The Western United States: A Geographical Reader. Harold W. Fairbanks
growing delta crept southward and westward into the gulf. As fast as the sediment was built up above the reach of the tide, vegetation appeared, which, retarding the flow of the water at times of flood, aided the deposition of silt and the building up of the delta.
As the centuries went by, these lowland plains became more and more extensive, until the gulf was actually divided into two parts by the spreading of the delta across to the western shore. The portion of the gulf thus cut off from the ocean formed a salt lake fully one hundred miles in length.
We may suppose that for a long time before the barrier was high and strong, the tidal currents occasionally broke over the delta and supplied the lake with water. As the river meandered here and there over the flat delta, its channels must have undergone many changes at every time of flood. A part of the water without doubt flowed into the salt lake, and another portion into the open gulf. In fact, the basin in which the lake lay, now known as the Colorado desert, continued to receive water from the river, at intervals, until very recently. In 1891 an overflow occurred, through the channel known as New River, which flooded the lower portion of the basin and threatened to cover the railroad.
When the ocean had been permanently shut off from the head of the gulf, and the river itself had been largely diverted toward the south, the lake began to dry up. At last, most of the water disappeared and there remained a vast desert basin, at its greatest depth two hundred and fifty feet below the level of the ocean. In the bottom of the basin a bed of salt appeared, for this substance could not be carried away, as the water had been, by the thirsty air.
Remarkably perfect beaches still exist around the shores of this old lake, and on them are found the pearly shells of multitudes of fresh-water mollusks. The presence of these shells leads us to believe that after the salt lake dried up, the river again broke in and formed a new lake of comparatively fresh water which also, after a time, dried up.
The wonderful fertility of the Colorado delta is just beginning to be appreciated. Canals have been dug to take the water from the river and distribute it over the land. Year by year the cultivated lands are being extended. The change which irrigation is making upon the surface of one of the worst deserts in the country is indeed remarkable.
The Colorado River is working on quietly and steadily. We may think, and truly, that it has already done a great at work in excavating the mighty cañons along its course, but, in reality, the work already accomplished is small in comparison with that which remains to be done.
In time, if the land is not disturbed by the forces which build mountains, the plateaus through which the river now flows in such deep cañons will be carried away in the form of sand and mud. Broad valleys will replace the cañons, and the Gulf of California will become a fertile plain. As the highlands wear away the process will go on more and more slowly, for there will be less rainfall. The river will become smaller and its basin more arid. All these changes will be brought about through the crumbling of the rocks, and the removal of the waste matter by the running water.
A TRIP INTO THE GRAND CAÑON OF THE COLORADO
We may read of the Colorado plateau, and of the Grand Cañon with its precipitous walls of variously colored rock, but unless we actually visit this wonderland, it is hard to realize the height and extent of the plateau and the depth of the gashes made in its surface by running water, gashes so deep that they seem to expose the very heart of the earth.
Nature has chosen a remote and half-desert region for the location of this, the most picturesque cañon in the world, as if she wished to keep it as long as possible from the eyes of men. Once a traveller could not view the cañon without making a long and weary journey across hundreds of miles of desert; now it is quite different, for one can almost look into its depths from the windows of a palace car. But to appreciate and understand fully the stupendous work that nature has done throughout this region we must leave the cars at a somewhat distant point, and before reaching the cañon become acquainted with the country in which it lies through the old-fashioned ways of travelling on horseback or wagon.
Flagstaff was formerly the starting-point for travellers to the cañon, and we will choose it now, for the old stage road offers an interesting ride. The road first winds around that lofty snow-clad peak, the San Francisco Mountain, which can be seen from all northern Arizona. Leaving the mountain behind, we strike out directly across the high plateau. The country is nearly level, and the open park-like forest extends in every direction as far as one can see.
It is difficult for us to believe that we are seven thousand feet above the sea, a height greater than that of the highest mountains in the United States east of the Mississippi Valley. It is this elevation, however, which brings the summer showers and makes the air cool and pleasant, for the lowlands of this portion of the United States are barren deserts, upon which the sun beats with almost savage heat.
After the rainy season green grass and an abundance of flowers appear in the open meadows scattered through the forest. But, as a rule, the entire absence of water strikes one as being very strange. Where are the springs and running streams which usually abound in mountainous regions? Throughout the whole distance of seventy miles from Flagstaff to the cañon, there are but one or two spots where water is to be found. These places are known as "water-holes"; they are simply hollows in the surface of the ground where the water collects after the showers.
There is another strange feature about the plateau over which the road leads; instead of sloping down toward the Colorado River and the Grand Cañon, the surface slowly rises, so that the little streams which are formed after the heavy rains flow away from the river.
Our journey draws to an end, but there is nothing to indicate the presence of the cañon until we get glimpses through the trees of an apparently bottomless gulf. The gulf widens upon a closer view, we reach the edge, and all its wonderful proportions burst upon us. Does the Grand Cañon look as you thought it would? Probably not, for it is unlike any other in the world. The cañon is very deep. The river has worn its way for more than a mile down into the plateau, which once stretched unbroken from the cliffs upon which we stand, across to those upon the opposite side, nearly ten miles away.
The clear air makes objects upon the opposite side and in the bottom of the cañon seem much nearer than they really are. You may think that it is an easy task to go to the bottom of the cañon and climb back again in a day, but in reality it is so difficult an undertaking that only those who are accustomed to mountain climbing can accomplish it.
It is not merely the great width and depth of the cañon that impress us, but also the bright, variegated colors which the different rock layers display as they stretch in horizontal bands along the faces of the cliffs, or sweep around the towers and pinnacles until their detailed outlines are lost in the distant blue haze.
Our eyes wander far down, toward the bottom of the cañon, following the alternate lines of precipitous cliffs and slopes covered with rock fragments. The cliffs and slopes succeed each other like the steps in a giant stairway, until at the very bottom the opposite walls meet in a gorge so narrow that in only a few places does the river come into view, glistening like a silver thread.
A hotel stands among the trees a short distance from the brink of the cañon. Living here is expensive, for every article of food has to be brought upon the cars and wagons for a distance of hundreds of miles. Even the water has to be brought in wagons from a distant spring.
In visiting the cañon we have the choice of going on horseback or on foot. While the latter method is much harder, yet one feels safer upon his own feet while moving along the steep and narrow trail. Our start is made in the cool air of the early morning. Leaving the top of the plateau, where among the pines the summer air is seldom sultry, and the winters are cold and snowy, we descend, until, by luncheon time, we are far below the heights and in the midst of an almost tropical climate. This difference in climatic features