The first day they met with the usual number of minor accidents, such as a starting expedition of this kind is seldom free from, like breaking an oar, running on a shoal, and so on, but all went very well, and when the evening came an early camp was made, and Powell climbed up and away from the river to survey the situation.

“Standing on a high point,” he says, “I can look off in every direction over a vast landscape with salient rocks and cliffs glittering in the evening sun.  Dark shadows are settling in the valleys and gulches, and the heights are made higher, and the depths deeper by the glamour and witchery of light and shade.  Away to the south, the Uinta mountains stretch in a long line; high peaks thrust into the sky, and snow-fields glittering like lakes of molten silver; and pine forests in sombre green; and rosy clouds playing around the borders of huge black masses; and heights and clouds and mountains and snow-fields and forests and rock-lands are blended into one grand view.”

This was the country before him.  The Uinta Mountains, stretching their picturesque and mighty barrier across the determined course of the river, produce the first series of superb canyons on the threshold of which Powell and his daring band were now setting foot.  On the third day they were at Henry’s Fork, in the neighbourhood of that first camp in this locality made by Ashley in 1825, and of his start in the experiment in canyon running which so nearly terminated his brilliant career.  The “Suck,” noted for its danger among the early trappers, was easily passed and Powell makes no mention of it.  So far as I can ascertain there were two records kept on this expedition, one by Powell on strips of brown paper, and the other by Jack Sumner on foolscap.  The latter, comprised in some six or eight pages, was the more complete, I believe, and is now in Washington.  I have not seen it since 1871, when we were in the habit of daily reading its thrilling pages to find out what we might next expect in our descent.  If any other diary or journal was kept by the men of this expedition I have not heard of it.

The first rapid is in Horseshoe Canyon, and it was no obstacle, being small and docile, but when they had gone through the next canyon, named Kingfisher, they found themselves at the beginning of a new and closer, deeper gorge, Red Canyon, where the waters first begin to exhibit their grim intention.  Here they encountered real rapids, the boats often dashing along at railroad speed, the waves fiercely breaking over them, and bailing becoming an imperative accomplishment.  The attempt of a Ute to run through this canyon was described in picturesque terms by one of the tribe.  “Rocks, heap, heap, high,” he said; “water go hoowoogh, hoowoogh; water-pony heap buck; water catch um; no see um Injun any more! no see um squaw any more! no see um papoose any more!” and thus begins and ends the only history of native navigation on this upper river I ever heard of.