The rain having ceased, we returned to our boats pausing to admire a rainbow that arched above the canyon in the mountains, toward which we were headed.  We remarked, jokingly, to Jimmy that this was a good sign.  He replied without smiling that he “hoped so.”  Jimmy’s songs had long since ceased, and we suspected him of homesickness.  With the exception of a short visit to some friends on a large ranch, Jimmy had never been away from his home in San Francisco.  This present experience was quite a contrast, to be sure!  We did what we could to keep him cheered up, but with little success.  Jimmy had intimated that he would prefer to leave at the first opportunity to reach a railroad, and we willingly agreed to help him in every possible way.  Emery and I also agreed between ourselves that we would not take any unnecessary risks with him; but would leave him out of the boats at all rapids, if there was any passage around them.

The river had taken a sharp turn to the south soon after passing the post-office, heading directly towards the mountains.  Camp was pitched just above the mouth of Lodore.  This twenty-mile canyon bears a very unsavory reputation, having a descent of 425 feet in that short distance, the greater part of the fall occurring in a space of twelve miles.  This would mean wild water somewhere!

We were camped on a spot recently occupied by some engineers of the United States Conservation Department, who had been trying to determine if it was feasible to dam the river at this place.  The plan was to flood the hole of Brown’s Park and divert the water through the mountains by a tunnel to land suitable for cultivation and in addition, allow the muddy water to settle and so prevent the vast amount of silt from being washed on down, eventually to the mouth of the Colorado.  The location seemed admirably suited for this stupendous project.  But holes drilled beside the river failed to find bottom, as nothing but quicksand existed even at a depth of nearly three hundred feet; and without a strong foundation, such a dam would be utterly useless.

CHAPTER V

THE BATTLE WITH LODORE

Camp routine was hurriedly disposed of the next morning, Saturday, September the 23d.  Everything was made snug beneath the hatches, except the two guns, which were too long to go under the decks, and had to be carried in the open cockpits.  “Camp No. 13, at the head of Lodore,” as it is entered in my journal, was soon hidden by a bend in the river.  The open, sun-lit country, with its pleasant ranches and its grazing cattle, its rolling, gray, sage-covered hills and its wild grass and cottonwood-covered bottoms, was left behind, and we were back in the realm of the rock-walled canyon, and beetle-browed, frowning cliffs with pines and cedars clutching at the scanty ledges.