Three years before two young men from St. Louis had embarked here, intending to follow the river throughout its whole course.  They were expert canoeists, powerful swimmers, and equipped with a steel boat, we were told, built somewhat after the style of a canoe.  They chose the time of high water—­not knowing, probably, that while high water decreases the labour of the passage, it greatly increases the danger of it.  They came to the first difficult rapid in Red Canyon, seventy odd miles below Green River City.  It looked bad to them.  They landed above it and stripped to their underclothing and socks.  Then they pushed out into the stream.

Almost at once they lost control of the boat.  It overturned; it rolled over and over; it flung them off and left them swimming for their lives.  In some way, possibly the currents favouring, they reached the shore.  The boat, with all its contents, was gone.  There they were, almost naked, without food, without weapons, without the means of building a fire; and in an uninhabited and utterly inhospitable country.

For four days they wandered, blistered by the sun by day; nearly frozen at night, bruised by the rocks, and torn by the brambles.  Finally they reached the ranch at the head of the canyons and were found by a half-breed Indian, who cared for them.  Their underwear had been made into bindings for their lacerated feet; they were nearly starved, and on the verge of mental collapse.  After two weeks’ treatment in the hospital at Green River City they were partially restored to health.  Quite likely they spent many of the long hours of their convalescence on the river bank, or on the little island, watching the unruffled stream glide underneath the cottonwoods.

Such tales as this added nothing to our fears, of course—­for the whole history of the Colorado is one long story of hardship and disaster, and we knew, even better than our advisors, what risks lay before us.  We told our newfound friends, in fact, that we had lived for years on the brink of the Grand Canyon itself, a gorge deeper and more awful, even, than Lodore; with a volume of water ten times greater.  We knew, of course, of the river’s vast length, of the terrible gorges that confined it, of the hundreds of rapids through which a boat would have to pass.

We knew, too, how Major Powell, undismayed by legends of underground channels, impassable cataracts, and whirlpools; of bloodthirsty tribes haunting its recesses,—­had passed through the canyons in safety, measuring and surveying as he went.  We also knew of the many other attempts that had been made—­most of them ending in disaster or death, a very few being successful.

Well, it had been done;[1] it could be done again—­this was our answer to their premonitions.

We had present worries enough to keep us from dwelling too much on the future.  It had been our intention to start two weeks earlier, but there had been numerous unavoidable delays.  The river was low; “the lowest they had seen it in years” they told us, and falling lower every day.  There were the usual difficulties of arranging a lot of new material, and putting it in working order.