The Promise of the Grand Canyon

by John F. Ross

  The Major had become a lightning rod, the perfect scapegoat for all that stood in the way of Stewart’s vision for a prosperous American future.

  * * *

  The full Senate and House took up the Sundry Civil Expenses Bill in mid-July, but not before Moody got in a few more licks on the Senate floor, dubbing Powell a “tycoon of many tails,” then confiding much less wittily to the Evening Star that Powell “knew as much about the arid lands of the west as he did about the mountains of the moon, and not one whit more.” Powell appeared to get blamed almost entirely for western development’s shutting down by the dramatic closure of the public lands. The western senators, who united against Powell, found support from eastern senators reluctant to pour money into expensive western irrigation projects. Powell had finally paddled into a wave he could not negotiate, no matter his prodigious skill and determination.

  The Senate cut off funding for the irrigation survey. In late August, Congress as a whole repealed the provision closing all public lands, limiting closure to reservoir sites only. The General Land Office, with all its warts and transgressions and briberies, opened again for its publicly scandalous business. The federal government would not return to classifying lands until the Dust Bowl and farm-surplus crises forced its hand in the 1930s. For Powell, even though the USGS received a record appropriation that year, the closure of the irrigation survey came as the biggest loss of his career. Gone were two years of toil, and his prime opportunity to cast his ideas into the future of western development.

  Powell reluctantly discharged dozens of employees. In large part, he was one more victim of the times. The Republicans were undergoing a generational change, virtually trading off its fading patronage of southern blacks and coming to comfortable terms with the powers of the Gilded Age. Even as industry inexorably expanded, workers and farmers saw little increase in prosperity, and those hard times spurred alliances and organizations that mobilized into clamorous political movements pressing for radical economic reform. But Powell had also underestimated the storm of anger breaking over Stewart and pretty much the entire western congressional presence as the whole region underwent one blow after another.

  In turn, Stewart won an empty victory: Federal irrigation did transfer over to the Department of Agriculture, but Congress would not fund the effort for another dozen years. In the meantime, a host of private water companies failed. Stewart had let his personal animosity for Powell doom the very goals he and his people sought to attain.

  Even with tactical victory in hand, Stewart still spat venom at Powell, spreading malicious rumors in a letter to John Conness, lately a California senator: “Since the receipt of your letter I have made some inquiry and find that his habits with women are scandalous.” He would—or could—never substantiate these accusations. Once Stewart felt he had finished with Powell, he went after the Major’s brother Bram, who had come to town as superintendent of schools, and eventually hounded him out of office.

  * * *

  Powell’s relationship with Dutton became yet another casualty of the hearings. In his treasured associate’s entangled testimony, Powell found a deep, unforgivable betrayal. Dutton certainly had not intended to derail the irrigation survey. Nothing suggested that he felt any remotely unusual antagonism toward his boss, although he and others of the Great Basin Mess certainly felt the sometimes-overwhelming presence of the Major, his larger-than-life personality and roster of exploits seeming to reach into every aspect of their work and personal lives. Unlike the Howlands and Dunn, Dutton did not actively decide to walk off the job and crack the continental undertaking. Powell’s rebuke must have devastated him.

  Another of Powell’s protégés, Charles Walcott, who would go on to succeed Powell as head of the survey, and eventually to head the Smithsonian, quietly commented that Powell “likes strong loyalty from those nearest to him.” The other side of that cult of loyalty was pride; and once Dutton had crossed the line—on the record in a Senate hearing no less—their collegial relationship ended. In July, Dutton requested full transfer back to the army and was obliged. His superiors dispatched this great talent to anonymity at the San Antonio arsenal. No record exists that he and Powell ever spoke again, although other members of the survey kept in touch.

  Powell had lost not only a close friend but a valued professional colleague. These two—more than anyone else—had brought the Grand Canyon in all its splendor before the nation, revising it from a place of horrors and awe into one of spectacular beauty and exceptional presence in the American nation. If Powell had been the protagonist in the Grand Canyon epic, then Dutton was its muse. In his Tertiary History of the Grand Canyon District, he described how the individual’s perceptions of the great gorge can grow and change—an observation that could well be extended to America’s shifting views of the West overall: “Whatsoever might be bold or striking would at first seem only grotesque. The colors would be the very ones he had learned to shun as tawdry and bizarre. The tones and shades, modest and tender, subdued yet rich, in which his fancy had always taken special delight, would be the ones which are conspicuously absent. But time would bring a gradual change. Some day he would suddenly become conscious that outlines which at first seemed harsh and trivial have grace and meaning; that forms which seemed grotesque are full of dignity; that magnitudes which had added enormity to coarseness have come replete with strength and even majesty. . . . Great innovations, whether in art or literature, in science or in nature . . . must be understood before they can be estimated, and must be cultivated before they can be understood.”

  Yet even Dutton, a colleague and deep friend who had shared so many experiences of the American West, did not ultimately possess the imagination to encompass the future shape of the American West as did Powell.

  The most essential element of the man and his successes lay in his forward-going energy, his chessmaster ability to see three or four moves ahead. The West had brought some great changes to America—and far more rapidly than anyone had anticipated; Powell could never cease to feel the land shifting beneath his feet. The charging, sudden continentalization of American power energized Powell into thinking forever bigger, sometimes almost violently forcing upon him a larger sense of the world that was coming to be. This did not dizzy him; it just lifted him from one challenge to the next greater one. At least two generations would pass before others could grasp his ideas. Over the next several years, his voice would resound, lonely but undimmed and defiant.

  CHAPTER 12

  Last Stand

  In 1891, the Fifth International Geological Congress, the first of its kind held in the United States, convened in Washington. By clever politicking, Powell had shifted the original location from Philadelphia to the nation’s capital, a change that made sense as 42 of the 173 American attendees belonged to the United States Geological Survey. Foreign participants came from fifteen nations, for the most part western European, although members from Russia, Peru, and Chile attended. After days spent discussing such weighty topics as the chronological correlation of clastic rocks and the standardization of colors, symbols, and names on geological maps, the well-dined members had a chance to take several tours, the highlight being a twenty-five-day “grand excursion” for ninety guests by rail and stage across the Great Plains to the Rockies, Yellowstone, and Grand Canyon. American geologists could proudly boast not just about the spectacular formations of the West, but also show off the pioneering mapwork undertaken by the USGS, the largest scientific organization in the world. In Salt Lake City, the entourage enjoyed a banquet attended by many luminaries, not least Senator William Stewart.

  Dutton’s abrupt departure from the survey left no one but Powell to meet up with thirty-six visitors in Flagstaff in late September for a trip into the Grand Canyon. The promised tents never materialized, so the group weathered wind, rain, and hail for ten demanding days. By all accounts, Powell appeared to relish the chance of submitting the distinguished visitors
to truly western conditions—and they did not seem to mind either, the Chilean mining geologist Francisco San Román recording that “good humor prevailed.” On day two they reached the South Rim, descending into the Canyon to examine Precambrian and Permian rocks. Of all Powell’s many descents through or down the Canyon—this would be his last—this distinguished visitation must have struck him with particular resonance. Only two decades earlier, he and his ragged band of adventurers had pushed their way through the unknown Canyon; now he was lecturing eminent foreign geologists on American geology as mapped by American scientists on an unprecedented scale. How much he must have wanted to share this moment with Clarence Dutton as he and his guests gazed out from Point Sublime. American geology, as it became clear to everyone at the Congress—had they not sensed it before—had attained star status.

  Another participant, the geographer Emmanuel de Margerie of Paris, delighted in more than the spectacle: “We have nothing comparable to that wonderful display of labor in every direction of geological science; the union of topography and of geology seems specially wise and expedient.” He was speaking directly to Powell’s transcendent vision for the USGS and the survey’s patrons. Three months later, Powell accepted the Cuvier Prize from the Academy of Sciences of the Institute of France on behalf of the survey for its superb mapping and interpretation of the great American West.

  * * *

  The year 1892 did not smile on the survey—or on other federal scientific endeavors. An election year in which Democrat Grover Cleveland returned to office, it came fogged with continuing economic uncertainty, which in a year pushed the nation into the worst recession of its first one hundred years. The western senators, still brooding over Powell’s resistance in the irrigation survey business, joined with Cleveland Democrats eager to show their cost-cutting bona fides, and took another hard look at the USGS. Not surprisingly, change of administration or not, Stewart led the charge, railing at the survey as “a mockery of science.” Marsh’s paleontological work came under fire, particularly his book on the extinct Odontornithes. The catchphrase “birds with teeth” became a favorite rallying cry of those bent on eliminating alleged government waste. Surprisingly, many in Congress stood up for Powell, but the fiscal climate and lack of a standard bearer capable of checking Stewart did not bode well. The Senate cut the survey’s budget from $800,000 to $400,000.

  When that ominous news hit in July, Powell discharged a volley of telegrams, the one to Marsh reading curtly: “Appropriations cut off. Please send your resignation at once.”

  * * *

  In 1893, a full-blown economic crisis overran the United States, its root causes international and complex. By July, 560 state and private banks, as well as 155 national banks, had closed their doors. Factories shuttered and unemployment soared, while export markets foundered. A continuing western drought compounded the troubles of states beyond the Mississippi, smashing farm prices and causing a rash of mortgage foreclosures. Silver prices declined. In this tense environment, the West’s demand for federal help in promoting irrigation projects came roaring back to life. While the Stewart-Powell deadlock had stalled irrigation policy for some time, the economic and ecological disasters awakened new voices. William Smythe, an Omaha newspaperman turned champion of headlong irrigation in the “conquest of arid America,” launched Irrigation Age, one of several such publications that had sprung into creation. He swung high the torch of William Gilpin, but in a different arc. Aridity was no curse, he argued, but an actual blessing, because it required the civilizing power of irrigation. His new movement was “not merely a matter of ditches and acres, but a philosophy, a religion, and a programme of practical statesmanship rolled into one.” The target of irrigating 572 million acres of public land west of the 97th parallel intoxicated a new generation of boosters. He declaimed that he had science, not bromides, at his back. The answer to the nation’s ills lay in the latest modern technologies that would bring abundant grain and blooming fruit trees to the conquered desert, offering prosperity and opportunity to millions in dirty, overcrowded cities. The San Francisco Chronicle enthusiastically opined that a comparatively small investment could bring millions to the nation and create thousands of happy homes “where now is but a sterile wilderness.”

  As economy and environment visibly withered, Smythe organized a national irrigation congress in Los Angeles in October 1893. The Los Angeles Times applauded the choice of venue—after all, had not Major Powell, “the well-known specialist on this subject,” declared that California boasted the world’s finest example of the benefits of irrigation in fostering horticulture and agriculture?

  Befitting the importance of the gathering, President Cleveland extended invitations to most major foreign governments. Some seven hundred delegates, including Powell at the head of a delegation from the survey, turned up for the five days’ proceedings, the main events held downtown in the cavernous, boomtown Grand Opera House. Across the street, a vacant lot exhibited examples of modern technology. While the first practical internal-combustion-powered car lay two years in the future, the newly reconfigured—smaller and more efficient—gasoline-powered engine promised the capacity to pump groundwater in great volumes that windmills could not. The delegates gawked at gas engines, graders, ditchers, duplex pumps, pipes, special drainage tile, and new water-tank designs. The new-fangled Hellemotor featured large reflecting surfaces that caught the sun’s rays to power a pump. Executives of water companies and speculation-hungry capitalists enjoyed free California wines and fruit, cigars, and sandwiches.

  Inside the opera house, amidst a riot of bunting and flags, one speaker after another mounted a stage crowded with tropical plants and flowers to speak to the wonders of irrigation. Above their heads hung a streamer bearing the congress’s motto: “Irrigation: Science, Not Chance.” A festive, celebratory mood prevailed, undergirded by the body’s commitment to its keynote promise that homes for “millions of free men could be made on the arid public domain.” One evening, in a talk sponsored by the Los Angeles Science Association, Powell lectured about his 1869 voyage. Just after lunch on October 13, Powell climbed the stairs to address the entire congress. Delegates were limited to five minutes, but no one dared constrain the Major, who would speak for three-quarters of an hour.

  Pale and gray, the Major no longer radiated the vigorous health of his prime. The long train ride from Chicago had worn him considerably. His stump burned. Yet, looking out over all the adoring faces raised expectantly beneath him, Powell laid aside his prepared remarks, announcing to more applause that they could read his technical paper on water supply later. The Major’s gray eyes flamed. Perhaps he knew that the end of his career approached. And then he delivered the most eloquent, impassioned speech of his life.

  He outlined his pride in his great nation’s enterprise, then confirmed his populist bona fides: “I am more interested in the home and the cradle than I am in the bank counter.” But he felt obliged to remind those convened of the West’s blunt environmental realities. He was going to make himself absolutely clear: “When all the rivers are used, when all the creeks in the ravines, when all the brooks, when all the springs are used, when all the reservoirs along the streams are used, when all the canyon waters are taken up, when all the artesian waters are taken up, when all the wells are sunk or dug that can be dug in all this arid region,” he gravely proclaimed, “there is still not sufficient water to irrigate all the land.” All this effort, he continued, could only reclaim a small fraction of the West. The crowd rustled in their chairs, now thoroughly confused.

  That no misapprehension should linger, he explained it again. Take all the waters in the arid region, devoting not one drop of it to the public lands, and there would still not be enough water even to moisten all the vast stretches in private hands. With this statement, Powell undercut the Congress’s entire platform. The mutterings grew louder. “Not one more acre of land should be granted to individuals for irrigation purposes; th
ere is not water enough.” A scattering of boos now met him, sounds the proud Major had never heard before. Yet he plowed on. “There is no more land, owned by the Government in the arid regions, that ought to be used for irrigation, except in about half a dozen little places.” Federal land should be used for mining and stock raising. Incredulous, some of the delegates broke in with a storm of questions. Very heated remarks were made, reported an Albuquerque paper. If what you say is true, said one, then “we are here upon a useless mission.” Smythe would report that the “first sensation of the delegates was one of amazement, the second one of anger, and the third one of contempt.” Powell was sinning against the central American idol of optimism.