Vernal had passenger transportation to the railway—­a branch of the D. & R.G. running north into Colorado—­by automobile, the route lying across the Green and also across the White River, a tributary to the Green.  A steel structure had been washed away on the White River, making it impossible to get through to the station.  The high water below here must have been a flood, judging from all reports.  About ten bridges, large and small, were reported as being washed away on numerous branch streams leading into the Green River.  Fortunately Vernal had another means of communication.  This was a stage running southwest from Vernal, over 125 miles of rough road to Price, Utah—­Price being a station on the main line of the D. & R.G.

Jimmy concluded that he would take this road, in preference to the uncertainties of the other route, and noon that day found him on board the stage.  He promised to write to us, and was anxious to hear of our success, but remarked that when he once got home he would “never leave San Francisco again.”  There was a final hand clasp, a cheer from the small group of men, and the stage drove away with Jimmy, a happy boy indeed.

Our work on the developing progressed well, and with very satisfying results on the whole, and that evening found us with all plates packed ready for shipment to our home.  The moving-picture film was also packed and shipped to be developed at once.  This was quite a load off our minds.

The following day we prepared to depart, but did not leave until the afternoon.  Then, with promises to let them know the outcome of our venture, we parted from our friends and rode back to Jensen.

We planned on leaving the following morning.  The river had fallen one foot since we had landed, and we were anxious to have the benefit of the high water.  We were told that it was six feet above the low-water stage of two weeks before.

On Monday, October the 9th, after loading our boat with a new stock of provisions,—­in which was included few jars of honey, and a few dozen of eggs, packed in sawdust,—­we began what might be called the second stage of our journey; the 175-mile run to Blake or Green River, Utah, a little west of south from Jensen.  Ten miles below Jensen was a ferry used by the auto and wagons.  Here also was a ranch house, with a number of people in the yard.  We were invited to land and did so.  They had been informed by telephone of our coming and were looking for us; indeed they had even prepared dinner for us, hoping we would reach there in time.  Not knowing all this, we had eaten our cold lunch half an hour before.  The women were busy preserving fruits and garden truck, and insisted on us taking two or three jars along.  This was a welcome change to the dried fruit, which was one of our principal foods.  These people made the usual request—­“Drop us a post card if you get through.”

The memory of these people that we met on this journey will linger with us as long as we live.  They were always anxious to help us or cheer us on our way.