Tracking History Through Rainbow Bridge

Old photographs of early 20th century outdoorsmen outline the path used by hikers today seeking the American Southwest landmark

Rainbow Bridge is a massive natural rock formation almost 300 feet high from the base, with a span of 275 feet that is 42 feet thick at the top. (Kerrick James)

“My great-grandfather’s family didn’t much like the culture of the early 20th century in the West,” says Harvey Leake of John Wetherill, a well-known explorer and trader in southern Utah at the turn of the 20th century. “He didn’t believe in dominating nature, but in trying to accommodate it, and that included native peoples.”

Wetherill participated in numerous expeditions into the gorgeous, forbidding slick-rock canyons above the Colorado River, often crossing the Arizona line. He and a few others are credited with the “discovery” of Rainbow Bridge, a massive natural rock formation almost 300 feet high from the base, with a span of 275 feet that is 42 feet thick at the top. One of those trips, in 1913, included former president Theodore Roosevelt.

In Pueblo cultures the bridge had been considered sacred for centuries. Wetherill’s wife, Louisa, spoke Navajo fluently and first learned of its existence; she informed her husband, whose exploits in 1909 helped bring it to the attention of the wider world. Now Rainbow Bridge attracts thousands of visitors a year because with the damming of the Colorado River in 1956 and the creation of Lake Powell, power boats can motor to within a half mile of what was once one of the most inaccessible natural wonders in the American Southwest.

Recently, Harvey Leake decided to follow his great-grandfather’s tortured 20-mile overland course in this, the centennial year of Rainbow Bridge being named a national monument by President William Howard Taft. Leake is accompanied by five other outdoor enthusiasts, myself included, and we shoulder our packs in the shadow of snow-draped Navajo Mountain at dawn, having first driven through a spring snowstorm for this 21st-century backcountry reenactment, sans horses.

There’s no trail, but Leake has brought along a unique navigational tool—a packet of old photographs from John Wetherill’s early expeditions. These black-and-whites will be matched with surrounding horizons and are full of vast arid country sprinkled with a verdant grass called Mormon tea, wind-and-water sculpted sandstone monoliths—an up-ended, deeply shadowed world of hanging caverns a thousand feet above many drainages we climb into and out of.

I’m jealous of the men in saddles, with their big hats and boots. In one photo, Wetherill looks the unassuming cowboy, but his Paiute guide, Nasja Begay, wears a properly dour expression. Roosevelt, a famous outdoorsman, solidly sits his mount wearing dusty jodhpurs, cloth wrappings on his lower legs as protection against the cacti and yucca spines, and his signature rimless specs.

What the photographs don’t show is the astonishing chromatic vibrancy of this living sandstone diorama, its striated walls resembling hieroglyphics carved by natural forces, accentuated by the blue-greens of twisted conifers and stunted gambel oaks. The dark, almost purplish streaks of iron that have leached out of Navajo sandstone are known as “desert varnish” and glow in the powerful sunlight.

We pass a long-abandoned Hogan—a conical dwelling with the doorway facing east, made of dried-up grass, twisted juniper logs and mud—that was probably used by a sheep herder in the distant past. We stop to consult the photos, comparing horizon lines and landmarks. Everyone has an opinion about which way to go, but Harvey will once again prove to be the surer navigator.

“Here’s where they had to dismount,” he says, holding aloft a photo of the steep slick-rock slope we’re standing on. “They had to lead the horses down from this point.” Exactly how is a mystery, but Leake is unconcerned. Here’s what the former president and Rough Rider had to say about the same scene: “On we went, under the pitiless sun, through a contorted wilderness of scalped peaks… and along tilted masses of sheet-rock ending in cliffs. At the foot of one of these lay the bleached skeleton of a horse.”

The rest of us decide to lower our packs by rope into a crevice and clamber after them, squeezing between rock walls until we’ve gained access to more or less level ground. And there’s Leake, who had found his great-grandfather’s more circuitous route, and beaten us to the bottom.


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