We had travelled far that day but still sped on,—­with a few rapids which did not retard, but rather helped us on our way, and with a good current between these rapids,—­only stopping to camp when a three-hundred foot wall rose sheer from the river’s edge, bringing to an end our basin-like river bottom, where one could walk out on either side.  It was not necessary to hunt for driftwood this evening, for a thicket of mesquite—­the best of all wood for a camp-fire—­grew out of the sand-dunes, and some half-covered dead logs were unearthed from the drifted sand, and soon reduced to glowing coals.

Meanwhile, we were enjoying one of those remarkable Arizona desert sunsets.  Ominous clouds had been gathering in the afternoon, rising from the southwest, drifting across the canyon, and piling up against the north wall.  A few fleecy clouds in the west partially obscured the sun until it neared the horizon, then a shaft of sunlight broke through once more, telegraphing its approach long before it reached us, the rays being visibly hurled through space like a javelin, or a lightning bolt, striking peak after peak so that one almost imagined they would hear the thunder roll.  A yellow flame covered the western sky, to be succeeded in a few minutes by a crimson glow.  The sharply defined colours of the different layers of rock had merged and softened, as the sun dropped from sight; purple shadows crept into the cavernous depths, while shafts of gold shot to the very tiptop of the peaks, or threw their shadows like silhouettes on the wall beyond.  Then the scene shifted again, and it was all blood-red, reflecting from the sky and staining the rocks below, so that distant wall and sky merged, with little to show where the one ended and the other began.  That beautiful haze, which tints, but does not obscure, enshrouded the temples and spires, changing from heliotrope to lavender, from lavender to deepest purple; there was a departing flare of flame like the collapse of a burning building; a few clouds in the zenith, torn by the winds so that they resembled the craters of the moon, were tinted for an instant around the crater’s rims; the clouds faded to a dove-like gray; they darkened; the gray disappeared; the purple crept from the canyon into the arched dome overhead; the day was ended, twilight passed, and darkness settled over all.

We sat silently by the fire for a few minutes, then rose and resumed our evening’s work.  This camp was at a point that could be seen from the Grand View hotel, fourteen miles from our home.  We talked of building a signal fire on the promontory above the camp, knowing that the news would be telephoned to home if the fire was seen.  But we gave up the plan.  Although less than twenty miles from Bright Angel Trail, we were not safely through by any means.  Two boats had been wrecked or lost in different rapids less than six miles from this camp.  The forty-foot fall in the Hance or Red Canyon Rapid was three miles below us; the Sockdologer, the Grapevine, and other rapids nearly as large followed those; we might be no more fortunate than the others, and a delay after once giving a signal would cause more anxiety than no signal at all we thought, and the fire was not built.