er
present, pungent sage. Verdure-covered islands dotted the course of
the stream, which was quiet and sluggish, doubling back and forth like
a serpent over many a useless mile. Nine miles of rowing brought us
back to a point about three miles from the mouth of Whirlpool Canyon;
where the river again enters the mountain, deliberately choosing this
course to one, unobstructed for several miles, to the right.

The next gorge was Split Mountain Canyon, so named because the stream
divided the ridge length-wise, from one end to the other. It was
short, only nine miles long, with a depth of 2700 feet in the centre
of the canyon. Three miles of the nine were put behind us before we
camped that evening. These were run in the same manner as the rapids
of Whirlpool, scarcely pausing to look them over, but these rapids
were bigger, much bigger. One we thought was just formed or at least
increased in size by a great slide of rock that had fallen since the
recent rains. We just escaped trouble in this rapid, both boats going
over a large rock with a great cresting wave below, and followed by a
very rough rapid. Emery was standing on top of a fifteen-foot rock
below the rapid when I went over, and for a few moments could see
nothing of my boat, hardly believing it possible that I had come
through without a scratch. These rapids with the high water looked
more like rapids we had seen in the Grand Canyon, and were very unlike
the shallow water of a week previous. We had only travelled a half
day, but felt as if it had been a very complete day when we camped at
the foot of a rock slide on the right, just above another big rapid.

On Thursday, October 5, Camp No. 20 was left behind. The rapid below
the camp was big, big enough for a moving picture, so we took each
other in turns as we ran the rapid. More rapids followed, but these
were not so large. A few sharp-pointed spires of tinted rock lifted
above us a thousand feet or more. Framed in with the branches of the
near-by cottonwood trees, they made a charming picture. Less than
three hours brought us to the end of Split Mountain Canyon, and the
last bad water we were to have for some time. Just before leaving the
canyon, we came to some curious grottos, or alcoves, under the rock
walls on the left shore. The river has cut into these until they
overhang, some of them twenty-five feet or over. In one of these was a
beaver lying on a pile of floating sticks. Although we passed quite
clo