ed rain-water
which was pouring over a near-by cliff in a muddy torrent. The whole
country was extremely bare and barren, mostly rock, and the rain
gathered as on the roof of a house. The river had narrowed up before we
reached the San Rafael and had entered low, broken walls. The current
was rather swift, but there were no rapids. As we went on, the sight
of the rain cascades falling with varying volume and colour, some
chocolate, some amber, was very beautiful. They continued for a time
after the rain had ceased, and then, as if the flood-gates had been
closed, they vanished, to reappear every time it began to rain afresh.
Before long the cliffs had reached one thousand feet in altitude, and we
were fairly within Labyrinth Canyon, which begins its existence at the
mouth of the San Rafael. Many of the rain cascades in the afternoon of
this day were perfectly clear, and often fell several hundreds of feet,
vanishing in spray, and presenting varied and exquisite effects in
combination with the rich tones of the wet brown sandstone, and the
background of dark grey sky. They ever increased in number, and directly
opposite that night's camp one fell straight down for about two hundred
feet, disappeared in mist to gather again on a ledge below, and shot out
once more, a delicate silvery thread against the dark mass of the cliff.
The next day we passed a group of three canyons entering at one point,
to which the name Trinalcove was given, as they appeared from the river
like alcoves rather than canyons. The river was now very winding with
walls frequently vertical. There were no rapids, though the water as a
rule moved somewhat swiftly. The days were growing short, and the night
air had an autumnal chill about it that made the camp-fire comforting.
At the end of sixty-two miles the walls broke up into buttes and
pinnacles, thousands of them, suggesting immense organs, cathedrals, and
almost anything the imagination pictured. One resembling a mighty cross
lying down was in consequence called the "Butte of the Cross."* This was
practically the end of Labyrinth Canyon, and sweeping around a beautiful
bend, where the rocks again began to come together, we were in the
beginning of the next canyon of the series, two years before named
Stillwater. At the suggestion of Beaman, the bend was called Bonito.
On leaving our camp at this place the walls rapidly ran up, the current
grew swifter, but the river remained smooth. The canyon was e