A chilling wind swept up the river, penetrating our soaked garments.  But we paid little attention to this, only pulling the harder, not only to keep the circulation going, but every pull of the oars put us that much nearer home.  We never paused in our rowing until we anchored at 4.30 P.M. under Rust’s tramway, close to the mouth of Bright Angel Creek.  According to the United States Geological Survey there is a descent of 178 feet from the head of the Hance Rapid to the end of Bright Angel Trail one mile below the creek.  We would have a very moderate descent in that mile.  The run from the Hance Rapid had been made in less than five hours.

Our boats were tied in the shadow of the cage hanging from a cable sixty feet above.  It stretched across a quiet pool, 450 feet across—­for the river is dammed by debris from the creek below, and fills the channel from wall to wall.  Hurriedly we made our way up to Rust’s camp,—­closed for the winter; for heavy snows would cover the North Rim in a few days or a few weeks at the farthest, filling the trails with heavy drifts and driving the cougar into the canyon where dogs and horses cannot follow.  But the latch-string was out for us, we knew, had we cared to use the tents.  Our signal fire was built a mile above the camp, at a spot that was plainly visible on a clear day from our home on the other side, six miles away as the crow flies.  We had often looked at this spot, with a telescope, from the veranda of our studio, watching the hunting and sight-seeing parties ride up the bed of the stream.  We rather feared the drifting clouds and mists would hide the fire from view, but now and then a rift appeared, and we knew if they were looking they could see its light.  Camp No. 51 was made close to Bright Angel Creek, that evening, Thursday, October the 16th, two months and eight days from the time we had embarked on our journey.

Three or four hours were spent in packing our material the next morning, so it could be stored in a miners’ tunnel, near the end of the trail.  We would pack little of this out, as we intended to resume our river work in a week or ten days.  A five-minute run took us over the rapid below Bright Angel Creek, and down to a bend in the river, just above the Cameron or Bright Angel Trail.  Two men—­guides from the hotel—­called to us as our boats swept into view.  We made a quick dash over the vicious little drop below the bend,—­easy for our boats, but dangerous enough for lighter craft on account of a difficult whirlpool,—­and were soon on shore greeting old friends.  Up on the plateau, 1300 feet above, a trail party of tourists and guides called down their welcome.  The stores were put in the miners’ tunnel as we had planned, and the boats were taken above the high-water mark; placed in dry dock one might say.

The guides had good news for us and bad news too.  Emery’s wife had been ill with appendicitis nearly all the time we were on our journey.  We had received letters from her at every post-office excepting Lee’s Ferry, but never a hint that all was not well.  She knew it would break up the trip.  Pretty good nerve, we thought!