MARBLE CANYON COUNTRY

The mighty span of Navajo Bridge that crosses the Colorado River owes its completion to a prayer! Officially, of course, it was built by the state of Arizona in cooperation with the Federal Government. But that is not the whole story! I heard the rest of it at Marble Canyon Lodge, at the northern end of the bridge, from a Navajo. It wouldn't do to give his name or the names, Indian or white-man's equivalent, of several others who were gathered on the cliffs above the Colorado, that day in 1928 when the work was to be finished. All that remained was to get the last arch of girders to meet so that they could be riveted fast and the dream of many years become a reality. There was tense excitement that had communicated itself to the crowd of people that stood watching. The wind was whipping from across the desert and the river growled from its vast throat, 500 feet below. Each time that the girders approached each other, their own weight and the wind swept them on past. The Navajo and his friends saw that something must be done. I wish I could have seen them in their colorful blankets (for this was a great oсcasion) standing on the red cliffs, just downstream from the bridge. They brought out their prayer sticks and scattered sacred meal to the east, west, north, and south. The gods were propitiated and the Indians saw above them, the reaching fingers of the steel deck stop swaying and the waiting workers drive home the last rivets! The bridge had been finished by a prayer! Now autos can go over U. S. Highway 89 through the Navajo Indian Reservation to a land which has unmatched scenery. The Echo Cliffs bulk to the east along the road, catching the afternoon sun and reflecting the brilliant colors that ages have painted on their slopes and rugged bastions. They owe their name to an incident which took place on the The second Colorado River Expedition of Major Powell in 1871. Frederick S. Dellenbaugh, youngest member of the party, recounts how he fired his pistol into the river from some rocky eminences to which several of the group had climbed to see the surrounding country. There was a staggering noise and then silence. Twenty-four second later, the echo came back "like a volley of musketry." So the peaks were called "Echo" and gradually the name has come to designate the whole escarpment. The magnificent sweep of scenery is undisturbed by many signs of man. Here and there colorful clusters of Navajo hogans or of their more open summer shelters are seen. Sheep, now and again, cross the road, with the clamor of their always agitated voices, driven by a Navajo shepherd, whose age may vary from an inscrutable youngster of 10, riding on a slow-moving but vastly contented burro, to an old woman in dark velveteen jacket and voluminous skirt. Other Indians seem continually going or coming from the several trading posts along the way. A natural feeling of impatience overcame us as the Echo Cliffs continued to ride serenely along the eastern horizon and distant mountains and cliffs across the open desert varied Little from mile to mile, off to the west. Ahead, to the north, other cliffs seemed to come closer only slowly. Where was the Colorado River? The road must be approaching it, yet it gave no hint. The awful chasm, the roar of the tremendous volume that is said to carry almost a million tons of silt past a given point in 24 hours, might, for any sign it gave, be hundreds of miles away. A roadsign said, "Slow" and the road turned gently and slipped between two low hills. It continued to drop and to turn and then, without further warning, the car was on the Navajo Bridge! A bus passing us made the bridge quiver like a living thing, and yet it was a firm span with ample room for two cars to pass. Like everyone else, we couldn't resist the urge to let rocks fall to the stream. We drove to the farther end and walked back to the center. Many rocks, caught in the steel structure showed how deceiving can be the height and angle. A stone had to be thrown far out and then it took some ten seconds to land with a burst of white and the sound of a pistol shot that was echoed by the cliffs. Below, seen from the dizzying height of 468 feet, was the river itself! Within the shelter of the walls, as we stood there, its voice was low but penetrating and the holes that developed in its surface now and again, suggested the great sucking power of the water. Brown, swift, deep, and always dangerous, the Colorado moved majestically through this relatively calm section of the canyon, as though saving up energy for the increasingly rough spots that it encounters farther down.

Marble Canyon is about a 60 mile stretch, beginning at the mouth of the Paria River (7 miles above Navajo Bridge) and extending to the juncture with the Little Colorado River where the Grand Canyon proper starts. The red wall formation is the source of the marble and from it this section takes its name. Above it on the walls lie the Aubrey group that stain it their red color. The region is a geologist's paradise for the rocks are perfectly exposed and in some places are nearly vertical for 700 feet. Above them terraces rise in 4 mighty tiers, back from the river, to another 3,000 feet or more. At some places the river is no more than 125 feet wide while the top of the canyon may be a mile and a quarter in width. At the point where the bridge spans it, the river extends almost from wall to wall and 833 feet of deck were needed to cross it.

Beyond the bridge and just around the corner, we came upon Marble Canyon Lodge. Ideally set in a country that has a thousand and one delights, we found accommodations and a truly western hospitality. Art and Ethel Greene and their charming family manage what looks like a little city when its farflung lights shine through the night. The Lodge itself is the center of activity. Busses stop here daily and people pour into the cool porches that go around the front and on one side. The big reception room is colorful with Navajo rugs on the floor and thrown over chairs and couches. Lamp shades and ash trays are of Indian pottery and since the whole family are "rock hounds" there are pieces of rock, arrowheads and strangely shaped pieces of wood that have been gathered from far and near. Enticing odors come from the kitchen into the air-cooled dining room at almost any hour and the meals served are superlative. The number of cozy stone cabins with their Navajo decorations is soon to be increased and Art hopes to have a swimming pool and a tennis court for his guests. Across the road is the Lodge's gas station and the trading post.

Everyone who comes is eager to see the immense rug that is said to be the second largest Navajo rug in the world. In fact, there is only one other one-piece floor-covering that is larger, in the world. It too is of Navajo weave. This one, with beautiful Indian designs was woven by one Navajo woman with 20 helpers to shear, card, and spin the wool for it. It took her 23 months to complete and measures 19 feet by 31. "Minny-Many-Horses" who created it, did it not on order, but because she wanted to. In 1942 Art Greene exhibited the rug at the Gallup Intertribal Indian ceremonial and it was awarded a blue ribbon. Truly it is a thing of rare beauty.

Comfortable and interesting as the Lodge itself is, the country pulls one out of doors. Only 7 miles upstream, by an old road that drops to the edge of the river, is the famous Lee's Ferry. It was settled by John D. Lee in 1871 when he sought refuge there after the Mountain Meadow Massacre. While hiding from the law that wanted him as the instigator of the massacre, he constructed a ferry that was the only way of crossing the Colorado River for a thousand miles. It was used until the cable finally broke just before the Navajo Bridge was completed. Part of the wooden posts as well as a section of the cable itself are still in place. A stone fort, with holes for rifles is intact and later houses, also of stone, make a little "ghost" settlement. The water is measured daily at the gauging station by Frank Dodge, swinging over the river in a little cable car. It is a government project and part of the year an engineer lives in one of the cabins, just a few hundred yards from the edge of the Colorado. One of the lonely outposts where men carry on necessary work for the benefit of thousands whom they will never see, few even know of its existence. Back from the mouth of the Paria River that flows into the larger stream at this point are two other families. One is Navajo and the other Mormon. They have small gardens and the lush green of asparagus comes up within a stone's throw of a small cemetery. Names have been carved in the native red rock with only one "imported" and formal gravestone. Huge cottonwoods line the small river and the barns of a deserted " dude" ranch lend their wistful charm to an historic spot.As the climb is made back up the 500 feet that must be made by road to the level of the Lodge, the "Dugway" across the river can be plainly seen. The old Mormon term for the road is most descriptive of it as it clings to impossible cliffs and twists and turns. In the days when it was used, often with ox-drawn wagons, the lead animals would be completely out of sight of the driver on some of the curves. It now takes a stiff hike to the end of the usable portion of the abandoned road to get onto the Dugway where it hangs over the river. On some of the steeper grades, we found bits of rubber that had been ground off tires ascending it. Several trucks are known to have gone over the edge and now whole sections have been carried off competely by storm or rock slides. It still hovers on the brink of the abyss, a memorial to the intrepidity of those earlier men who built and used it. Before long there will be a river trip arranged by Art Greene at the Lodge and starting from Lee's Ferry. It will go up the Colorado for many miles into the wilderness of water and rock that lie just around the bend in the river.

Once out of sight of the river, not far from its canyon walls, it seems to disappear completely, leaving the mind free for other spectacular sights. Only from such heights as the cliffs that rise to a plateau just north of the Lodge can it be seen, winding its way like a huge snake to its juncture with the Little Colorado. From this plateau comes spring water. A horse trail goes up in two different places, past a "nest" of tanks, but you would never believe it unless you went on it. From the road all that can be seen is a straight wall of rock with various buttresses here and there and nothing that a man, let alone a horse, could scale. At the end of the plateau is a giant formation that is known as Cathedral Rock. It is a red mass, carved with dignity and sureness of line and is most satisfactorily named. Behind these first cliffs and plateaus rise the Vermilion Cliffs, running almost at right angles to the Echo Cliffs that march into the distance on the southern side of the river. We watched these great red bastions for days, seeing them at dawn, when the first light began to bring them out of the shadows of night. All day clouds changed their face, playing hide and seek over the burnished surfaces, dropping a shower of summer rain here and there. Strangely like the changing face of the ocean are these cliffs that speak so eloquently of the climate and the nature of this desert land.

Minny-Many-Horses, Navajo weaver, spent 23 months making this rug, second largest Navajo rug in the world. Twenty Navajos helped her get the wool ready for the looms. The small rug is an average sized Navajo rug. The larger is 19 by 31 feet. It is at the Lodge.

House Rock Valley lies at the foot of the Vermilion Cliffs, not many miles from Navajo Bridge. Over its rolling slopes of grazing lands are herds of wild buffalo. They were bought by the state of Arizona in 1926 and belonged originally to a company that was trying to promote an industry in buffalo robes. Unlike most of the other herds left in the United States today, they are not fenced in. Seemingly completely satisfied, they stay within a fairly predictable area, moving some miles south in winter. They can often be seen from the road and sometimes cars have to stop to let them cross on their leisurely way. On the range it is possible to approach them in the car, fairly closely and what a thrill to be able to photograph these descendants of the immense herds of wild buffalo that were part of the early history of the west! The beautiful coats that make such fine robes are silky in winter, but by mid-summer look very motheaten.

Marble Canyon Country in north central Arizona is a windswept, sun-drenched expanse of purple cliffs and endless vistas. Here the Colorado River growls along on its way to Grand Canyon and the sea. In this area was one of the few oldtime river crossings.

The muddy river, purple cliffs and blue skies form patterns of color and beauty throughout vast Marble Canyon country.

Brooding cliffs, changing in color with each minute of the day, are like sensitive instruments recording all the moods of time and the weather. Vermilion Cliffs and Echo Cliffs border Highway 89 for many miles, vivid and panoramic studies of shadow and light.

Marble Canyon was made by patient Colorado, using flood, erosion to carve its deep path.

Eaten and chunks drop off when the animals run. In looking for Arizona's buffalo herd roams at will throughout House Rock Valley. Each a herd in the distance they are found to group more closely than do season the Arizona game department conducts a hunt to keep the herd cattle and they look darker on the skyline. Several times we were from getting too large. This herd has appeared in several motion pictures. sure we had spotted a group only to detect a "white face" among them and to realize that we were "hunting" cattle. When we did locate a herd of about 50 we could see the humps of the larger animals plainly and as we came closer, saw some 10 ugly little calves, lighter in color than their parents. Since the cows don't always have calves each spring, you may see a big overgrown fellow of 2 years still sucking. In order to limit the herd to 200, the Fish and Game Commission authorizes a "wild buffalo hunt" each February. Only the old animals and culls are killed but the lucky men who get a chance to shoot one feel it is quite an experience. Some one who tasted a steak is quoted as saying that "buffalo tastes better than meat." A year ago February at the last hunt, there were 68 hunters making headquarters at Marble Canyon Lodge during the hunt.The buffalo has always been a legendary figure of great importance in the ritual of the Navajo. It is an impressive sight to watch a medicine man when he comes in contact with the animals, even today. His prayer stick and sacred meal, handled in the grave and reverential manner, bring even to the uncomprehending white man, a feeling of the spiritual power which to the Navajo is the basis of life. Coming back to the Lodge, one realizes it as the focal point of a region that combines desert and mountain grandeur with the life of the white and red man, past and present. Deep into the life of the land go the roots of the Indian, the first Mormon settlers, and the cowboys who still ride the open range. A visit to this country will leave you forever with a nostalgic memory of the Marble Canyon of the Colorado River.