We had long looked forward to this day.  Navajo Mountain, with bare, jagged sides and tree-covered dome, was located just a few miles below this camp.  It was a sandstone mountain peak, towering 7000 feet above the river, the steep slope beginning some five or six miles back from the stream.  The base on which it rested was of sandstone, rounded and gullied into curious forms, a warm red and orange colour predominating.  The north side, facing the river, was steep of slope, covered with the fragments of crumbled cliffs and with soft cream-tinted pinnacles rising from its slope.  The south side, we had reason, to believe, was tree-covered from top to bottom; the north side held only a few scattered cedar pinon We had often seen the hazy blue dome from the Grand Canyon, one hundred and twenty miles away, and while it was fifty miles farther by the river, we felt as if we were entered on the home stretch; as if we were in a country with which we were somewhat familiar.

The Colorado and the San Juan rivers form the northern boundary of the Navajo Indian Reservation, comprising a tract of land as large as many Eastern states, extending over a hundred miles, both east and west from this point.  Embodied in this reservation, and directly opposite our camp, was a small section of rugged land set aside for some Utes, who had friendly dealings, and who had intermarried with the Navajo.  But if we expected to find the Navajo, or Utes on the shore, ready to greet us, we were doomed to disappointment.

We explored a few side canyons this morning, hoping to find a spot where some of Major Powell’s party—­particularly those men who were afterwards killed by the Indians—­had chiselled their names, which record we were told was to be found near the San Juan, but on which side we were not sure.  While in one of these canyons, or what was really nothing more than a crooked overhanging slit in the rocks, containing a small stream, Emery found himself in some soft quicksand, plunged instantly above his knees, and sinking rapidly.  He would have had a difficult time in getting out of this quicksand without help, for a smooth, rock wall was on one side, the other bank of the stream was sheer above him for a few feet, and there was nothing solid which he could reach.  We had seen a great deal of quicksand before this, but nothing of this treacherous nature.  Usually we could walk quickly over these sands without any danger of being held in them, or if caught—­while lifting on a boat for instance—­had no difficulty in getting out.  When once out of this canyon we gave up our search for the carved record.

But it was not the hope of shortening our homeward run, or the prospect of meeting Indians on the shores, or of finding historical records, even, that caused us to make this early start.  It was the knowledge that the wonderful Rainbow Natural Bridge, recently discovered, and only visited by three parties of whites, lay hidden in one of the side canyons that ran from the north slope of Navajo Mountain.  No one had gone into it from the river, but we were told it could be done.  We hoped to find this bridge.