t fall in the Hance or Red Canyon Rapid was three miles below
us; the Sockdologer, the Grapevine, and other rapids nearly as large
followed those; we might be no more fortunate than the others, and a
delay after once giving a signal would cause more anxiety than no
signal at all we thought, and the fire was not built.

Particular attention was paid to the loading of the boats the next
morning. The moving-picture film was tucked in the toes of our
sleeping bags, and the protecting bags were carefully laced. We were
not going to take any chances in this next plunge--the much-talked-of
entrance to the granite gorge. A half-hour's run and a dash through
one violent rapid landed us at the end of the Hance Trail--unused for
tourist travel for several years--with a few torn and tattered tents
back in the side canyon down which the trail wound its way. We half
hoped that we would find some of the prospectors who make this section
their winter home either at the Tanner or the Hance Trail, but there
was no sign of recent visitors at either place, unless it was the
numerous burro tracks in the sand. These tracks were doubtless made by
some of the many wild burros that roam all the lower plateaus in the
upper end of the Grand Canyon.

After a careful inspection of the Hance Rapid we were glad the signal
fire was not built. It was a nasty rapid. While reading over our notes
one evening we were amused to find that we had catalogued different
rapids with an equal amount of fall as "good," "bad," or "nasty," the
difference depending nearly altogether on the rocks in the rapids. The
"good rapids" were nothing but a descent of "big water," with great
waves,--for which we cared little, but rather enjoyed if it was not
too cold,--and with no danger from rocks; the "bad rapids" contained
rocks, and twisting channels, but with half a chance of getting
through. A nasty rapid was filled with rocks, many of them so
concealed in the foam that it was often next to impossible to tell if
rocks were there or not, and in which there was little chance of
running through without smashing a boat. The Hance Rapid was such a
one.

Such a complication of twisted channels and protruding rocks we had
not seen unless it was at Hell's Half Mile. It meant a
portage--nothing less--the second since leaving that other rapid in
Lodore. So we went to work, carrying our duffle across deep, soft
sand-dunes, down to the middle of the rapid, where quieted for a
hund