by W. L. Rusho
The first day out from Chin Lee the peanut butter can came open and spilled over the papers in my pack. Due to misinforming signs, I went a couple of days out of my way, but the territory was interesting. I managed to reach water every day or two. The pueblo of Walpi was rather a disillusionment. There is an element of incongruity in the juxtaposition of old stonework and fences made of bedsteads.
I also passed through Old Oraibi and Hotevilla. The dust and heat were extreme. When I was nearly at Blue Canyon, a young couple passed by, and saying that the canyon was dry, they gave me a gallon of water.[8] I found that they were mistaken, and in a pocket in the rocks, I discovered an excellent swimming pool, of cool, green, shadowed water, with high rock walls. It was very deep too. Curly went swimming also. I was startled to see what a tiny creature he is with his fur wet down. Half of his size is his fur. He enjoyed the puppy biscuits greatly. Everyone who sees him seems to love him.
The next day I saw a weird thing, the dance of the tumbleweeds. A small whirlwind picked them up and tossed them in large circles. They would slowly float to earth and then bounce up again. Around and around they went in fantastic spirals.
On the following day I went through Moenkopi village, another Hopi town. There were cliffs of bright vermilion, and the finest specimens of Lombardy poplars that I have ever seen. A scorpion started to crawl into my blankets, but I stopped him in time.
The next two days I paused by a stream and let the burro rest. Some Indians passed by in a covered wagon drawn by six horses and mules.
The following two days were spent in the Painted Desert, until I reached the Little Colorado. You know what happened after that. I walked about 170 miles from Chin Lee.
Love from Evert
Those were great days at your ranch—idyllic days. There I seemed to feel the true spirit of delight, the exaltation, the sense of being more than man, lying in the long, cool grass or on a flat-topped rock, looking up at the exquisitely curved, cleanly smooth aspen limbs, watching the slow clouds go by. I would close my eyes, and feel a coolness on my cheeks as the sun was covered, and then later, the warmth of the sun on my eyelids. And always there was the soft rustling of aspen leaves, and a queer sense of remoteness, of feeling more beauty than I could ever portray or tell of.
—Letter to Randolph “Pat” Jenks, 17 December
June 26
Arizona [Near Flagstaff]
Dear Father, Mother, and Waldo,
A week or so ago, I left the mountain ranch, after climbing in the peaks, felling aspens, and making fences. For several days I have been at a sheep camp in the desert. The men are interesting characters. I’ve chopped a truck load of wood, and assisted in various humble chores such as watering sheep and marking lambs. There are many burros here, and when the man in authority comes, I intend to acquire one. Pegasus lacks stamina, has a sore back and broken leg. He has served me well, but I think now he should be superannuated.
Two of the men generously contrived a pack saddle for me from three broken ones, and I have repaired two old panniers. A clever burro suffering from malnutrition visited my camp twice, moved off the coverings on my possessions, kicked aside some logs and rocks, then made a shambles. He ate and destroyed sacks of sugar, flour, oatmeal, rice, cornmeal, prunes, dog food, and potatoes. I’ve since made a cover for one pannier.
Once as I was walking along, Peg slowed down, looked to one side, then turned around, regarding me as if to say, “Do you see that?” Offside was a herd of eleven antelopes.
Somehow or other, a cheap camel’s hair brush has been substituted for the two sable brushes I formerly possessed. The letters to the Canyon were never forwarded as I requested, but doubtless I’ll read them eventually.
Let your worries be as few as mine.
Love from Evert
June 30
Grand Canyon
Dear Bill,
You asked for my plans for the next six months. They are rough and subject to change, of course. Having walked 300 miles (and it was worth it) to the Canyon, I expect to spend some time here. Then I’ll cross by the Kaibab Trail to North Rim, continue through the Kaibab to Zion Park, and investigate adjoining country. In the fall, I’ll return across the canyon, visit Oak Creek Canyon, near Flagstaff, and spend the winter months in the cactus country. There are many places I intend to see, but I can’t tell which year I’ll see them.
I’m as interested as you are in these virgin fields for the archaeologist. Follow up your rumor and find out. There are many places in southern Utah which are practically unvisited because of the absence of water and the roughness of the country.
The game is supposed to be very thick in the White Mountains, bear and such. But I should think pretty soon you’d outgrow the lust for the hunt. It’s a very primitive instinct, you know, inherited from your caveman forbears. A couple of days ago I was within ten yards of a coyote. Dove, cottontails, jackrabbits, prairie dogs are numerous in many places.
As for the shotgun, it has made the supreme sacrifice—has lost its life as a possession of mine. Being desperately in need of a burro that could travel, and not possessing the spare cash to buy one, I traded the gun for a donkey, and I’m well satisfied with my side of the exchange. The new burro, though older than Pegasus (about twenty-five), has four sound legs, a strong back, and is far handsomer. His ears are longer, too. He is a rich, warm, velvet brown with a violet tinge.
Now to bring you to my present location. I left the camp in the aspens, climbed one of the spurs of Mount San Francisco, and followed roads which aren’t shown on the map. I stopped for six days at a sheep camp, where I chopped a truckload of wood, and assisted in marking lambs—a process in which blood and tar intermingle. A burro got into my provisions, nosed off a log, some stones, and coverings, and ate sacks of flour, sugar, cornmeal, prunes, dog food, rice, etc. With a new burro, a pack saddle, and dilapidated boxes, I left that camp. The superannuated Pegasus was left behind, free to kick his heels as he listed. It rained and I was wet; the sun shone and I was dry. At a lumber camp, I spent my all, purchasing a pair of shoes, a shirt, some socks, and some grub. Again it rained. I saw a double rainbow. This morning I arrived at the Canyon.
It is sometimes bothersome to have to write four letters based on my activities, but I continue to make them different. Certainly it would be impossible to confuse the authorships of the letters I receive. My grandmother wrote one solicitous letter. “When are you coming home?” she asked.
How do I manage to subsist? That’s a good question. I often wonder myself. However, when I’m broke, something always turns up. First it was that $25 prize. Recently I sold a sketch to a clerk in a lumber camp for $5. One print brought a dollar. Now when my total monetary wealth is four cents, a letter informs me that a print of my mother’s which she copied from a painting of mine, brought a $25 prize and I am to have $10 of it in the course of time. For two weeks at the San Juan camp I earned my board. One week at the sheep camp. For eight days on the ranch near Flagstaff, Randolph [Jenks] provided for me. I gave him a couple of prints.
As Eddie Guest says in his rhyme about the artist,
“Those three grim ogres of distress,
Hunger and cold and shabby dress,
Which most men fear, he smiled upon
And never wished them to be gone,
Saying, “From all that comfort brings
But little inspiration springs.”
Eddie knows all about artists.
I throw my camps in all manner of places. I have slept under cedars, aspens, oaks, cottonwoods, pinyons, poplars, pines, maples (not the typical maple), and under the sky, clouded or starry. Right now I am under cedars, with pines all round. Cedar bark is excellent tinder.
Desert rats have told me few camping secrets, but here and there I’ve gleaned some. I can take care of myself rather well now. Before I had the pack saddle, I used the squaw hitch, but now I throw a double diamond hitch. It wasn’t hard to learn.
My burro eats grass and bus
hes for the most part. He can keep fit when a horse could not. Occasionally I give him oats, or leftover biscuits. The dog often rides the pack.
I’ve just had a bath and watered the burro. I look forward to rice pudding for supper and to explorations of the canyon.
Yours,
Evert
At the Grand Canyon, Everett saw for the first time what is perhaps the premier natural spectacle on earth. Like many poets, however, he had difficulty describing the canyon. Actually, he didn’t really try—in contrast to his elaborate, lyrical descriptions of smaller-scale, more comprehensible topography found in other parts of the West. But he was highly moved, for in the short time he was in the Southwest, he managed to visit the Grand Canyon three more times.
July 16
Grand Canyon
Dear Father,
I’ve opened your last two letters, also the package. I never knew that moths got into dog biscuits, but they have, and have made a fine mess. If you haven’t already bought the dehydrated vegetables, don’t do so. No matter how they’re cooked, they have no flavor.
Thanks for the $6.50. I’m about to cash the money order.
For a week I was in the depths of the canyon. The heat was over 140 degrees at one time. I followed obscure trails and reveled in the rugged grandeur of the crags, and in the mad, plunging glory of the Colorado River. Then one sunset I threw the pack on the burro again and took the long, steep up trail. I traveled for several hours by starlight. A warm wind rushed down the side canyon, singing in the pinyons. Above—the blue night sky, powdered with stars. Beside—the rocks, breathing back to the air their stored-up heat of the day. Below—the black void. Ahead—the burro, cautiously picking his way over the barely discernible trail. Behind—a moving white blotch that was Curly.
Tomorrow begins another journey to an unfrequented portion of the Canyon. Returning, I shall cross over to the North Rim.
My life has continued as I have wished. I have made two more friends, with whom I had stimulating intellectual discourse, that broadened mental horizons. They were men of fine character both. A friend is indeed a wonderful treasure.
I wish you would reread my last letter and answer some of the questions.
A cloud has passed athwart the sun, my camp is in shadow. Shreds of juniper bark dangle idly in the breeze. The burro is just rolling on his back, enjoying a dust bath. Now there is no breeze—no sound. In all directions stretches the silent forest.
Love from Evert
August 6
Kaibab Forest, Arizona
Dear Pat [Jenks],
I’m sorry I did not see you at the Canyon. I reached the South Rim on the last of June, spent two weeks there, two weeks in the Canyon, and now a week on the North Rim. I know Clyde Searl well. He said you had been doing some splendid work here, but left three weeks ago.
I did not follow the route you proposed. Mr. Roth did not know about the road, said Crater Lake was dry, and hadn’t heard of Government Caves. He referred me to a man farther on who was not at home, so I kept on, following roads not shown on the map. The morning I left the Veit Ranch, I saw some sheep there, but I told your trapper friends about them, and I believe they put them out.
Forty miles from your place, I stopped for a week at a sheep ranch, marking lambs, chopping juniper wood. I traded my shotgun for a donkey, and my Navajo cinch for a pack saddle.
The new burro I call Pericles, or Perry, for, like the Greek, he is the father of a golden age. He is larger than Pegasus, has four sound legs, and longer ears. His fur is short, of a brownish grey, and he too has a white nose. He is older than Peg—about twenty-five I think, but in good condition.
I went by the Saginaw lumber camp and sold a sketch to the clerk. The ranger at the park didn’t know whether or not to let in a person with a burro, at first. The Superintendent said I couldn’t take Curly across the canyon, would have to go by way of Cameron and Lee’s Ferry. We didn’t fight about it, but I’m here and so is Curly. He endears himself to everyone with his puppyish ways.
I went down the Hermit Trail, then the Kaibab, traveling by starlight. Perry did not want to cross the suspension bridge, so I let him rest ’till evening, while I swam in the Colorado, drinking gallons of the muddy water. Then I lay on the sand watching the blue and yellow damsel flies, and rolling over to keep in the shadow of the bridge. I saw a shadow on the water, and looking up, noticed a large, yellow-headed heron flying gracefully.
At evening I banged the burro across the bridge with an old shovel. One night I slept behind Ribbon Falls.
Perry is a constant source of amusement. Once he stepped into a tin can and made an undignified spectacle of himself before he freed his foot. When he was tied to a tree, he scratched his chin with his hind foot, but then the foot got caught in the rope and he hopped about on three legs for a while. Yesterday I gave him a chunk of salt meant for the deer and he licked it delightedly.
Love from Everett
The Grand Canyon will always be a challenge to poets, photographers, and painters. Everett Ruess hiked to the bottom of the Grand Canyon several times.
In August Ruess made a side trip northwest to Zion Canyon, where he came down with an intense poison ivy reaction. Ranger Donald Jolley took Everett to the emergency ward of the local hospital where Everett spent eight days recovering. He never told his parents about his stay in the hospital.
August 18
Zion National Park, Utah
Dear Father and Mother and Waldo,
Yesterday I reached Zion Canyon, the ninth day out from the North Rim. We came about 130 miles, traveling half the day and retiring during the hot part.
The first few days were spent in the Kaibab Forest, among aspens, firs, and pines, with deer and white-tailed squirrels. I lightened the load by disposing of the Dutch oven and some other things for a meal and some provisions. I did not take the main traveled road, but took a road which had not been used for so long that it was almost obscured. Then I came through Fredonia to Kanab where I bought some foods I had been craving. Next I was out in the real deserts once more, camping in a sandy hollow, with the crescent moon low in the sky.
Yesterday morning I tracked the burro to his lair before sunrise, but as soon as I unhobbled him he galloped away and I had to chase him for a mile, then drive him down and finally caught him. I had difficulty in making him go through the mile-long tunnel on the Zion-Mount Carmel highway. He only had his picture taken six times on this trip, but that was because we did not follow the main road.
Zion Canyon is all I had hoped it would be. I am not actually in the park, but half a mile below it in the canyon, camped under maple trees by the Mukuntuweap River. There is no fodder for the burro farther up, but here there is a field of alfalfa for him. I went to Zion Lodge last night for the mail, and had to walk the four miles back.
I am enclosing some maple seeds. I did have some porcupine quills, but they’ve disappeared.
Love from Everett
Everett and his burro climb the West Rim Trail in Zion National Park, 1931.
August 27–28
Zion National Park, Utah
Dear Bill,
For six days I’ve been suffering from the semi-annual poison ivy case—my sufferings are far from over. For two days I couldn’t tell whether I was dead or alive. I writhed and twisted in the heat, with swarms of ants and flies crawling over me, while the poison oozed and crusted on my face and arms and back. I ate nothing—there was nothing to do but suffer philosophically.
Yesterday morning I managed to pry my lips far enough apart to insert food. I thought my eyes would swell shut, but not so. Even now, they are mere slits in the puffed flesh.
You may remember that last year I took antitoxin injections and bounced happily off on my vacation—within a few days I was suffering it again with dull resignation. One chap says to use saltwater, another gasoline, another claims tomato juice is a sure cure. Nothing I used in times past alleviated the raging perceptibly. Most of the dope sold i
s stuff you paste on your face until you are a worse mess than before. I was just recovering from a dose of poison oak when I started this trip.
I get it every time, but I refuse to be driven out of the woods. My face is on fire as I write, and I managed to make a painting at dawn of a peak that has fascinated me. I’ll have to repeat it when I’m well, then send the best version to you.
My friends have been few because I’m a freakish person and few share my interests. My solitary tramps have been made alone because I couldn’t find anyone congenial—you know it’s better to go alone than with a person one wearies of soon. I’ve done things alone chiefly because I never found people who cared about the things I’ve cared for enough to suffer the attendant hardships. But a true companion halves the misery and doubles the joys.
It is true that I can be happy alone and many times I’ve felt relieved to be in solitude. I look forward to my trip tomorrow because it will take me into the solitude again. But a real friend is not an intrusion.
I’ve been scraping along one way and another. I told my family not to send money but they’ve sent some. The park is adding territory, and farmers have to move. I helped one tear down his house, but got sick with the heat and then poison ivy. I’d rather starve than exert myself physically for wages, anyhow. I make it a rule not to be concerned about filthy lucre until after I’m broke.
While I was sick I could hear the squeak and bang of boards being pounded and nails being pulled. The farmer here is a Mormon, bishop of this district. His three daughters are named Velate, Merle, and Leda. He with his wife lived on this spot for twenty-five years. The government is going to remove all traces of habitation, allowing the green fields to go barren and the fruit orchards to die for want of water. Some park employees had flowers in their gardens but the architect made them pull them out because they weren’t in harmony.
