ey go down into the Canyon, and it will fare badly with
his murderer if any of the rangers or guides see him again.

Beside the trail, just across the bridge, is a prehistoric ruin. When
Major Powell landed there on his first trip down the Colorado River in
1869, he found broken pottery, an old "matate" and many chipped flints,
indicating that this had been the home of an arrowmaker. The mealing
stone, or matate, can be seen at Phantom Ranch, half a mile on along the
trail.

And just at this point of the trip we came to a tragic spot, the one
where Rees Griffith lies buried beside his own well-built trail. It had
been in the dead of winter when Rees was buried there by his friends,
and now the summer's scorching sun was streaming down on his grave. The
colorful lines of the half-breed Deprez drifted through my mind:

And there he lies now, and nobody knows;
And the summer shines, and the winter snows,
And the little gray hawk floats aloft in the air,
And the gray coyote trots about here and there,
And the buzzard sails on,
And comes back and is gone,
Stately and still like a ship on the sea;
And the rattlesnake slides and glitters and glides
Into his rift in a cottonwood tree.

Just that lonely and already forgotten was the resting-place of the
master trail-builder.

It was noontime now, and all our grub, with the exception of a box of
crackers and a jar of fig jam, likewise our bedding, was far ahead on a
pack mule which had decided not to stop for lunch or dinner. Since we
were not consulted in the matter we lunched on jam and crackers and then
dined on crackers and jam. We hung the remainder of the feast in a tree
and breakfasted on it a week later on our return trip.

When one tries to describe the trail as it was to the North Rim in those
days, words prove weak. The first twelve miles we had already traveled
are too well known to need description; the remaining twenty--all
rebuilt since that time--defy it. Sometimes the trail ran along in the
creek bed for yards and yards. This made it impassable during the spring
freshets. Arizona horses are trained to drink at every opportunity for
fear there may never be another chance, and our mounts had learned
their lesson well. They tried to imbibe at every crossing, and long
after they were loaded to the gunwales they dipped greedy noses into the
current.

Six miles north of the river we turned aside from the main trail and
followed a path a few