For our part, we pushed off in our boats and headed for the Crossing of the Fathers with some misgivings on the food question.  A large amount of mail had been brought in, and we enjoyed the newspapers, although they were weeks old.  Some monthly magazines were a great boon.  For a time the stream was placid, allowing us to tie the boats together and drift again for a little while.  Thompson and the Major read aloud from Whittier, the men sang “Sweet Evelina,” and all appreciated the opportunity for this brief relaxation.  Here and there evidences of crossings were noted, for it was in this valley that Gunnison went over on the trip that proved fatal to him, and here for years the Old Spanish Trail, which Wolfskill inaugurated, led many eastward and westward, while Utes and other Amerinds had used it long before that.  Indeed, as before mentioned, it was for a long time the first locality, coming up from the Grand Wash, where the stream could easily be crossed; a distance of about six hundred miles.  Many strangely eroded cliffs and buttes appeared as we descended, and one of these, near the mouth of the San Rafael, was named after me.  At one place we saw some springs bubbling up from the bottom of an inlet, one of which was remarkable because of its size and power.  Its jet was five or six inches in diameter, and rose six or eight inches above the surface, the water being two or three feet in depth.  They were called Undine Springs.  At the San Rafael a heavy rainstorm came up, and presently we detected a loud roaring we could not account for.  At last, however, it was discovered to arise from the accumulated rain-water which was pouring over a near-by cliff in a muddy torrent.  The whole country was extremely bare and barren, mostly rock, and the rain gathered as on the roof of a house.  The river had narrowed up before we reached the San Rafael and had entered low, broken walls.  The current was rather swift, but there were no rapids.  As we went on, the sight of the rain cascades falling with varying volume and colour, some chocolate, some amber, was very beautiful.  They continued for a time after the rain had ceased, and then, as if the flood-gates had been closed, they vanished, to reappear every time it began to rain afresh.  Before long the cliffs had reached one thousand feet in altitude, and we were fairly within Labyrinth Canyon, which begins its existence at the mouth of the San Rafael.  Many of the rain cascades in the afternoon of this day were perfectly clear, and often fell several hundreds of feet, vanishing in spray, and presenting varied and exquisite effects in combination with the rich tones of the wet brown sandstone, and the background of dark grey sky.  They ever increased in number, and directly opposite that night’s camp one fell straight down for about two hundred feet, disappeared in mist to gather again on a ledge below, and shot out once more, a delicate silvery thread against the dark mass of the cliff.  The next day we passed a group of three