Frank’s Early Exit and Long Good-Bye

“I’ve had more excitement than a man deserves in a
lifetime. I’m leaving.”
Francis Valentine Goodman
June 1869

The Precipitating Incident of the
Premature Departure

Twenty-five-year-old Frank Goodman was soaked to the bone on that warm June day in 1869. The last few rapids had seen to it. And the only thing sorer than his back were his sun burnt, calloused hands. He wasn’t one to complain however; he had signed on at the last moment with Major Powell for the adventure of a lifetime. As he rowed downriver, trying to match his strokes with Seneca Howland’s, he said nothing about the red flannel underwear that clung to his skin. He had stripped off his water-logged outer garments and spread them on the decks of the No-Name to dry in the noon-day sun. Along with his red flannels (which he had purchased in Green River City only two weeks before), he had also bought a pair of buckskin trousers and shirt, a buffalo robe, a blanket, and an army blue overcoat. The beaver hat drooping over his head he had made himself.
Goodman’s long johns, in the style of the day, consisted of a top shirt and a separate pair of drawers. To hold up his britches he had tied a drawstring around his waist. Around each ankle he wrapped more drawstrings, presumably to hold his britches down.
As the weary trio floated through soon-to-be-named Lodore Canyon, they temporarily lost sight of the other boats—Emma Dean, Maid of the Canyon and Kitty Clyde’s Sister. The men were glad, though, for the flat water and sunny weather. They needed a respite from the terrifying, yet exciting, job of rowing the rapids. The expedition had had trouble back upstream, losing valuable supplies and nearly one of the boats.
Now they did not hear the dull growl that signaled a large rapid. O.G. Howland, manning the tiller, at last caught sight of the Major standing on shore. He was signaling frantically. Whether Howland hadn’t been paying attention or the signal came to late, whether he was too far from shore and neither his attention nor the Major’s signal would have made a difference, depends on one’s imaginative interpretation of the river historians you read. The No-Name missed the pull-in, always a heart-sinking sensation.
How the three men reacted is anyone’s guess. Perhaps they flailed at the oars as they tried to correct; perhaps they made a concerted effort. At the last moment they may have simply dropped the oars and held on as the No-Name careened through the rapid, finally crashing onto a boulder midstream. Broach is the correct word, but hardly conveys the physical drama involved. If you have ever been at the oars of a wooden boat as it slams into a rock, you know well the heart-wrenching lurch of the vessel and the stomach-turning sound of splintering wood.
The three men were pitched out of the boat and washed downstream. While Goodman was trying to make shore, his red flannel drawers came untied at the waist. They slipped gradually past his knees and then tangled around his ankles, making swimming difficult. He yelled to those standing on shore, “This is it, boys!” The men on shore stood by helplessly. Fortunately Goodman washed onto a small island in the middle of the river as did the Howland brothers. They were safe for the time being.
Under the relentless pounding of the river, the No-Name collapsed and broke in two. The aft section of the boat was swept a half-mile downriver where it broached on yet another rock.
Two weeks into their journey, the river had taken one boat and one-third of their supplies, a significant loss. Frank Goodman, stranded in the middle of the river in his long underwear, would have three long weeks to ponder his predicament.

Early July, 1983—A Similar Precipitating Incident
It had been an unusual flip and an unnerving swim for the mother and her twenty-one-year-old daughter riding in the wooden dory. They were a scant two days downriver on a trip that had already been postponed a day, due to water levels not seen since the pre-dam era. The river itself had become dangerously unfamiliar—cluttered with debris, smelling earthy, its surface swollen and sullen, its currents, boils and waves menacing and ocean-like. It was hard to believe it was the same river; this failure of faith gnawed at the crew’s resolve. Days before a motor rig turned over at Crystal Rapid, causing one death and numerous injuries. The Park Service did the unthinkable. The river corridor was closed. Twenty-four hours later, with the national media and river companies looking on, the river was reopened to traffic. The scene for an early exit had been set.
There was none of the balladic slow-motion gracefulness that often defines an overturning boat. The action was ferociously blunt. One moment the wooden dory was crashing through the huge, misshapen waves of Twenty-four-and-a-Half-Mile Rapid. The next instance the boat was brought to a standstill, as if someone had yanked the hair on a child’s head. The boat shuddered and stalled, then slipped back down the face of a breaking wave and corkscrewed savagely. Like a peach striking the pavement, the heavily-loaded dory was unceremoniously upended and thrown over. Mother and daughter, along with the oarsman and other passengers, disappeared. The boat remained trapped in the trough of the wave. Unlike Frank Goodman, they did not have an island-sanctuary immediately downstream.
Eventually the river released the upside-down boat. Its occupants, one by one, had been flushed downstream indiscriminately. They bobbed along like broken dolls heads. The grey-bottomed hull followed, twisting and turning in the current. Oddly enough, the boat caught up with the scattered group. They grabbed hold, but the boat was thrust toward the shore. It landed on an outcropping of rock that had been dry for decades. Afraid of being trapped between boat and rock, the passengers let go. Again, they were swept downriver and separated. Some tried to swim to shore, as they had been instructed. It was an impossible task. Mother and daughter had held hands, briefly, and then were drawn apart. The river pulled them into eddies they could not escape; boils rose up and captured the unsuspecting swimmers and spun them around; dark currents tugged at their legs, and despite their lifejackets, sucked them under.
One by one they washed through Twenty-five-Mile Rapid. The current slowed and as the exhausted passengers came within shouting distance of one another, an opportunity arose. The oarsman, who had stayed with the overturned boat, floated downstream and managed to gather his stunned passengers. Together they righted the boat. The ordeal appeared over. He slipped an oar into the port oarlock; he went to place his other oar and found it slipping through his hands into the river. The oarlock had been sheered off. He raised both hands in to the air. What now? There was nothing to be done. The boat drifted downstream, bound for Cave Springs Rapid and its boulders.
In the final moments before the vulnerable boat was beyond reach, a fellow-oarsman tossed a throw line from his boat idling near shore. It fell short. He retrieved the throwline and tried again. The uncoiling bag hit the stern. The oarless boatman grabbed it and tied in. The wooden dory was reeled to shore.
That evening the four passengers were offered the chance to leave the river early. Two passengers chose to stay. The mother and daughter’s somber decision, however, surprised no one. They had been frightened (as had everyone who witnessed the incident), and with more than two-hundred river miles to go, they had had enough. (In fact, the thought of an early departure, perhaps an early group departure, had crossed the minds of all the crew and passengers alike.) Two days later, they boarded a helicopter at the Little Colorado. Unlike Frank Goodman, they had not had to wait three weeks. They were offered a return trip. The following season they came back to the Canyon and completed their river journey.
The Man in the Red Flannel Underwear
In 1959 (nearly forty-five years after Goodman’s death) E.G. Evans wrote of his friend, “…it has to be from memory of talks with him and others as there is no diary or written record. First, description: height, about 5’9”, weight about 180, broad intelligent head, brown hair, dark blue eyes, broad nose, a good-looking mouth with slightly receding chin—was fairly good-looking, very healthy and strong, most always wore a beard which was red-brown in color—had a sunny disposition, loved the out-of-doors, did not care for hard work, made friends with most people he met, was a deep thinker and a great reader, quite a talker but did some thinking before he talked, never spilling his brains out his mouth or telling what he did not want to, was a very staunch Republican, belonged to no church but was broadminded and respected other people’s opinions, even to the point of being friends with Confederate men who he fought against, he still respected them although he believed them wrong.”
The child was born on February 2, 1844, in England. As a boy, Goodman had less than adequate schooling. Even if he had had better opportunities, he may not have attended. For a brief period he worked as a miller’s apprentice, a job he detested. At age seventeen he up and ran off to the United States. He arrived in time to join the New Jersey Volunteers, fighting through the Civil War on the side of the Union. At the war’s end he would have been twenty-one, twenty-two at most.
For unknown reasons, he returned to England. There he worked in a custom house and proved himself an asset to the company. He married the daughter of a well-to-do family. Soon after, his new wife developed tuberculosis, a common disease in London at the time, and died. By 1867 or so, Goodman returned to the United States. He landed in New Orleans and made his way to the Ozark Mountains. Apparently this city-bred Englishman loved the out-of-doors.
St. Joe, Missouri was the jumping off point for westward migration, and here Goodman fell in with a freight outfit. The one-hundred-fifty oxen needed round the clock attention. One four-month journey from St. Joe to Deer Lodge, Montana was enough for Goodman. It was said that while Goodman “enjoyed a walk, he had about as long a one as he wanted this time.” Every meal consisted of cornbread, salted pig, coffee, and molasses—a repast not to his liking. Off he went to greener pastures.
He joined the Hudson Bay Company, working as a trapper in British Columbia. He trapped his way down the Columbia River to Walla Walla, Washington Territory. Enough of that, Frank thought. He found a partner. They trapped their way up the Snake River and over the mountains to the head of the Green River. In early May 1869 he arrived in Green River City, Wyoming, to sell his furs. He closed the deal and knowing the value of a dollar, he immediately banked his share of the profits.
Goodman apparently never touched liquor (unusual given the company he kept) and did not gamble, two pastimes not unknown in Green River City. One observer wrote, “Having nothing particular to do at the time…he (Goodman) joined up with Mr. Powell.”
Historian John Upton Terrell wrote of Goodman, “He was apple-cheeked, educated, displayed a calm manner, was a good shot, and most important of all, an experienced boatman.” Historians Darrah, Dellenbaugh and Lavender hardly mention the apple-cheeked Englishman, probably because he played such a minor role in the epic journey. One hints that Goodman may have bought his way onto the trip and proved to be ineffective at best. Could this have been one of the reasons for his early exit?
Unfamiliar Reasons for Early, Unplanned Exits
The majority of reasons for modern-day, unplanned exits from the river generally fall under the heading of emergencies—illness, accident, or death. They are easily recognizable, part of the Canyon canon of unforeseen incidents. Another category (if it can be called a category at all) lingers just out of public view however. These anomalies, these stray cats of premature departures, rarely appear in the record books. More often than not, they are told on boats at the waters’ edge late at night.
There is the story of a young man and his family who arrived at Lees Ferry after spending the evening in Las Vegas. He didn’t look very well as he sat by the river, waiting for the trip to start downriver. By lunch, he looked worse. When the trip reached Badger, it was evident that something was seriously wrong. He broke into a sweat, suffered convulsions and the dts. Things were spiraling out of control. The guides were able to calm him down and eventually the whole family was hiked out at Badger, an easy exit. Later, the crew found out that he was an ex-Viet Nam veteran; his father had brought him to Grand Canyon in the hopes of healing his son’s wounded spirit.
Early exits can also be self-induced. Day-trippers noticed a young male hiker standing on the bridge at Phantom one afternoon acting strange. As it turned out, he had ingested the leaves of the sacred datura and was in the throes of unholy hallucinations. Fortunately the river rangers were able to persuade him that they were not alien storm-troopers from another galaxy bent on the subjugation of planet Earth. The young experimenter was airlifted to hospital, his exit a fait accompli.
Another, more delicate, explanation for early unplanned departures does not show up on incident reports or after-trip debriefings. It seems to affect boatmen more than passengers. Every now and then you do hear the tale of the couple who could not wait for the trip to end, the familiarity of a river trip being the proverbial straw that broke the relationship’s back. Stories abound, however, of Canyon guides jumping ship midstream in the name of love and its various manifestations, romantic as well as carnal.
One veteran boatman recalled being given a turn at the oars of a dory on Day One of his first trip in Grand Canyon. He knew this to be an aberration which his luck could not possibly tolerate. That evening at Badger Creek he was told (not asked) he would be rowing the boat for the rest of the trip. His joy knew no bounds. The original boatman, smitten by his new found love left somewhere on the rim, could not bear a minute more in a beautiful boat floating through one of the sublime wonders of the world. His heart was elsewhere. Being a boatman, he followed it right out of the Canyon. Of course, there are the more bawdy tales of boatmen who have suffered what might be called the side effects of giving their hearts away (or stealing another’s, if you will.) One boatman was known to have sprinted up to the South Rim during a brief stop at Phantom to secure a medicinal product known to calm the itching of an s.t.d. of the crustacean variety. Not only was his an early and unexpected exit, it was also a return of legendary quickness. Equally fascinating was the plight of a boatman who, after two or three days on the river, could no longer row his boat. It seems his passion had gotten the better (or worse) of him before the trip. He suffered a case of epididymitis. Evacuation was imminent, as was an explanation to those left behind. “Groin injury” would suffice.

Rarely spoken of, the wish for an early departure from the stone temple is a misunderstood creature more common than you might think. To admit your desire to leave the river for reasons other than injury or love, however, borders on sacrilege and invites unwanted inspection. Few can bring themselves to confess to such a heretical notion in the midst of such natural beauty and so many Canyon lovers. Yet it happens. Boredom, an unforgivable sin in the Canyon, can be a trigger; someone or something waiting off-river can have you counting the days. There is also the case of certain individuals who are quite literally “overwhelmed” by the place. They suffer a kind of sensory overload, sometimes brought on by dehydration, which creates an urgent need to escape. They experience a vague claustrophobia. Ironic, given the size and visual space of the Canyon. A patch of shade, a drink of water, and a kind word can often bring the unruly desire for an early exit under control.

Last In, First Out
The Powell expedition reached the mouth of the Unita River on June 28, 1869, nearly three weeks after their wreck at aptly named Disaster Falls. Three weeks—a long time for Goodman to mull things over. E.G. Evans, however, thought his friend had made the decision to leave the river immediately after the wreck of the No-Name. As far as we know, Goodman was still wearing his red flannel underwear. Factor in Hell’s Half-Mile Rapids, dwindling rations, the unending toil of portages, close quarters on the boats, and the loss of all of his personal gear. If he did not make a decision while he was stranded on the small island, he almost certainly had by the time he landed.
Naturally, the various accounts (and the interpretations of those accounts) of Goodman’s departure differ on some minor points. What is certain is that on July 2 (or 3) Powell and two men, W.W. Hawkins and Goodman (?), hiked eighteen (some accounts say forty) miles up a side canyon to the Unita Indian Agency in the hopes of replenishing their supplies. Common sense suggests that Goodman, having already made his decision to leave, would have wanted to accompany Powell and Hawkins to the Indian Agency.
On July 4th George Bradley noted in his journal that “they were still waiting for Powell to return.” That very evening Powell, Hawkins and Goodman (?) were having a holiday dinner with Lieutenant Pardon Dodds, head of the Ute Indian Agency. (Later Dodds offered Goodman clothes and a job. Over the next year they would become good friends.) According to Hawkin’s account (written fifty years after the event), the following day, July 5, he and Powell returned to the river with additional supplies of flour, but without Goodman. “He had all he wanted of the river,” said Hawkins.
Powell, writing twenty-five years after the event, said of Goodman, “I am content that he should leave, although he has been a faithful man.” Might Powell have sized up the fragile situation and realized he could afford, indeed, he needed to lose a man? Did he ask Goodman to leave or did Goodman tell the Major of his intentions beforehand? It is difficult to say. Perhaps the Major “set the scene” for one of the Canyon’s first early exits.
Once again E.G. Evans, Goodman’s friend, offers a reasonable explanation. He wrote, “When the Powell Party reached here (mouth of the Unita River), they had too many men for boats and provisions left. The Major would not ask any man to leave or put him off but would be pleased if some of them would leave (italics mine,) so Frank Valentine volunteered to leave.”
Had Frank and John Wesley had been thinking along the same lines, albeit for different reasons, since Disaster Falls? It seems so. Being honorable (or stubborn?) men, however, neither would have thought of placing the other in an awkward situation. Without a good reason, Powell could not dismiss Goodman from the expedition. Goodman, on the other hand, might have been reluctant to ask explicitly for an early exit. To leave for the good of the expedition was one thing; to have been seen leaving the expedition for selfish or cowardly reasons was quite another. It seems that Powell stage-managed a face-saving agreement for everyone involved.
Evans wrote of Goodman, “He did not care much now where the river went to and this ended his river running career. Now the Powell party had lost their merry maker as he was a good story teller and an excellent singer—never forgot a poem or a story. Well, here he was afoot and alone, all he had that he was not born with was two shoes and a suit of red woolen underwear.”
Evans, however, did throw one last wrinkle in the historical works. Of the actual physical parting he wrote, “He (Goodman) said when he saw the boats go around the bend and on out of sight down the river, he had a few lonesome moments but no regrets, but always hoped to see that gang again but I do not think he ever did.”
This scenario suggests two unlikely possibilities for an early exit. Might Goodman have stayed down at the river when Powell and the two other men walked up to the Ute Indian Agency? Then later, when they returned, he saw the expedition off and began his lonely walk up the side canyon. It’s possible, but hard to believe that Goodman (or Powell) would make such a wrong-headed choice given the situation. Why would Goodman choose to walk alone in unfamiliar country?
A second interpretation has Goodman walking up and back with Powell and Hawkins, and then back to the Indian Agency once more. Again, given the terrain and Goodman’s condition, this interpretation seems well beyond the pale of possibility. Goodman did not like to walk that much. Evan’s conclusion, of course, is what any good storyteller would choose—truer in spirit if not fact. His imagination may have begun to fill in the inevitable gaps that accompany distant memories. Or maybe Goodman himself, in his retelling nearly fifty years after the event, suffered the same understandable storyteller’s fate.
Reading through Evan’s recollections, one has the impression that the English adventurer never looked back at the Canyon. By all accounts, he never seemed to regret missing his fifteen minutes of river fame. He went on to live a busy, interesting life. On June 23, 1915 he died in Vernal, Utah at age seventy-one. Having worn his red flannel underwear for an undignified length of time, Goodman had made one of the more graceful early exits in Canyon history.
Vince Welch
“The lava has run down river and and shows on side cooled in fantastic shapes… Lava all through here, run down the canyon, filling the breaks … and washed out again. Hot time then!!!”
R.B. Stanton, February 27, 1890.
On your next trip to western Grand Canyon, imagine basaltic lava flowing into the Colorado River near Whitmore Canyon. Both Powell and Stanton, the first two explorers of the Colorado River, described it vividly from their imaginations. Picture the vapors, ash, and explosions as cold water quenches hot lava. The lava piles up, moving a little bit up and downstream, eventually accumulating enough to create a dam to impound a reservoir. Suppose 350 billion cubic feet of water is backed up behind that dam, extending all the way upstream to Hance Rapid. Now, it doesn’t take much imagination to realize that this dam is unstable—after all, some of its structure is rock hydrothermally shattered by interaction with water, and its abutments rest on talus—but it holds for a while. All of a sudden, something gives inside the dam or in the dam’s abutments, and the dam collapses, releasing the impounded water rapidly in a HUGE flood, moving the dam material downstream in a wall that is initially more than 600 feet high. Envision what western Grand Canyon looks like downstream right after such a flood. You and your passengers can see what’s left of these lava dams and their outburst-flood deposits after 165,000 years (Figure 1). Outburst-flood deposits are common in western Grand Canyon between river miles 187 and 209 (Figure 2). Over the past eight years, we mapped and investigated 49 discontinuous lava-dam outburst-flood deposits between RM 185 and RM 222 (Fenton et al., 2002; 2004). Because these deposits are very similar in appearance and cannot be distinguished on the basis of location, position, and appearance alone, we collected rock samples for geochemical analyses and cosmogenic 3Hec dating, the dating technique discussed in a previous article. Deposits with common ages and common chemical signatures were grouped together and distinguished from other deposits whose ages and chemical concentrations differed. This study allowed us to determine that at least five lava dams failed catastrophically between 100,000 and 525,000 years ago in western Grand Canyon. The flood deposits, described below, are the most convincing evidence that indicates that not all western Grand Canyon lava dams were stable, as suggested by Hamblin (1994). Hamblin (1994, Figure 64d) describes the large-scale foresets (Figure 3a) in one of these coarse gravel deposits at river mile 187.5 (river left) and states that this is the most convincing evidence for catastrophic flooding in the canyon during this period of time. He was right.
Dams created by lava flows are often assumed to be stable (Howard et al., 1982; Hamblin, 1994), and although some are stable, others have failed, releasing catastrophic floods downstream (Fenton et al., 2002, 2004; Jackson et al., 2001). The foundations and abutments were on loose material, which, combined with hydrothermal fracturing of the basalt, created ideal conditions for rapid failure (Figure 2). In our work, we speculate at sufficient pressures, water stored in lava-dam lakes likely flowed through fractured and porous media. This “piping” would be expected to remove significant amounts of unconsolidated talus under the dam, thereby undermining the basalt structure, collapsing the dam crest, and draining the reservoir. It is also plausible that the interiors of thick dams might not have cooled completely before the onset of failure. Partial collapse of weaker zones on the upstream of a dam into the lake could expose a large volume of hot lava to water, resulting in explosions that could have contributed to the failure. Such explosive collapses are seen almost monthly on a smaller scale in Hawaii when lava flows into the ocean (Mattox and Mangan, 1997).
Outburst-flood deposits tied to lave-dam failures are unique to the 30-mile reach from mile 189 to 209; they are not found upstream of Lava Falls. These deposits are significantly different than typical Colorado River gravels, which generally consist of well-rounded sandstone and limestone clasts from the Paleozoic section and clasts of a variety of quartzite, porphyritic and other igneous clasts carried by river from far upstream. Outburst-flood deposits are almost entirely made up of basalt clasts ranging from sand-size grains to boulders, up to 115 feet in diameter (Fig. 4a). Blocks of Muav Limestone (Figure 4b) are found in the deposits, and their angularity and position in the deposits indicate that they were transported from the failed abutments of the lava dam. The largest clasts found in typical Colorado River gravels in western Grand Canyon are 16 feet or less in diameter and were likely contributed to the mainstem river through debris-flow action in nearby tributary canyons. The sand-sized matrix in the outburst-flood deposits is basalt glass, formed when lava initially flowed into the river beginning the lava-dam building process. This basalt glass would have been stored in the dam’s reservoir, and upon dam failure would have been entrained along with larger pieces of the dam, moved downstream, and deposited in eddies that would have occurred at the mouths of tributary canyons (river mile 193.5, Boulder Canyon), or on the inside bends in the river (river mile 187.5).
These unique deposits are mostly preserved on benches left behind by remnants of pre-existing lava dams (Fig. 3a), but they have also filled old river channels like the one at river mile 194 (Fig. 3b). The deposits are up to 350 feet thick, and are found high above the river (Figs. 2 and 3). Elevation, clast size and deposit thickness decrease with increasing distance from the lava dams. Flood stage decreased rapidly with distance from the damsites, as would be expected from a rapidly draining reservoir. The deposits are preserved 175 to 650 feet above the present-day river, higher than regular river gravels near Nankoweap or Unkar. Outburst-flood deposits also preserve the foresets of ripples, similar to ripples you see in the sand beneath water along today’s river, but on a much larger scale, as high as 150 feet (Fig. 2a). The nature of the deposits indicate that large floods with high velocities and great depths were needed to move and emplace them, floods larger than anything produced by upland runoff from snowmelt or rainstorms. The composition of each outburst-flood deposit unit (>80% basalt) ties the source to a failed lava dam. No material was present in the deposits that could be attributed to deltaic or lacustrine deposits, which would have accumulated if the dams had a long lifespan.
Outburst-flood deposits are some of the most interesting geologic outcrops we think visitors can see in western Grand Canyon. Unfortunately, there aren’t many good sites to check out upstream of 187, but you can stop at Whitmore Rapid (river right) or at mile 202 (river right), climb on top of the lava flow remnants downstream of the camps and admire the piles of rounded, varnished boulders. As we’ll tell you next time, these rounded boulders were deposited during some of the largest-known floods in the continental United States.

Cassie Fenton and Bob Webb

References

Fenton, C.R., Poreda, R.J., Nash, B.P., Webb, R.H., and Cerling, T.E., 2004, Geochemical discrimination of five Pleistocene lava-dam outburst-flood deposits, western Grand Canyon, AZ, Journal of Geology, v. 112, p. 91-110.

Fenton, C.R., Webb, R.H., Cerling, T.E., Poreda, R.J., and Nash, B.P., 2002, Cosmogenic 3He Ages and Geochemical Discrimination of Lava-Dam Outburst-Flood Deposits in Western Grand Canyon, Arizona, in House, K. et al., eds., Paleoflood Hydrology, American Geophysical Union, p. 191-215.

Hamblin, W.K., 1994, Late Cenozoic lava dams in the western Grand Canyon, 135 pp., Geological Society of America Memoir 183, 139 pp.

Jackson, L.E., Huscroft, C.A., Gotthardt, R., Storer, J.E., and Barendregt, R.W., 2001, Field Guide: Quaternary volcanism, stratigraphy, vertebrate palaeontology, archaeology, and scenic Yukon River tour, Fort Selkirk area (NTC 115 I), Yukon Territory, August 18-19, 2001.

Mattox, T.N., and Mangan, M.T., 1997, Littoral hydrovolcanic explosions; a case study of lava-seawater interaction at Kilauea Volcano, Journal of Volcanology and Geothermal Research, v. 75, p. 1-17.