A few miles below we came to the locally famous Fire Hole Chimneys, interesting examples of the butte formation, so typical of the West.  There were several of these buttes, about 800 feet high, composed of stratified rock; in colour quite similar to the rocks at Green River City, but capped with rock of a peculiar burnt appearance, though not of volcanic origin.  Some of the buttes sloped up from the very edge of the river; others were separated from the river by low flats, covered with sage-brush and bunch-grass,—­that nutritious food of the range stock.  At the water’s edge was the usual fringe of willows, cottonwoods, and shrubs innumerable,—­all mirrored in the limpid surface of Green River.

At the foot of the cliffs were a number of wild burros, old and young—­fuzzy little baby-burros, looking ridiculously like jack-rabbits—­snorting their indignation at our invasion of their privacy.  Strange, by the way, how quickly these wild asses lose their wildness of carriage when broken, and lapse into the utmost docility!

Just below the Chimneys Emery caught sight of fish gathered in a deep pool, under the foliage of a cottonwood tree which had fallen into the river.  Our most tempting bait failed to interest them; so Emery, ever clever with hook and line, “snagged” one just to teach them better manners.  It was a Colorado River salmon or whitefish.  That evening I “snagged” a catfish and used this for salmon bait, a fourteen-pound specimen rewarding the attempt.

These salmon were old friends of ours, being found from one end to the other of the Colorado, and on all its tributaries.  They sometimes weigh twenty-five or thirty pounds, and are common at twenty pounds; being stockily built fish, with large, flat heads.  They are not gamey, but afford a lot of meat with a very satisfying flavour.

On September 11, about forty miles below Green River, we passed Black’s Fork, a tributary entering from the west.  It is a stream of considerable length, but was of little volume at that time.  The banks were cliffs about 300 feet high, rugged, dark, and overhanging.  Here were a half dozen eagles and many old nests—­proof enough, if proof were needed, that we were in a little visited country.  What strong, splendid birds they were; how powerful and graceful their flight as they circled up, and up, into the clear blue sky!

Our next camp was at the Holmes’ ranch, a few miles below Black’s Fork.  We tried to buy some eggs of Walter Holmes, and were told that we could have them on one condition—­that we visit him that evening.  This was a price we were only too glad to pay, and the evening will linger long in our memories.

Mr. Holmes entertained us with stories of hunting trips—­after big game in the wilds of Colorado; and among the lakes of the Wind River Mountains, the distant source of the Green River.  Mrs. Holmes and two young ladies entertained us with music; and Jimmy, much to our surprise, joined in with a full, rich baritone.  It was late that night when we rolled ourselves in our blankets, on the banks twenty feet above the river.