Shortly after dinner one day we heard a deep roaring, which implied that we were approaching a violent fall, and hugging the left-hand bank, we drifted slowly down to within a rod or two of the drop and easily landed.  It was Ashley Falls.  In the centre of the river protruded an immense rock, twenty-five feet square, and the river rushed by on each side making a sudden descent of about eight feet.  It would have been nothing to run had it been free from rocks; but it was in reality the rocks which formed it.  They had fallen from the left-hand wall within some comparatively recent time, and acted as a dam.  Many more were piled up against the left-hand cliff.  The river, averaging about two hundred and fifty feet wide, had been narrowed by about one-third and a rapid had thus been changed into a fall.  We made a portage here with the first and third boats.  The second we allowed to run through with lines attached, but as she got several severe knocks we deemed it unsafe to risk the other.  Our camp was on a small level place among some pine trees, almost over the fall, and I think I never saw a more romantic spot.  The moon shone down into the canyon with surpassing brilliancy, and this, in contrast to our lavish camp-fire and extremely comfortable surroundings, made a combination ever to be remembered.  See pages 113 and 112.

It was on one of the huge rocks above the river on the left that Ashley wrote his name.  This was in black letters, sheltered by a slight projection of the rock which acted as a cornice.  Thus it had remained distinct, except one figure of the date, for forty-six years, having been done in 1825.  The portage around Ashley Falls was laborious as we were obliged to climb with everything about fifty feet above the river, but labour is better than disaster, and it was on such points as these that Powell and Thompson always exhibited good sense.  Smaller men would have been unable to resist the temptation to run everything, for there comes an exhilaration in this work that is subtle and dangerous.  Below this the declivity was very great, but as there were few rocks our boats were able to go down flying.  The walls were two thousand to twenty-five hundred feet high, but not vertical.  Suddenly we ran out into a beautiful little valley on the right known to trappers as Little Brown’s Hole, and renamed by our party Red Canyon Park.  Here we camped for a day and then went on between high walls over a number of rapids, to emerge into Brown’s Park.  This place, I take it, was the end of Ashley’s journey down the river.  Sailing along on a quiet current in a valley six miles wide, we ran upon a camp of cattle herders, where Richardson left us, as Powell decided that he was not able to stand the work.  He regretfully went back with some of the cattlemen to Green River Station.