PHOTOGRAPHY ON THE GREEN RIVER:
A SHORT HISTORY
The first photographer ever to float the Green River was Elias Olcott Beaman, A member of Major John Wesley Powells’ second expedition of the Green and Colorado rivers, 1871.
Photo: Green River Station, Wyoming. L-R: Cañonita: Andy Hattan (Cook), Clem Powell (Assistant), E.O. Beaman (Photographer); Emma Dean: Stephen Jones aka Deacon (Assistants), John Hillers (Oarsman), Major Powell, Fred Dellenbaugh (Artist); Nellie Powell: Prof. Almon Harris Thompson (Astronomer and Topographer), John Steward (Assistent Geologist), Francis Bishop aka Cap (Assistant), Frank Richardson (Barometrition).
This was Powell’s second trip down the Green River (& the Colorado). On the first in 1869, he didn’t bring a photographer, for reasons unknown. Powells was recommended the young photographer, Beaman, by the owners of NYC based photography supplier E. & H.T. Anthony Co. (who would eventually become Agfa). Beaman was an unknown at the time—he had a folio of stereographs from upstate New York, and had spent time on boats in the Great Lakes. He was paid about $800 (2400$ in inflation adjusted USD, or 76,000$ in gold backed valuation).
“Our proposed exploration extended over a water-route nearly four hundred miles on the Green River, and five hundred on the Colorado, making in all nine hundred miles’ voyage, the greater portion of which led through unknown and formidable cañon”
”The boats, three in number, forwarded from Chicago, were twenty-two feet in length, by five and one-half feet in breadth, and contained each three water-tight compartments, in which the provision and instruments were stored after being carefully packed in rubber sacks. Secured in this way, our stores rarely became damp, even when the boats capsized, which was frequently the case.”
—E.O. Beaman
Beaman brought just over an actual ton of camera equipment with him, worth over $100,000 today in gold backed currency, or about $22,000 in inflation adjusted dollars. There were several cameras, tripods, cases of glass plates, containers of photo chemicals, and a portable darkroom. In the group photo you can see the 1871 expedition in the three wooden dories built especially for the trip. The device to the left is Beaman’s “dark box”—his portable darkroom, used to mix chemistry to coat the glass plates and then to develop them after exposure. All of that gear needed to be unpacked, hauled to whatever location was necessary, even up mountains. They often climbed 3000’ to get to a good vantage point. That’s E.O. third from the left side, standing in the boat that he also rowed - the Cañonita.
Photo: Lighthouse Rock, one of the landmarks called out by Powell on his first trip. Stereogram shows the three dories in the foreground.
Major Powell hired Fred Dellenbaugh to be the trip artist and illustrator. In 1908, Fred collected his notes and published A Canyon Voyage, his account of the trip. He relates an anecdote about the working methods of the modern photographer of 1871:
Dellenbaugh writes:
“[…]By break of day the camp was astir, breakfast was disposed of as quickly as possible, the Dean was manned, the Major went to his place on the middle cabin, they cast off and disappeared in the canyon gate. We then called this "Craggy Canyon," but later it was changed to Split Mountain. All of the others crossed the river to climb to the top of the cliffs for observations and for photographs.
Next day another party went up to the same place, and I went along. The photographic outfit had been left there because rain the day before had spoiled the view, and we were to bring it down when more views had been taken. After a strong, steep climb we found ourselves on a peak or pinnacle about 3000 feet above the river, and therefore 7940 above sea-level. The view from this point was extraordinary. Far below gleamed the river cleaving the rocks at our feet, and visible for several miles in the canyon churning its way down, the rapids indicated by bars of white. One hardly knew which way to look. Crags about us projected into the canyon, and I was inspired to creep out upon a long finger of sandstone where I could sit astride as on a horse and comfortably peer down into the abyss. It was an absolutely safe place, but Beaman and Clem feared the crag might break off with me, and they compelled me to come back to relieve their minds. Seldom does one have such a chance to see below as well as I could there. The long, narrow mountain stretched off to the west, seeming not more than a half-mile wide, and split open for its whole length by the river, which has washed its canyon longitudinally through it. In all directions were mountains, canyons, and crags in bewildering profusion.
When Beaman had ended his labours we started down the cliffs with his apparatus. This was the terror of the party. The camera in its strong box was a heavy load to carry up the rocks, but it was nothing to the chemical and plate-holder box, which in turn was a featherweight compared to the imitation hand-organ which served for a dark room. This dark box was the special sorrow of the expedition, as it had to be dragged up the heights from 500 to 3000 feet. With this machinery we reached camp pretty tired and glad to rest the remainder of the day, especially as Prof, said we would enter the new canyon the next morning. This was Sunday.”
Photo: Stereogram for Split Mountain
E.O. Beaman didn’t seem to think much of his surroundings. This was his first trip to the American West, having done much of his previous work in upstate New York, creating stereograms of Adirondack views.
E.O. Beaman writes:
“…started on the 5th of August again down the river. From Uintah crossing the country gradually rises along the river-bottoms, until at the head of the Cañon of Desolation it changes to a flat surface. This cañon is very appropriately named, for, as far as the eye can reach, nothing is to be seen but an arid waste of rocks and sand, and a few stunted cottonwoods. The first fifteen miles of the cañon was passed without a rapid, but soon after the river became more and more shallow and rocky, until at Sumner’s Amphitheatre, we experienced considerable difficulty in getting along. The walls of this cañon are from eight hundred to three thousand feet high, generally sloping backward, and the country as a rule level, save where a gulch or lateral cañon runs toward the river.”
Fortunately, Dellenbaugh was much more impressed and aware of his surroundings. Although he was there as an illustrator, his skill with words gives us a much clearer image of Deso.
Fred Dellenbaugh, August 9th
In the afternoon as we pulled along we came to a small rapid and the walls by this time being closer together and growing constantly higher, we knew that we were now fairly within the Canyon of Desolation and for about one hundred miles would have a rough river. Not more than two miles below our dinner camp we reached a locality where the stream doubled back on itself forming a vast and beautiful amphitheatre. We could not pass this by without taking a picture of it and Beaman was soon at work with his apparatus while I got out my pencils. The photograph did not turn out well, and Prof, determined to remain till the next day.
Our camp was on the left in a thick grove of cottonwoods, and box-elders or ash-leaved maples, at the end of the point. As the sun sank away bats flew about and an insect orchestra began a demoniacal concert that shrilled through the night and made us feel like slaughtering the myriads if we could. The noises ceased with the day, or most of them, though some seemed to intensify with the light.
We helped Beaman get his dark box and other paraphernalia up to the summit of the ridge back of camp, which was easy so far as climbing was concerned, the rocks rising by a series of shelves or steps. I made several pencil sketches there, which I have never seen since the close of the expedition. The crest of the promontory was about forty yards wide at its maximum and three yards at the minimum, with a length of three-fourths of a mile. From the middle ridge one could look down into the river on both sides, and it seemed as if a stone could almost be thrown into each from one standpoint. The opposite amphitheatre was perhaps one thousand feet high, beautifully carved by the rains and winds. It was named Sumner's Amphitheatre after Jack Sumner of the first expedition.
Photo: Stereogram of the view from atop Sumner’s Amphitheatre.
Even though the expedition carted hundreds of glass plates with them, none of them survived to the best of my searching. The Library of Congress, the Getty Museum, and various other collections only have stereograms and scans of low-quality prints.
This was a publicly funded expedition backed by Congress, and they might have ended up in the Library of Congress. This could explain why there are no original plates; the LOC purged much of its collection at a low point due to lack of storage. I have difficulty understanding why a hard-won collection of plates of the first photographic trip down the Green River would have been tossed, but I can’t find records of them.
Powell may have kept them, but if so, they were lost. Maybe someday a box will be opened, and they will be found. He published his account of both trips years later, with a few photo-gravures, mainly from photos of the Grand Canyon.
The only certainty is that Beaman did not take them with him. He was dismissed from the expedition for “differences” with Major Powell. Beaman left during the winter break, prior to the expedition venturing into the Grand Canyon. He was paid $800, and the gear and duties eventually fell to Jack Hillers, who started the trip as an oarsman. The shot images remained in the care of Major Powell.
Beaman promptly found financial backing and roamed the American West, photographing his own take. He returned to the East and pre-emptively published his own account in Appleton’s Journal.
There’s a lot more history down this river, but this sets the stage for our trip. As photographers, we gain valuable perspective from looking 151 years into the past. Our art has come a long way, both aesthetically and technically, but at its heart? This is still about being in a place that moves you, that makes you react with a desire to make a photograph, not just take one.
“Through nightly relaxed and conversational explorations - on the ways of seeing the landscape through the human lens, on the historical photographers of the Green and Colorado Rivers, on varied renowned landscape photographers and their diverse perspectives and processes—as well as through supportive, growth-oriented, well-timed group reviews of some of our self-selected river-made photographs—my photographic awareness and skill increased by layers.”
—Sean Stanley
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