THE MYSTIC SPRING TRAIL
By George Wharton James (Circa 1900)

STANDING on the brink of the Canyon at Surprise Outlook, after the eye has become accustomed to picking out the numerous objects in the Canyon, it is easy to describe generally the course of the Mystic Spring Trail.

In order to form a general idea as to where we have to go, look down upon Le Conte Plateau towards the edge of Trail Canyon, between Hue-tha-wa-li Plateau and the Grand Scenic Divide.  Seen from above, it presents a comparatively smooth and even surface, and appears to be dotted with a growth of dwarf-looking shrubs.  Between us and the plateau a slope of talus extends, of sixty or seventy degrees, for a depth of fifteen hundred or sixteen hundred feet, when it breaks off on the summit of a perpendicular wall of rock nine hundred feet in height.

The trail begins not more than a yard from where we stand.  One step and we are upon it.  It glides down eastward for nearly a mile on the face of this talus without a “zag” in it, and then zigzags for a short distance until a natural stream bed is reached.  This is in the more solid portion of the cross-bedded sandstone.  Near this point, a little below the trail, on the left, are two natural tanks or reservoirs, which catch the water as it races down the steep slopes after a shower, and thus stores it for future use.  When these tanks were found by Mr. Bass they were completely filled with the debris that, for years, had been allowed to wash in and accumulate.  Now that they are cleaned out, well cemented, and carefully covered, they will hold several hundred barrels of water, the value of which in the dry season it is impossible to estimate.

Leaving the tanks and crossing this slight rocky ravine, the trail follows along the brink of a precipice until the so-called "Cliff-dwelling" is reached. 

I am inclined to the belief that this is nothing more than a corn storage house, a score or more of which are found in the Havasu Canyon, especially in its upper reaches...

On the Mystic Spring Trail. Photo by George Wharton James, 1899
As Le Conte Plateau and the region beyond was once the wandering ground and pasturage of certain Havasupai families, and they made their home in the interior of the Canyon, it is reasonable to assume that, near to their water cisterns, they would construct this food storehouse, where they could place their corn, dried peaches, dried pumpkins, dried meat, and other eatables during their short absences.

A little distance from the cliff corn-house the trail reaches a sort of break, down the face of the cross-bedded sandstone, where it descends in a zigzag course, back and forth, until Le Conte Plateau is reached.

Here the surface presents an entirely different appearance from what we saw twenty-five hundred feet above.  It is broken and covered with mounds of earth and rock, while huge boulders are distributed over it.  The shrubs have grown into a forest of fair-sized trees, and while from the rim it looked as though travelling would be easy, and that one could see all around him, it is found that if the trail is left it is an easy matter to lose one’s self among the trees and upheaved earth and rocks.

We are in no hurry to reach the river, so let us see all we can, leisurely and easily, on the three out-thrust plateaus, before climbing Hue-tha-wa-li or descending Trail Canyon. As before noted, the easterly out-thrust of Le Conte Plateau is called the Grand Scenic Divide. From its summit one may look sheer down three thousand feet or more and see the dirty river scouring the rocks and roaring along on its way to the Gulf of California, at the rate of what seems to be from ten to sixty miles an hour. But though we have descended nearly three thousand feet, our view of the river is so limited that one may cover it from sight with three fingers of the hand.

To the right towers Havasupai Point, three thousand feet above us.  At its base stands a great symmetrical pillar shaped like Cleopatra’s Needle in Central Park, New York, but six hundred feet high.  The Divide swings around a quarter circle and shows that it is a gigantic mass of red sandstone and marble, as symmetrically built up as though done by a master mason, and away up on its weird side there is revealed to the spectator a monster monogram, “ G. A. R.”

The Colorado River from near Duck Pillar on the Grand Scenic Divide. Photo by F.H. Maude, 1899 We ride out to the point and there obtain a long view of the river deep down in the Inner Gorge of granite...
and, as we stand by the side of Dick Pillar, we feel that the indefatigable baker of Thurso, whose researches formed such valuable contributions to geological science, has here a monument more grand, noble, and enduring than any that his admirers could have erected to his honor.

Returning now to the central or Hue-tha-wa-li (Mount Observation) Plateau, we essay the climb to the summit of the mountain from which the plateau gains its name.  There is no trail here. It is pure climbing, and none will undertake it except those who love hard work and the marvellous view the summit affords.  As we slowly take each step upwards we feel that we must find some ancient temple on reaching the top. What a site for one!

The gods themselves have hewn out this mountain as a magnificent pedestal, upon which reverent worshippers might place their temple and altars thereupon to offer constant worship and sacrifice. Then we ride out towards Mystic Spring, passing on the way a curious freak of erosion known as Seal Head Rock.

It covers the interior canyon prospect in every direction.  As a place of defensive retreat it would be absolutely impregnable.  Only on the narrowest and most precarious of paths could the summit be attained, and the will of a score of brave and determined men could have kept the whole armies of the world in check, had such a conflict occurred before firearms were discovered.

Yonder, across the river, the keen eyes of our guide discern a mountain sheep, and we level our field glasses upon him.

It is a great sight, to witness the flight of a band of "Big Horns," or mountain sheep, on the steep slopes of the Grand Canyon.  You would think not -even mountain sheep could keep their foothold, much less run at full speed on this sloping talus, so plentifully bestrewn with boulders; but they do it with perfect ease, and apparently with no consciousness of fear.  They are wonderfully crafty, and it is hard to get near enough to shoot them, or with several companions surround, so as to entrap them.  When they are driven to frenzy by apparent hopelessness of escape, they will dash to the edge of great precipices, and without hesitation jump down, often landing on their skulls, rather than their feet.  A roll or two, and they are up and off, and in your astonishment at this negro-like acrobatic feat you lose all chance of shooting them.

It is on Le Conte Plateau, in the region of Hue-tha-wa-li, that many and various evidences of the use of this plateau as the home of the Indians are to be found.  There are mescal pits, so long forsaken that they are buried under the talus of rock which has fallen; others, in the centre and on the sides of which huge trees have crown.  There are storage houses in the cliffs where corn and other foods were placed, and houses occupied by the Indians themselves. Indeed, there are a few of these houses where the Havasupais yet come and live while they are making mescal, or gathering it to take away.

Even on the igneous rocks down in the very inmost recesses of the Canyon, similar evidences of human occupancy exist, and the Havasupais speak of them all as the residences of their forefathers.

Descending Mount Observation, we stand in interested amazement before "Balanced Rock," a huge mass of stone weighing many tons, the base of which has so disintegrated as to leave the upper and more solid portion resting upon the slightest possible foundation.  While it does not "swing" - as do the balanced rocks of Cornwall - it appears so much like them as to justify the name.

Now we may ride out to the point of Mount Observation (Hue-tha-wa-li) Plateau, where the view is similar to the one enjoyed from the Grand Scenic Divide, or shall have shortly from the Mystic Spring Plateau, the westernmost offshoot from Le Conte Plateau.  We look down the vast recesses of Copper Canyon and see a score of "El Capitans" in the red marble walls on either side.

Then we ride out towards Mystic Spring, passing on the way a curious freak of erosion known as Seal Head Rock. Seal Head Rock near Mystic Spring. Photo by George Wharton James, 1899
It was Captain Burro who led Mr. Bass to Mystic Spring, whose existence he had no, known, but  which all his most careful searchings could never find.  They had become great friends, and Burro had learned that this white man had, so far, been true to all his promises.  So, one day, after Mr. Bass had returned from another wearisome, disheartening, and futile search, Burro said, “ Billy, you give me a sack of flour and half a beef, and I show you my spring, and you can always use it for yourself and your horses.” The transfer of the property was made, and Mr. Bass was taken to the spring, which, to his great amazement, was so near to where he had searched in vain for it, that he could have thrown a pebble into it.  Hence, the name he had already given to it - long before he saw it - the Mystic Spring. And it is mystic in more ways than one.
Burros drinking at Mystic Spring. Photo by George Wharton James, 1899 Its curative properties in cases of dyspepsia, as well as the singular manner in which it seems to ooze out of the solid rock, make the name most appropriate.  Now and again it disappears entirely.
Standing at the spring in front of us is a yawning abyss whose bottom is floored with the rocks of ages, and whose sides are perpendicular walls of rock. To our right is a deeper abyss of the same style of architecture.  To our left, a still deeper one, the deepest one so far seen, and through which we obtain another view of the river. This is Mystic Amphitheatre.

At the extreme north end of Mystic Spring Plateau, we look into the amphitheatre named the "Ruins of Paradise." (on account of its towers and turrets and the transcendent coloring of its lofty vertical walls, which recalled Milton’s description of the walls of heaven and the great difficulty the arch fiend found in scaling them.)

Here, in the Ruins of Paradise, is the region of chromes and Naples yellows, the blues, and the delicate shades of browns and grays.

It is when you are among the shales and slates, and where the serpentine marble lies, that these exquisite colors reveal themselves in all their glory.  These do not appear everywhere.  They are not dominant, insistent, like the reds.  It is only when you seek them out, in such secluded nooks as this, that you can enjoy to the full their unique revelry of coloring.

Then, too, the luminous haze, which generally may be observed everywhere in the Canyon in the early morning, or late afternoon hours, is nowhere so luminous and radiantly beautiful as down here.  It seems to take upon itself from these rich and glowing colors some of their glory, so that the two effects combine to make an unequalled scene of transcendent gorgeousness.

Now, riding around from Mystic Spring to the head of Trail Canyon, we are ready for the river.  How the trail winds around and takes advantage of every opportunity to descend.  We are under the western wall of Hue-tha-wa-li Plateau, soon to be curving down under Le Conte Plateau.

Looking down Trail Canyon by George Wharton James, 1900 As we enter the marble the walls grow narrower and narrower, until, for a short distance, we are within a mere gorge, but the stupendous height of the walls almost frightens us as we look up and see them conjoined to the sky. 
On the wall to the left is a great Gothic archway that seems like an entrance to a vast and inaccessible cave.  The contour of the entrance changes as we approach nearer to it, and we see that it is merely a break in the marble, where either the crushing of an uplift has mashed the rock and made it easily disintegrated, or it is the remains of one of the many vast caves- eaten out by acid-charged waters - found in this formation throughout the entire canyon system.

Down we go, farther and farther.  The narrow canyon opens out, and we breathe more freely.  The trail is excellent, and we ride in comfort.

Now we come to a great monoclinal fold of the lower strata, cut through by the storm waters, which again and again, doubtless, during the centuries, have dashed down Trail Canyon.  Wheeler Fold in Trail Canyon, by George Wharton James, 1900
The fold stands almost directly parallel to the course of the canyon, for a short distance, so that as the processes of erosion have been performed the tilted strata first appeared by being denuded of covering strata above and on each side of their upturned edges.  Then, as erosion cut deeper, the wall composed of the folded strata formed an obstacle to the passage of the storm waters on its eastern side, as, at its lower exposed end the canyon makes a slight curve, and the fold is left undisturbed and uncovered as a portion of the right canyon wall.  So, during some violent storm, or, perhaps, by the slower processes of weathering, the perpendicular wall was cut through, and we now ride through a cut in the great uncovered tilt, where the curve stands upon our right, and the remains of the upturned wall, its upper edges jagged and rough, is upon our left.  This fold I have named the Wheeler Fold, and its corresponding wall to the left, the Gilbert Wall. 

A little farther on, and the trail, which has left the bed of the stream, turns into it, doubles on itself, and returns into a shut-in gorge. 

At its extremity we find ourselves in a camp more perfect and complete than the one at Mystic Spring; for the bed of the canyon here has so eroded as to make a precipice of fifteen or twenty feet, and the overhanging rock makes of the precipice such a place as the Cliff-dwellers built their fortress homes in centuries ago.

Here Mr. Bass has stores of food, a portable forge, anvil, and other aids to his trail building and mining operations.

Above the camp, and reached by a rough ladder built of mesquite, is a tiny spring of pure, sweet water, nestling in a basin of solid rock.

The ladder to the spring at Bed Rock Camp, by George Wharton James, 1900
From this camp the trail leads us over still another mile and a half, winding its sinuous and tortuous way over the steep and adamantine granite.  There to the right is the place where we stood and looked at and longed to reach the river as recounted in the next chapter.  But now the trail leads us to the muddy waters, and after watering the horses and tying them up, watching the fierce rapids which are somewhat similar to those described elsewhere, looking up and around at the buttes, temples, spires, and walls which surround us, we doff our clothing, and, in a safe harbor, plunge into the "Raging Colorado" and enjoy the luxury of a swim. 
The Colorado River in the inner gorge at the foot of the Mystic Spring Trail, by George wharton James, 1900 More of a bath, it is, than a swim, but it is delightful to feel one’s self in deep water, even though it be the sand-, silt-, and color-laden water of the Colorado.
THREE DAYS OF EXPLORING 
IN TRAIL CANYON  (The S. Bass Trail)
WITH THE WRONG COMPANION
By George Wharton James, (Circa 1900)

TRAIL Canyon is that inner side gorge down which the Mystic Spring Trail leaves Le Conte Plateau on its way to the river. 

On one of my visits some years ago, before this portion of the trail was constructed, I determined, if possible, to reach the Colorado down this canyon.  Mr. Bass had been down several times, and, although he warned me that it would be rather a hard trip, he felt sure I could make it.  I had with me at this time two companions, one a doctor, and the other "was not." No sooner did they learn of the intended outing than they also desired to go.  Mr. "Was-not" was not very strong, physically, and Mr. Bass urged him not to go, but not content with this advice he came and solicited my counsel. 

I felt somewhat diffident about advising him, for, unhappily, I had learned that should I bid him remain, he would forever after regret and complain that I had had some ulterior object in not allowing him to go, and if, on the other hand, I said "Go," and the trip were to prove, as I felt assured it would, very arduous, he would not be the man to face difficulties with equanimity, and would condemn me for having permitted him to go. 

Still, as he wanted to go, and as, I must confess, I did not anticipate anything like the hardships we afterwards encountered, I said that if he much desired it, he would better go, and I would do all I could to help him.  I was soon sorry I gave him this advice, for, five minutes after we started, he began to complain, and, with but few - very few - interruptions, kept it up until we returned, three days later. 

In leaving the upper section of the Mystic Spring Trail, we had to descend, for perhaps two thousand feet, an almost precipitous talus, with no suggestion of a trail.  Now we were dropping down eight and ten feet ledges, then climbing over loose boulders, only to alight on a mass of sliding debris which carried us along perilously near a precipice five hundred feet high, over which we could hear the fore-portion of our rocky stream fall upon the marble beneath.  Several times we found ourselves on ledges which ended nowhere, and our steps had to be retraced.

The only provisions we had loaded ourselves with were a couple of cans of fruit, one can of salmon, a few dried biscuits, some sugar, and a small canteen of water.  We thought we should surely reach the river that night, and there we could refill the canteen and return to Mystic Spring Camp the next day, where there was an abundance of both provision and water.

But, as we slowly climbed and slid downwards, and saw the sun hastening to his western domain, the long black shadows thrown in the canyon cast equally black shadows upon the hope that we should see the river that night.  Indeed it was already starlight when I called a halt.  I found a small sandy spot, where I thought we three could sleep.  As the wind blew down the canyon at night I placed Was-not, our complaining friend, on the lee of a huge rock which effectively shielded him. The doctor took a position by the side of another rock on the lower side, and I lay in the open, almost at right angles with Was-not.  I had chosen these positions purely for the benefit of my friends, but the kicker "kicked" at his position, and I had to reason with him and show him "why" I had thus placed him.  Then he began to whine.  "How was he to sleep in such a place?  He had no blankets and no tent, and he had never slept out of bed or out of doors in his life.  And what if rattlesnakes came to us in the night? or centipedes? or what would become of us if those gigantic rocks should fall on us?" (they did look fearfully threatening in the semi-darkness) and what this, and what the other, until I fairly exploded with a somewhat petulant sermon on his lack of faith in the Almighty.  I contended that, as he had used the best judgment he possessed in making this trip, he had as much right, after committing his way unto the Lord, to expect His protecting care as if he were asleep in his own bed.  I then turned over, and had just gone to sleep when another whine began, and the doctor afterwards told me that poor Was-not was so nervous he had to sidle up to him, hold his hand, and soothe him as if he had been a child, before he could get him to sleep.

Early in the morning, after a frugal meal, we started on again.  I could enjoy writing a  long chapter on the wonders of the trip to our then less accustomed eyes, but we were in a hurry to see the river.  The sun came up, and it became hotter and hotter. Soon the canteen was empty, and the springs or water-pockets we had expected to find on the way down were not there.  As we neared the river, travelling became harder and harder, and the heat grew so intense that where we had to pull ourselves over boulders, the rocks blistered our ungloved hands.  About noon we did find a water-pocket, half full of a stagnant liquid in which toads, tadpoles, and mosquitoes, etc., held high carnival.  Although we were already terribly thirsty, none of us could drink this horrible stuff, so we hurried on in order to get water at the river. Coleridge's words truthfully pictured our fearful state as:

"All in a hot and copper sky
     The bloody sun at noon"

shone down upon us with pitiless fury, and increased our already dreadful thirst.  Imagine our horror, and the terror of our situation, when at last we came to a cliff of granite, to the summit of which we managed to creep, and crawl, and climb, and saw, three hundred feet below, the river dashing madly along, but could discover no possible way by which it could be reached.  It was as absolutely inaccessible to us as if it were in the moon.  Mr. Bass had explained to the doctor how we could get down to the river, by retracing our steps some distance and climbing over the cliffs to the left, but Was-not could not be persuaded to go, and he was horrified at the idea of our going and leaving him alone.  We were indeed in a terrible quandary.  No water, very little provision, a day and a half, at least, from Mystic Spring Camp, and a man on our hands who was worse than all the other calamities of the trip combined.

  "With throats unslacked, with black lips baked, 
   We could not laugh nor wail."

It was too hot to think of attempting to return, and yet it was like being in a furnace, remaining where we were.  Our empty canteen actually seemed to take on a fiendish face, and laughed at us every time we looked at it; the rocks seemed to grow hotter, and our throats, lips, and tongues more parched.  So, making a virtue of our necessity, we returned to the water-pocket I had discovered on the down trip, and turning my felt hat inside out, scooped into it, water, tadpoles, dead and live mosquitoes, mud, slime, and the rest, and then sat on the scorching hot rocks, the doctor holding, the canteen and I the hat, waiting for the water to filter through.  It took us a full hour to exhaust the pocket and obtain three-quarters of a canteen full of this "tadpole soup." Then we returned to where there was a little shade to be had, and spent the day until about five o'clock, dodging the sun.  The moment the fierce Monarch of Day, who seemed determined to scorch our brains out, and then bake us alive, dodged over the western rim of our box-canyon, we started for the place where we had stayed the night before.  Every few steps we had to stop and rest, and far oftener than I liked one or the other of us would want water.  I carried the canteen, as I dared not trust the precious - though filthy and odorous - fluid in any one else's hands. 

When we reached our sandy bed, poor Was-not was so nervous that he could not sleep.  He was far worse than on the previous night, and, after several futile attempts to get him to sleep, as a last resort I had to rub him down and massage him with a little of the valuable fluid from the canteen.

In the morning, while the stars were smiling on us, we started for the summit.  The "water" had nauseated the doctor, and we had nothing to eat, but pluckily he trudged along. 

How I dreaded to see the first gleam of sunlight!  I had often watched with intense delight the sparkling diamond the sun makes on a canyon wall, as in the Yosemite, and had even studied to find a low place in the rim where I could enjoy that indescribably beautiful effect, and then, running to obtain a different angle, see it again and again, several times; - but now! how I longed for the power of Joshua, that successfully,  I might have bidden the sun stand still. 

But I had no such power, and ruthlessly, remorse-lessly, indeed, rather gleefully, it seemed to all of us, he finally shot over the walls with an unseemly and indecorous haste, and made our upward climb more arduous than before.  We were all nearly at the last gasp, but Was-not felt that his opportunities would be lost if he did not expend his strength and nervous energies in complaining: "What a fool he was to have come on such a, trip!  Would the Lord ever forgive him for venturing on such a foolhardy errand?  If He would, and would allow him to get out, a hundred million dollars should never tempt him to make it again," and so on, ad libitum, ad nauseam, until, disgusted and annoyed beyond control, the doctor called me on one side and said: " This trip and that man's whining are driving me crazy.  Stop his howling or I shall become insane and kill him." 

I felt exactly in the same condition the doctor so graphically and tersely described, so, turning to Was-not, I burst forth: "You came down here of your own will knowing as much of the difficulties as we did.  We have helped and cared for you all we could, and now, I, for one, propose that you shall stop your howling and kicking. Can’t you see that every breath you waste in this foolish complaining is exhausting your nerve energies, and the effect of it upon us is as bad as upon yourself? We’re in a tight place, and it will be hard work for us to get out.  Now you either quit, or, the next growl you make we’ll leave you, and you can get out or not, as you like.”

This emphatic and seemingly brutal remonstrance had the desired effect, for, of course, we could never have left the poor fellow down there, no matter what he had said or done, but it was a comfort to "hear him still" for a while.

During this "interlude" the doctor built a signal fire, in the hope that the smoke would be seen by Mr. Bass, and he would come or send some one to our rescue.  But, unfortunately, the breeze sent the smoke down the canyon instead of allowing it to ascend, so that the effort was in vain.

Again we started, and slowly labored on, and just as the last sip was taken from our canteen, we came to the final climb, helped each other up to the Mystic Spring Trail, and then - lay there.  But "lying there" would never do.  We were all faint from loss of food and water.  We held a consultation.  One of us had to go to Mystic Spring - three miles away - for help.  Of course Was-not could not go, - it was between the doctor and myself which should brave the heat of the afternoon sun.  I offered for the service, but confessed my doubt as to my ability to stand the heat.  If I had had shade I think I should have gone without a question, but - The upshot was, the doctor bravely went, and Was-not and I lay in the shade of the rocks as best we could. 

I think that he lay offering thanks, - I offered mine, with a sincere heart, and then to divert my mind from the pangs of hunger and thirst, buried myself in a few pages of one of Wilkie Collins's novels which I had slipped into one of my pockets.  In about an hour and a half - it seemed an age - Mr. Bass's partner hallooed as he crossed the Winchell Ridge, and soon after, with two extra horses, and two generous canteens filled with the refreshing water of Mystic Spring, rode up, and we were saved. 

How delicious that water was! and how I longed for the neck of a giraffe to feel the exquisite sensation prolonged as it bubbled into my mouth and down my throat!  I wanted two yards of throat instead of the little I had.  After this it was an easy ride, and a delightful arrival at Mystic Spring, where we found the noble doctor already recuperated and almost ready for another trip.  The next day we were all right, and it would have required only a powerful enough object, and two more canteens of water, to have sent us off on a similar expedition.  Was-not has since expressed himself as to the "folly" of our adventure.  Why go down into that canyon? Where could any benefit be derived by ourselves or others?  Why cannot men be content to stay in places of safety and comfort, and not jeopardize life by trying to know more than easily comes to them? 

And I cannot help the reflection: how true to life-or many people's conception of life-this kind of complaining is.  Was-not is right, after all, from the worldly-wise standpoint.  It is an unwise and dangerous thing to explore that wondrous canyon-mystery we call "life." Happy is that man who is content to remain on the dead level, and who neither seeks to penetrate the depths or the height he sees around him.  True; they are there. He recognizes their existence, but cares not to know, dares not to risk finding, the mysteries which may be hidden therein.  Why dare?  Why risk?  Has he not bread and butter as it is?  Down there may he not lose it?  Better let well alone, and let the canyon's deeps be explored and the mountain's heights and fastnesses scaled by the "fools" who will dare and venture, because they are not content where they are.

But, thank God! for adventurous souls who will dare, who will venture, who will explore, even at risk of life and all that ordinary souls hold dear.  The world would soon die of stagnation and dead rot were it not for the Leif Ericsons, the Columbuses, the Drakes, the Cabrillos, the Wattses, the Stephensons, the Edisons, the Morses, the Franklins, who in all the walks of life will leave the ruts and seek to find out the hidden mysteries of Nature and Life.

And as in the physical so in the mental world.  We need the daring souls who will face the work-a-day common world with new and startling thoughts, who will soar into the heavens and through the canyon depths on the wines of imagination and bring, us back the flowers and food found in their flight.

Yes, we are glad and thankful that the daring plowman is to be found who ruthlessly and cruelly, it seems to us, drives his plowshare over the field whose harvest we are now reaping.  And he makes it barren and bare!  But the new seed is sown by the Almighty Father of us all, and soon a new, a richer, and a fuller harvest comes to us, and we discover, - nearly always too late, though, - when the plowman has gone to his eternal rest, - that he was our bravest and our best friend.

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