ster, and it was on such points as these
that Powell and Thompson always exhibited good sense. Smaller men would
have been unable to resist the temptation to run everything, for there
comes an exhilaration in this work that is subtle and dangerous. Below
this the declivity was very great, but as there were few rocks our boats
were able to go down flying. The walls were two thousand to twenty-five
hundred feet high, but not vertical. Suddenly we ran out into a
beautiful little valley on the right known to trappers as Little Brown's
Hole, and renamed by our party Red Canyon Park. Here we camped for a day
and then went on between high walls over a number of rapids, to emerge
into Brown's Park. This place, I take it, was the end of Ashley's
journey down the river. Sailing along on a quiet current in a valley six
miles wide, we ran upon a camp of cattle herders, where Richardson
left us, as Powell decided that he was not able to stand the work. He
regretfully went back with some of the cattlemen to Green River Station.

The temperature was now often 99 degrees F. in the shade, and rowing
on the slow current was irksome, so we lashed the boats together and
drifted along while the Major in his armchair read aloud selections from
Scott, Emerson, and others, whose condensed poetical works and a couple
of Bibles were all the literature to be found in the party, as books
are heavy and weight was to be avoided. At times some of the men amused
themselves by diving under the boats, swimming around and ahead of
them, or surprised a coyote on the bank with a rifle-shot, and otherwise
enjoyed the relaxation we had well earned by our toil in Red Canyon. The
river was smooth and deep and about six hundred to eight hundred feet
wide. At the very foot of the valley we made a camp under the shadow of
that magnificent and unrivalled portal, the Gate of Lodore, which had
been visible to us for many miles; the dark cleft two thousand feet
high, through which the river cuts into the heart of the mountains,
appearing as solemn and mysterious as the pathway to another world. From
an eminence we could peer into its depths for some distance, and
there was no sign of a rapid, but we were not deceived, having posted
ourselves by extracts from Jack Sumner's diary, whose description of
"how the waters come down at Lodore" was contained in the frequent
repetition of the words, "a hell of foam." Lodore, indeed, is almost
one continuous rapid for the whole