rs.

Descending, I cross to a ridge near the brink of the Canyon of Lodore,
the highest point of which is nearly as high as the last mentioned
mountain. Late in the afternoon I stand on this elevated point and
discover a monument that has evidently been built by human hands. A few
plants are growing in the joints between the rocks, and all are lichened
over to a greater or less extent, giving evidence that the pile was
built a long time ago. This line of peaks, the eastern extension of the
Uinta Mountains, has received the name of Sierra Escalante, in honor of
a Spanish priest who traveled in this region of country nearly a century
ago. Perchance the reverend father built this monument.

Now I return to the river and discharge my gun, as a signal for the boat
to come and take me down to camp. While we have been in the park the men
have succeeded in catching a number of fish, and we have an abundant
supply. This is a delightful addition to our _menu._

_June 21.--_ We float around the long rock and enter another canyon. The
walls are high and vertical, the canyon is narrow, and the river fills
the whole space below, so that there is no landing-place at the foot of
the cliff. The Green is greatly increased by the Yampa, and we now have
a much larger river. All this volume of water, confined, as it is, in a
narrow channel and rushing with great velocity, is set eddying and
spinning in whirlpools by projecting rocks and short curves, and the
waters waltz their way through the canyon, making their own rippling,
rushing, roaring music. The canyon is much narrower than any we have
seen. We manage our boats with difficulty. They spin about from side to
side and we know not where we are going, and find it impossible to keep
them headed down the stream. At first this causes us great alarm, but we
soon find there is little danger, and that there is a general movement
or progression down the river, to which this whirling is but an
adjunct--that it is the merry mood of the river to dance through this
deep, dark gorge, and right gaily do we join in the sport.

But soon our revel is interrupted by a cataract; its roaring command is
heeded by all our power at the oars, and we pull against the whirling
current. The "Emma Dean" is brought up against a cliff about 50 feet
above the brink of the fall. By vigorously plying the oars on the side
opposite the wall, as if to pull up stream, we can hold her against the
rock. The boats behind