But before starting I decided to see one of the outlets to
Havasu Canyon, that used to be a part of the old trail, and that was used
as an inlet when General Crook and his soldiers came there.
The trail is
called after a spring bearing the name Pack-a-tha-true-ye-ba. Never did I
have such a sense of the maze of canyons contained in this system of
canyons as on that trip. My guide was Sinyela, one of the most intelligent
Indians of the whole tribe. We left the Havasupai village early one
morning, each riding an Indian pony, with all the provisions we thought we
should need on our saddles. After awhile, we entered a side canyon I had
never before explored. During the whole of that day we toiled, riding as
hard as we could over the almost trackless canyon floor; trailing through
deep sand; climbing over masses of boulders that freshets or cloud-bursts
had. piled between the walls; forcing our way through dense willows;
scratched by thickets of mesquites. Again and again in the walls were seen
cliff-dwellings and corn storage houses. The heat was intense, and radiated
from the precipitous walls on either side.
The Camp at Night. When night came, we ate our frugal meal, our horses
standing by waiting to be hobbled and turned loose. For beds, we had the
nearest layer of sand we could find, with our saddles for pillows.
Suffering from Thirst. Early in the morning we started again, winding and
curving with the course of the Canyon. For nearly two days we had been
without fresh water, and the little we had brought in our wicker-woven,
pinion-gum-covered esuwas had to suffice for our needs. Suddenly we entered
a vast amphitheatre, with a rude arch at the end. It was flower-covered,
with occasional trees, and here, hidden from any but the view of an Indian,
was found a tiny spring of coolest, purest water. How we enjoyed it!
A Dangerous Slope. On the third day, we came to the place where the
soldiers descended from the plateau above into the depths of the Canyon.
There was no well-defined trail, and the slope was steep enough to make
one's flesh creep. The site was marked with disaster. Here a pack mule had
slipped, fallen, and been dashed to pieces; there a man had fallen and been
killed. It was a difficult descent, but nerve and pluck had accomplished
it. Beyond was the Pack-a-tha-true-ye-ba Spring, and after seeing its water
I determined that we must return.
Capturing Wild Ponies. On our way back, Sinyela made a proposition that, as
our ponies were exceedingly weary, we catch some fresh ones of his, for
this was his "stock range," and he knew where there were plenty of good
animals. The horses were wild, as range horses generally are, but Sinyela
was crafty. He knew of a blind ravine, or rocky pocket, into which we could
drive the horses we needed, and to that end all our energies were directed.
Darting back and forth to arrest the dodging and fleeing animals, we at
length succeeded in "penning" about a dozen horses in the pocket. Then I
watched Sinyela, hand extended, slowly and stealthily approach the pony he
needed. Time and again, as he got nearer and nearer, all the time making a
peculiar sissing sound, the horse would suddenly swing around and endeavor
to dash away. But I was "guard of the gate," and it was my business to see
that none of the band escaped. It took us fully two hours to catch the two
horses. At last they were ours. Neither was well broken, though both had
been ridden, and the first thing Sinyela did was to blindfold them. The
saddles were removed from our jaded ponies, and placed upon the new ones.
The starts of terror and anger showed what we had ahead of us. Bridles were
adjusted, and then, with our fresh ponies still blindfolded, we sprang into
our saddles. When our feet were firmly placed and all was ready, we lifted
the blinds from the horses' eyes and then braced ourselves. Digging our
heels into the ponies' sides, off we started, at a jerking, bounding,
half-bucking pace. Shouting directions to each other, helter-skelter, over
and around boulders, we dashed along as if we were after the hounds on a
genuine old-fashioned fox-hunt. I suppose we kept it up a full hour, at
topmost speed. The horses didn't want to stop, and Sinyela knew that the
best way to break them was to let them have their own way. But before the
day was over, the ponies were considerably tamed down, and it was a weary
band that stopped for camp that night. The animals were duly hobbled and
turned loose; I lit a camp fire, though we had nothing to cook and no
kettle for boiling water, and dirty, dusty, with every nerve and fibre of
my body weary and aching, I finally stretched out on the solid earth and
wooed "balmy sleep." The ride was resumed next day. We finally got
ourselves to Sinyela's camp in safety, where a sweat-bath and a swim in the
delicious waters of Havasu fully rested us.
The Hopi Trail Ascent. We decided to leave Havasu Canyon by way of the
"Make" Trail. This is the same trail as that described in the chapter on
the descent into Havasu Canyon from El Tovar, as far up as the point where
the pictured rocks appear. Here the Hopi trail turns and follows the course
of the main Havasu Canyon. Cushing counted forty-four knots in his buckskin
fringe from the village to the exit, each knot denoting an abrupt curve or
angle in the winding canyons. The Topocobya Trail descends a sheer cliff of
stupendous majesty, and the Wallapai Trail is enough to shatter the nervous
system of any but the most experienced; but the Hopi Trail ascent out of
the Canyon is different, in that, in several places, it passes through
narrow clefts, with ponderous, overhanging rocks, the whole course barely
wide enough to permit a laden mule to get through with its pack.
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