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Shadowing John Wesley Powell
140th Anniversary of exploring the last unknown region within the continental US
by Stacey Wittig


Blue-green waters of Havasu Creek empty into the Colorado River

140 years ago John Wesley Powell returned home from his 1869 exploration of the Grand Canyon. On his arrival in the Midwest, he was presented with a collection of obituaries lamenting his death. The public was sure that Powell, who led the first expedition into the uncharted territory of the Grand Canyon, had surely come to his demise. Maps of the day showed a big empty space -- terra incognita -- where the river poured into the deep unknown. Even local Native Americans believed the route to be impassable.



The other-worldly sense of place of Grand Canyon has changed little since then, although maps that Powell helped to chart have greatly improved. On this 140th anniversary, I have decided to follow in Powell’s wake. Though not in a small wooden craft but in a 37-foot, 64,000-pound rubberized pontoon raft that I am hoping will withstand the river’s pummeling energy. I keep pushing down a rising sense of fear of the magnitude of the river’s undertows.



Three of Powell’s four boats measured a mere 21 feet in length and were built of heavy oak. Our boat is made of all-new, non-surplus materials and is designed with an articulating system that buffers the wild ride and keeps gear and food in place. Unlike Powell’s galley of wet flour and spoiled bacon, our gear and should keep in hi-tech poly “dry bags.”



We cross the former Ohio resident’s 140-year-old path as we launch our craft at Lee’s Ferry, just south of Page, Arizona. By the time the Powell expedition had reached this point near Marble Canyon they were down to eight men. One adventure seeker bailed early in the voyage, reporting he’d “seen danger enough” after he was pitched into rapids and his wooden boat destroyed before his eyes. It is my great expectation to remain in the boat for the full duration of this whitewater wilderness experience.

Tracing Powel’s wake below Navajo Bridge near Marble Canyon


As we take to the water for the first time, I look around at the twelve other guest “Canyoneers.” We’re quite a motley boatload compared to Powell’s small foray of hard-hearted explorers. I hope that our pilot Caroline, assistant pilot Amity, and crew Rachel can safely guide all of us over Grade 10 rapids. With a copy of Powell’s journal clenched in one hand and gripping a safety rope in the other, we hit the first major whitewater named Badger Creek Rapid. Water rushes up in bucket loads, my face is drenched but the book held high receives only sprinkles. The water washes away my initial heart-pounding fear. “Whoo Hoo!” I yell from the bow looking back to the floor of the boat where large-eyed women are hunkering.



Three day later after sailing through confidence-building waves, those same women are now vying for front-seat rides over Crystal Rapid -- rated a 9 out of 10. Like other big-water rivers of the West, Grand Canyon rapids are rated by a scale of 1-10 with 10 being the most difficult. I am more familiar with the I-VI classification used commonly in the Midwest where I also took to the bow. On his second expedition of the canyon, one-armed Powell had an armchair fastened to the bow of his boat for greater stability. He must have liked it up front, too.


Major Powell’s men didn’t have food supplies like this

While Powell’s men had to endure food that had begun to spoil, we eat like kings. Every evening long stainless steel tables are laid out with salads of fresh, chopped vegetables, prime rib, barbequed chicken or steaks and a tasty potato dish. Amity, Caroline and Rachel do all the cooking. Sharing stories around nightly feasts in this magnificent place turns strangers into intimate chums.



After losing two boatloads of provisions, Powell’s men must have gone to bed hungry and probably slept in wet clothing on small rock shelves. On the other hand, our knowledgeable guides know the best camp sites with wide sand beaches and room to spread out. I opt to sleep under the stars in hopes to see a roving ring-tailed cat. Others set up tents and we all sleep on foam mats.



In the morning the aroma of sizzling bacon and coffee wakes me as the dawn chases way bats flickering overhead. “Did you see the ringtail last night, Stacey?” asks Karen camped in the sand next to me. “He scrambled right over your sleeping bag.” Darn! I missed him.



If a rapid or waterfall looked impassible, Powell’s men would stand on the rocky shoreline and lower their boats down with ropes tied to the bow and stern. Pilot Caroline is quite experienced on how to maneuver this large boat through each rapid and we sail confidently up and over while the long boat’s hinges flex and spit water.



During orientation the night before we departed, Morgan gave us warning signs of dehydration: disorientation, irritability and combativeness. Maybe the wet and hungry Powell party was also dehydrated as they neared the end of their voyage. Three in the expedition decided they could suffer calamity no longer. At a place aptly named ‘Separation Rapid,’ the trio began their fateful climb out of the mile-deep canyon. From wavy pages of my soggy book I read that the disgruntled men “…entreat us not to go on, and tell us that it is madness to set out in this place… Some tears are shed…each party thinks the other is taking the dangerous course.”



“Dehydration or mutiny?” I wonder.



Like Powell and his remaining hangers-on, we are greeted by a small group as we reach the end of the canyon. The captain of a jet boat meets us with his crew of two. They help transfer our gear from the Canyoneers raft to their twin-engined, forty-ton diesel boat that carries us across Lake Meade at speeds faster than we’ve traveled in the past seven days. The men that met Powell had been sent by Brigham Young to recover any flotsam and jetsam of the expedition’s “shipwreck disaster” that had been reported two weeks earlier.



Fortunately, there is no collection of obituaries waiting for me when I arrive home. But I do feel the presence of John Wesley Powell. He seems to be looking over my shoulder to remind me of the difficulties of earlier days. Knowing his story makes me better appreciate my own voyage through the red rock wilderness.





 

Photos: Tracing Powel’s wake below Navajo Bridge near Marble Canyon, Major Powell’s men didn’t have food supplies like this, Blue-green waters of Havasu Creek empty into the Colorado River





 

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