While returning, we saw evidences of ancient Indians—­some broken arrow-heads, and pottery also, and a small cliff ruin under a shelving rock.

What could an Indian find here to interest him!  We had found neither bird, nor rabbit; not even a lizard in the Land of Standing Rocks.  Perhaps they were sun worshippers, and wanted an unobstructed view of the eastern sky.  That at least could be had, in unrivalled grandeur, here above the Rio Colorado.

The shadows were beginning to lengthen when we finally reached our boats at the junction.  Camp was made under a large weeping willow tree, the only tree of its kind we remembered having seen on the journey.

While Emery prepared a hasty meal I made a few arrangements for embarking on the Colorado River the next morning.  We were prepared to bid farewell to the Green River—­the stream that had served us so well.  In spite of our trials, even in the upper canyons, we had found much enjoyment in our passage through its strange and beautiful surroundings.

From a scenic point of view the canyons of the Green River, with their wonderful rock formations and stupendous gorges, are second only to those of the Colorado itself.  It is strange they are so little known, when one considers the comparative ease with which these canyons on the lower end can be reached.  Some day perhaps, surfeited globe-trotters, after having tired of commonplace scenery and foreign lands, will learn what a wonderful region this is, here on the lower end of the Green River.

Then no doubt, Wolverton, or others with similar outfits, will find a steady stream of sight-seers anxious to take the motor boat ride down to this point, and up to Moab, Utah, a little Mormon town on the Grand River.  A short ride by automobile from Moab to the D. & R.C. railway would complete a most wonderful journey; then the transcontinental journey could be resumed.

So I mused, as I contrived an arrangement of iron hooks and oak sticks to hold on a hatch cover, from which all the thumb screws had been lost.  More than likely my dream of a line of sight-seeing motor boats will be long deferred; or they may even meet the fate of Brown’s and Stanton’s plans for a railroad down these gorges.

As a reminder of the fate which overtakes so many of our feeble plans, we found a record of Stanton’s survey on a fallen boulder, an inscription reading “A 81 + 50.  Sta.  D.C.C. & P.R.R.,” the abbreviations standing for Denver, Colorado Canyons, and Pacific Railroad.  It is possible that the hands that chiselled the inscription belonged to one of the three men who were afterwards drowned in Marble Canyon.

Emery—­being very practical—­interrupted my revery and plans for future sight-seers by announcing supper.  The meal was limited in variety, but generous in quantity, and consisted of a dried-beef stew, fried potatoes and cocoa.  A satisfied interior soon dispelled all our previous apprehensiveness.  We decided not to run our rapids before we came to them.