ce after dinner, for we wished to reach
Lee's Ferry, twenty-five miles distant, that evening. We had a good
current, and soon left our friends behind us. We pulled with a will,
and mile after mile was covered in record time, for our heavy boats.

The walls continued to get higher as we neared our goal, going up
sheer close to the river. We judged the greatest of these walls to be
about eleven hundred feet high. After four hours of steady pulling we
began to weary, for ours were no light loads to propel; but we were
spurred to renewed effort by hearing the sounds of an engine in the
distance. On rounding a turn we saw the end of Glen Canyon ahead of
us, marked by a breaking down of the walls, and a chaotic mixture of
dikes of rock, and slides of brilliantly coloured shales, broken and
tilted in every direction. Just below this, close to a ferry, we saw
the dredge on the right side of the river. We were quite close to the
dredge before we were seen. Some men paused at their work to watch us
as we neared them, one man calling to those behind him, "There come
the brothers!"

A whistle blew announcing the end of their day's labour, and of ours
as well, as it happened. There was some cheering and waving of hats.
One who seemed to be the foreman asked us to tie up to a float which
served as a landing for three motor boats, and a number of skiffs. A
loudly beaten triangle of steel announced that the evening meal was
ready at a stone building not far from the dredge. We were soon seated
at a long table with a lot of others as hungry as we, partaking of a
well-cooked and substantial meal. We made arrangements to take a few
meals here, as we wished to overhaul our outfits before resuming our
journey.

The meal ended, we inquired for the post-office, and were directed to
a ranch building across the Paria River, a small stream which entered
from the north, not unlike the Fremont River in size and appearance.
Picking our way in the darkness, on boulders and planks which served
as a crossing, we soon reached the building, set back from the river
in the centre of the ranch. A man named Johnson, with his family, had
charge of the ranch and post-office as well. Mail is brought by
carrier from the south, a cross-country trip of 160 miles, through the
Hopi and Navajo Indian Reservations.

Johnson informed us that an old-time friend named Dave Rust had waited
here three or four days, hoping to see us arrive, but business matters
had fo