er is loud and constant, and I lie awake with thoughts of
the morrow and the canyons to come, interrupted now and then by
characteristics of the scenery that attract my attention. And here I
make a discovery. On looking at the mountain directly in front, the
steepness of the slope is greatly exaggerated, while the distance to its
summit and its true altitude are correspondingly diminished. I have
heretofore found that to judge properly of the slope of a mountain side,
one must see it in profile. In coming down the river this afternoon, I
observed the slope of a particular part of the wall and made an estimate
of its altitude. While at supper, I noticed the same cliff from a
position facing it, and it seemed steeper, but not half so high. Now
lying on my side and looking at it, the true proportions appear. This
seems a wonder, and I rise to take a view of it standing. It is the same
cliff as at supper time. Lying down again, it is the cliff as seen in
profile, with a long slope and distant summit. Musing on this, I forget
"the morrow and the canyons to come"; I have found a way to estimate the
altitude and slope of an inclination, in like manner as I can judge of
distance along the horizon. The reason is simple. A reference to the
stereoscope will suggest it. The distance between the eyes forms a base
line for optical triangulation.

_June 1.--_To-day we have an exciting ride. The river rolls down the
canyon at a wonderful rate, and, with no rocks in the way, we make
almost railroad speed. Here and there the water rushes into a narrow
gorge; the rocks on the side roll it into the center in great waves, and
the boats go leaping and bounding over these like things of life,
reminding me of scenes witnessed in Middle Park--herds of startled deer
bounding through forests beset with fallen timber. I mention the
resemblance to some of the hunters, and so striking is it that the
expression, "See the blacktails jumping the logs," comes to be a common
one. At times the waves break and roll over the boats, which
necessitates much bailing and obliges us to stop occasionally for that
purpose. At one time we run twelve miles in an hour, stoppages included.

Last spring I had a conversation with an old Indian named Pariate, who
told me about one of his tribe attempting to run this canyon. "The
rocks," he said, holding his hands above his head, his arms vertical,
and looking between them to the heavens, "the rocks h-e-a-p,

OVEN NEAR