a natural leader, all that was unimportant. Overflowing with energy and ambition, he was a man of almost pathological optimism. With a goal in mind, he was impossible to discourage.

  He had devised an extraordinary goal. In 1803, with the full and enthusiastic backing of the president of the United States, Lewis and Clark had opened the door to the American West. In 1869, with almost no government support, John Wesley Powell intended to resolve its last great mystery. By this time, the map of the United States had long since been filled in. For two centuries, Boston had been a center of learning and culture. New York and Philadelphia were booming, Nashville and New Orleans struggling to recover from the Civil War. California’s gold rush was almost a generation in the past. In May 1869, the pounding of a ceremonial spike at Promontory Summit, Utah, marked the completion of the transcontinental railroad.

  The Rockies and the Sierra Nevada and Yosemite and Death Valley were old news. Miners in search of gold, trappers in quest of beavers whose pelts could be transformed into hats for London dandies, a host of government and railroad surveying parties, all had crisscrossed one another’s steps in even the most isolated spots of the American continent.

  Except one. One mystery remained. In the American Southwest an immense area—an area as large as any state in the Union, as large as any country in Europe—remained blank. Here mapmakers abandoned the careful notations that applied elsewhere and wrote simply “unexplored.” Venturesome Westerners knew that the region was desolate and bone-dry; they knew the Colorado River ran through it; they knew that canyons cleaved the ground like gouges cut by a titanic axe. Beyond that, rumor would have to do. Men whispered tales of waterfalls that dwarfed Niagara and of places where the mighty Colorado vanished underground like an enormous snake suddenly slithering down a hole.

  Powell aimed to fill in that blank in the map. His plan, such as it was, took audacity to the brink of lunacy. Once they were well under way, he and his men would have no supplies other than those they could carry. They had no reliable maps—none existed—and their route stretched across a thousand miles of high desert. It was Indian territory, and peace had yet to break out. There were no white settlements (or settlers, for that matter) anywhere along their river route nor within a hundred miles on either side.

  The Grand Canyon itself, Powell knew, was many hundreds of miles downstream. It was the final canyon the expedition would pass through—and the longest and the deepest and the least known—but they would have to confront countless obstacles before they ever drew near it. The first three-fourths of the route, Powell guessed, led through a series of virtually unexplored canyons. The last one-fourth, if he and the crew were still alive, would be the Gr
and Canyon.

  Powell’s friends feared he was throwing his life away. On May 24, the day he set out, his hometown newspaper had reported on his plans. “It would be impossible for a boat constructed of any known material, upon any conceivable plan, to live through the canyon,” one supposed expert declared. “We do not know what kind of boats Professor Powell purposes to descend the Grand Canyon,” the newspaper cautioned, “but we greatly fear that the attempt to navigate by any means whatever will result fatally to those who undertake it.”

  Bon voyage!

  Despite the dangers, for a man of Powell’s character the temptation was irresistible. Perhaps nowhere on earth were science and adventure as intertwined as in the American Southwest. For Powell, would-be scientist and would-be explorer, it was like a chance to be the first man on the moon. But to achieve his dreams, he would have to survive the Colorado.

  The expedition’s starting point, Green River Station, Wyoming, sits 6,100 feet above sea level. The destination, any of the small settlements near the mouth of the Virgin River in Arizona, was at about seven hundred feet. Powell and his men, then, were proposing to descend over a mile in the course of their journey. The question was whether the drop was sudden or gradual. Did the river follow a course like an elevator shaft or like a ramp?

  No one had a clue. A waterfall as high as Niagara, a mere 170 feet, would be little more than a steep step in comparison with an overall vertical fall of a mile. For all Powell knew, his crew might find themselves trying frantically to pull upstream from a waterfall ten times higher than Niagara. Worse still, they would have almost no warning, for as the river makes its meandering way, it is hemmed in by soaring cliffs that cut off the view downstream. A mega-Niagara could be lying in wait, like some colossal mugger, around any of a thousand river bends. The men would hear it before they saw it, probably, for from water level it would look like nothing more than a sharp, horizontal line, as if the river had vanished into the air.

  This was far more than a theoretical hazard. The Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone, for example, is only a fraction the size of the Grand Canyon but has two towering waterfalls. A short distance upstream of the first, the Yellowstone is “peaceful and unbroken by a ripple,” in the words of one of the first explorers to describe it. A canoeist who happened on this quiet spot might be tempted to set out on a day trip. Then, suddenly, the river dives over a ledge and plunges one hundred feet. Half a mile downstream, it roars over another rock ledge, this time falling more than three hundred feet, almost twice Niagara’s height.

  Powell could hope that he would never confront such a sight, but he knew there were spots where the Colorado’s drop was far from gradual—earlier explorers had tried to follow the river upstream, starting below the Grand Canyon, and had run into unnavigable rapids. Indians contributed their own tales of the Colorado’s power. One old man told Powell of a calamity he had seen himself. “The rocks h-e-a-p, h-e-a-p high,” he began, or so Powell recorded his words. “The water go h-oo-wooogh, h-oo-woogh; water-pony [canoe] h-e-a-p buck; water catch ’em; no see ’em Injun any more! No see ’em squaw any more! No see ’em papoose any more!” Powell respected the Indians—in this era of Custer and Sheridan (“The only good Indians I ever saw were dead”), his attitude was rare—but he chose to ignore this warning.

  Neither Powell nor any of his men had ever run a rapid. As a young man with a bad case of wanderlust (and two arms), Powell had rowed the length of the Mississippi, rowed the Ohio and the Illinois and the Des Moines. But those were rolling, midwestern rivers that hardly bore comparison with the rambunctious Green and Colorado. One of the crew had perhaps put in some time in fishing boats off the New England coast. In comparison with the others, Powell was an old pro. He had seen white water, from a cliff he and his wife had climbed high above the Green River at the Gates of Lodore.

  “Reading the river”—identifying a path through the chaos of colliding waves and protruding rocks and sucking whirlpools—is a skill as fundamental to a boatman as reading music is to a musician, but the river was a closed book to Powell and all his men. Powell claimed once that the nine men of his crew were “all experienced in the wild life of the country, and most of them in boating on dangerous streams,” but that was a stunning exaggeration. “We were all green at the business,” one of the men acknowledged.

  There would be no choice but to learn on the fly while careening downstream. They could hardly have picked a more forbidding classroom. (Making matters worse, the ten men had only one life jacket among them, for Powell. The able-bodied men disdained such sissy stuff.) Stretches of the Green are still feared today, and the Colorado is near the top of any list of America’s white-water rivers. Powell planned to portage rapids whenever that was possible, on the theory that the heavy labor of carrying the boats (and their tons of supplies) was preferable to drowning in them. But portaging was backbreaking work and dangerous besides, for a false step could mean a broken ankle or a boat impaled on a rock. The alternative was to “line” the boats downstream—to tie ropes to bow and stern and to hang on while clambering up and over the slick rocks along the river’s edge. Lining a bucking boat through the rocky margin of a rapid carried all the appeal of dragging a skittish horse through an obstacle course.

  The only remaining choice, running the rapids, seemed suicidal. Even today, the big rapids on the Green and the Colorado are the stuff of dry mouths and pounding hearts. For amateurs seeing them for the first time, the rapids must have been a revelation, a rumbling, heaving nightmare. “To get an idea of the scale involved,” one modern-day river guide suggests, “think of yourself as sitting in a boat on the floor of your living room. The waves . . . can be as high as the ceiling of a room on the second story! Now think of being on the roof of that two-floor house and looking down twenty feet to the bottom of a dark, churning hole.”

  Early in the journey, Powell and his men would still have the option of giving up, abandoning the river and hiking overland to safety. Even later on they could hope to find a side canyon that led to freedom. But that was a desperate hope. Without maps, no one could know how many miles it was to the next side canyon or where it led or whether it dead-ended in a sheer, unclimbable wall. For all anyone could know, there was no “next one.” Once the river had pinned itself between towering rock walls, there would be no chance of escape for days on end. In canyon country, the choice would be to run the river or die.

  The problem was that there were only two exits, and both were blocked. First, retreat was impossible. To take a rowboat upstream through mighty rapids was unthinkable, like trying to push a boulder up a cliff. Second, trying to climb up and over the canyon walls, in a kind of outdoor jailbreak, was almost as unlikely. The legends that had grown around the Grand Canyon, for example, were close to the truth. As long ago as 1540, Spanish conquistadors (led by Hopi guides) had crept to the rim and gazed down in slack-jawed stupefaction. The view from water level is even more stunning. From the river, the canyon cliffs soar upward for a mile. Writers talk glibly of the “canyons” of Manhattan, but the analogy understates reality. You could stack one of the World Trade Center towers on top of the other, and they would reach only halfway to the rim of the Grand Canyon.

  Once the canyon walls closed around them, Powell and his men would be as bound by their decision as sky divers falling through the air. All they could do would be to struggle on, knowing that each mile would carry them deeper into the earth, farther into the unknown, and farther from the possibility of rescue by the outside world.

  Between their starting point and safety, though they could not have known it, stretched a thousand miles of river and nearly five hundred rapids. At spots beyond counting, a moment’s inattention or the briefest of mistakes could prove fatal. Drowning was only the most obvious hazard. A capsizing that left the food stores soaked or sunk would mean death just as surely, though more slowly. A boat damaged beyond repair could be a calamity. A broken leg could be a death sentence. Skill and will counted only to
a degree; luck and caprice were as important. The river could grab a boat and trap it in a “hole,” a kind of whirlpool turned on its side, or it could take a drowning man and spit him contemptuously to safety. The river doled out punishment with a kind of casual indifference, as a bored lion might flick a mighty paw.

  Today’s river runners can only shake their heads in disbelief. “By modern standards,” one of them writes, “[Powell’s boats] were the technical equivalent of walnut shells.” But inadequate boats were only the beginning. Powell and his fellow novices would have been in desperate trouble even with the best of equipment, like beginning drivers trying to take a Ferrari down an icy mountain road.

  All this was the penalty for being first. (Nor was there a crowded field of those vying for second place. The Colorado was so fearsome that as late as World War II, seven decades after Powell, only 250 people had ever been through the Grand Canyon in boats.)

  In 1869, no one ran white water, and so no one knew what boats were suited to it or how best to maneuver them. Today, boat design and boating technique have had decades to evolve, and 3,500 private boaters a year run the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon. (They wait ten to fifteen years for the privilege.) The National Park Service, which oversees the sign-up process, requires that these boatmen have some degree of skill and experience. Today, Powell and his men would not qualify for a permit to run the Grand Canyon.

  The private boaters are far from alone. Every year twenty thousand wet, happy, scared tourists opt for Grand Canyon trips run by commercial outfitters. Every one of those boatmen, whether private or commercial, has a store of information that Powell would have given his other arm for. They have maps that detail the river’s course, and its hazards, mile by mile. They know from countless books and videos what they will see along the way. They know the boats to use and the food to bring and the gear to pack. They know how the rapids they will confront compare with other rapids they have run. They know that if all goes wrong, the Park Service will swoop down and helicopter them to safety.