The boat, with all its contents, was gone. There they were,
almost naked, without food, without weapons, without the means of
building a fire; and in an uninhabited and utterly inhospitable
country.
For four days they wandered, blistered by the sun by day; nearly
frozen at night, bruised by the rocks, and torn by the brambles.
Finally they reached the ranch at the head of the canyons and were
found by a half-breed Indian, who cared for them. Their underwear had
been made into bindings for their lacerated feet; they were nearly
starved, and on the verge of mental collapse. After two weeks'
treatment in the hospital at Green River City they were partially
restored to health. Quite likely they spent many of the long hours of
their convalescence on the river bank, or on the little island,
watching the unruffled stream glide underneath the cottonwoods.
Such tales as this added nothing to our fears, of course--for the
whole history of the Colorado is one long story of hardship and
disaster, and we knew, even better than our advisors, what risks lay
before us. We told our newfound friends, in fact, that we had lived
for years on the brink of the Grand Canyon itself, a gorge deeper and
more awful, even, than Lodore; with a volume of water ten times
greater. We knew, of course, of the river's vast length, of the
terrible gorges that confined it, of the hundreds of rapids through
which a boat would have to pass.
We knew, too, how Major Powell, undismayed by legends of underground
channels, impassable cataracts, and whirlpools; of bloodthirsty tribes
haunting its recesses,--had passed through the canyons in safety,
measuring and surveying as he went.
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