were to hear
more of these men later.

We made what haste we could back to our boats, soon being overtaken by
a horseman, a big-hearted Swede who insisted on carrying our load as
long as we were going in his direction. How many just such instances
of kindliness we were to experience on our journey down the river! How
the West abounds with such men! It was dark when he left us a mile
from the river. Here there was no road to follow, and we found that
what had been numerous dry gullies before were now streams of muddy
water. Two or three of these streams had to be crossed, and we had a
disagreeable half hour in a marsh. Finally we reached the river, but
not at the point where we had left our boats. We were uncertain
whether the camp was above or below us, and called loudly for Jimmy,
but received no answer.

Emery felt sure that camp was upstream. So upstream we went, keeping
back of the bushes that fringed the banks, carefully searching for a
sign. After a few minutes' hunt we heard a sound: a subdued rumble,
not unlike the distant thunder heard that afternoon, or of boats being
dragged over the pebbles. What could it be? We listened again,
carefully this time, and discovered that it came from a point about
thirty feet away, on the opposite side of the bushes. It could be only
one thing. Jimmy's snore had brought us home!

Hurriedly securing some dry clothes from the rubber sacks, which
contained our sleeping-bags as well, we made a quick change, and slid
into the beds, inflating the air mattresses with our lungs after we
were inside. Then we lay down contentedly to rest.

CHAPTER III

THE GATEWAY OF ALL THE CANYONS

We awoke the next morning full of anticipation. Something new lay
ahead of us, a promise of variety. In plain sight of our camp lay the
entrance to Flaming Gorge, the gateway to the entire series of
canyons. Hurriedly finishing our camp duties, we loaded the boats,
fastened down the hatches, and shoved off into the current, eager to
be on our way.

It was cloudy overhead and looked as if we were to have more rain.
Even then it must have been raining away to the north, for a dirty,
clay-colored torrent rushed through the dry arroyo of the night
before, a stream large enough to discolour the water of the Green
itself. But we thought little of this. We were used to seeing muddy
water in the Colorado's gorges; in fact we were surprised to find
clear water at all, even in the Green River. Rowi