in the centre.  It was getting dark and we had entered this before noticing which way it turned, and had a hard pull back to the shore, for we had no desire to camp out there in the quicksand.  The shore was little more desirable.  It was a marsh, covered with a growth of flags and tules but with the ground frozen enough so that we did not sink.  Our last camp—­No. 76—­was made in this marsh.  There we spent the night, hidden like hunted savages in the cane-brake, while an Indian brass band played some very good music for an officers’ ball, less than half a mile away.

We were up and away with the sun the next morning.  On nearing Needles, a friend met us on the outskirts of the town and informed us that they had arranged what he called an official landing and reception.  At his request we deferred going down at once, but busied ourselves instead at packing our cargo, ready for shipping.  Our friend had secured the services of a motion-picture operator and our own camera was sent down to make a picture of the landing, which was made as he had arranged.

We landed in Needles January 18, 1912; one month from the time of our start from Bright Angel Trail, with a total of one hundred and one days spent along the river.  In that time our camps had been changed seventy-six times.

Our two boats, highly prized as souvenirs of our twelve hundred mile trip, and which had carried us through three hundred and sixty-five big rapids, over a total descent of more than five thousand feet, were loaded on cars ready for shipment; the Edith to Los Angeles, the Defiance to the Grand Canyon.

Among other mail awaiting us was the following letter, bearing the postmark of Hite, Utah: 

     “KOLB BROS.,

     “DEAR FRIENDS: 

“Well I got here at last after seventeen days in Cataract Canyon.  The old boat will stand a little quiet water but will never go through another rapid.  I certainly played ‘ring-a-round’ some of those rocks in Cataract Canyon; I tried every scheme I had ever heard of, and some that were never thought of before.  At the last rapid in Cataract I carried all my stuff over the cliff, then tried to line the boat from the narrow ledge.  The boat jerked me into the river, but I did not lose my hold on the chain and climbed on board.  I had no oars, but managed to get through without striking any rocks, and landed a mile and a half below the supplies.  I hope the ‘movies’ are good.[7]

     “Sincerely yours,

     “CHAS. SMITH.”

CONCLUSION.  HOW I WENT TO MEXICO

CHAPTER XXIV

ON THE CREST OF A FLOOD

A westward-bound train was bearing me across the Mojave Desert one day in May.  In a few swiftly passing hours we had made a six-thousand foot descent from the plateau with its fir and aspen-covered mountain, its cedar and pinon-clothed foot-hills, and its extensive forests of yellow pine.  Crimson and yellow-flowered cactus, sage and chaparral, succeeded the pines.  The cool mountains had given way to burned-out, umber-coloured hills, rock-ribbed arroyos, and seemingly endless desert; and the sun was growing hotter every minute.