Our new friend gave the name of Wolverton.  There was another man named Wilson who owned a ranch just below the dam.  Both of these men were much interested in our experiences.  Wolverton had considerable knowledge of the river and of boats; very little persuasion would have been necessary to have had him for a companion on the balance of our journey.  But we had made up our minds to make it alone, now, as it looked feasible.  Both Wilson and Wolverton knew the country below Green River, Utah, having made surveys through much of the surrounding territory.  Wolverton said we must surely see his father, who lived down the river and who was an enthusiast on motor boats.  A few minutes’ work the next morning sufficed to get our boats over the dam.  The dam was constructed of loose rock and piles, chinked with brush and covered with sloping planks,—­just a small dam to raise the water for irrigation purposes.  Much of the water ran through the canal; in places the planks were dry, in others some water ran over.  The boats, being unloaded were pulled up on these planks, then slid into the water below.  Wilson had a large water wheel for irrigation purposes, the first of several such wheels which we were to see this day.  These wheels, twenty feet or more in height,—­with slender metal buckets each holding gallons of water, fastened at intervals on either side,—­were placed in a swift current, anchored on the shore to stout piles, or erected over mill-races cut in the banks.  There they revolved, the buckets filling and emptying automatically, the water running off in troughs above the level of the river back to the fertile soil.  Some of these wheels had ingenious floating arrangements whereby they accommodated themselves to the different stages of a rising or falling river.  We took a few pictures of Wilson’s place before leaving.  He informed us that he had telephoned to certain people in Green River who would help us in various ways.  Two hours’ rowing, past many pretty little ranches, brought us to the railroad bridge, a grateful sight to us.  A pumping plant stood beside the bridge under charge of Captain Yokey, one of Wilson’s friends.  Yokey owned a large motor boat, which was tied up to the shore.  Our boats were left in his charge while we went up to the town, a mile distant.  Another of Wilson’s friends met us, and secured a dark room for us so that we could do a little developing and we prepared for work on the following day.

That night a newspaper reporter hunted us out, anxious for a story.  We gave him what we had, making light of our previous difficulties, which were exciting enough at times; but owing to the comparatively small size of the stream, we seldom thought our lives were in any great danger.  The papers made the most of these things, and the stories that came out had little semblance to our original statements.  We have since learned that no matter how much one minimizes such things, they are seldom published as reported.