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: 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,
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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