Bend after bend was turned and left behind, and still no Crossing, but late in the afternoon a shot was heard; then we saw a white rag on a pole; then we landed and beheld a large pile of rations, in charge of three men.  These men, Dodds, Bonnemort, and Riley, as we were days overdue, had about made up their minds we were lost, and had contemplated departing in the morning and leaving the rations to their fate.  Riley and Bonnemort were prospectors, who remained only to see us and make some inquiries about the river above.  They told me afterward we were the roughest-looking set of men they had ever seen.  Our clothes were about used up.

Powell prepared to go to Salt Lake, about five hundred miles away, to make preparations for our winter’s mountain work, and we all wrote letters to send out.  On the l0th of October they left us, Hillers going with Powell, while we were to run down thirty-five miles farther to the mouth of the Paria, and there cache the two boats for the winter.  Steward was now taken sick, and though some Navajos who came along kindly offered to carry him with them to Kanab, he preferred to stay with us, so we stretched him out, during our runs, on one of the cabins.  This was not entirely comfortable for him, but the river was smooth and easy as far as the Paria, so there was no danger of spilling him off, and he got on fairly well.  At the Paria, Jones, who had made a misstep in one of the boats at the Junction and injured one leg, developed inflammatory rheumatism in it, and also in the other.  Andy at Millecrag Bend had put on his shoe with an unseen scorpion in it, the sting of which caused him to grow thin and pale.  Bishop’s old wound troubled him; Beaman and W. C. Powell also felt “under the weather,” so that of the whole party left here, Thompson and I were the only ones who remained entirely well.  Arriving at the Paria, we hid the boats for the winter, and waited for the pack-train that was to bring us provisions, and take us out to Kanab, which would be headquarters.  The pack-train, however, was misled by a man who pretended to be acquainted with the trail, and we ate up all the food we had before it arrived.  It came over an extraordinary path.  Lost on top of the Paria Plateau, it was only able to reach us by the discovery of a singular old trail coming down the two-thousand-foot cliffs three miles up the Paria.  While waiting we had examined the immediate neighbourhood and had climbed to the summit of some sandstone peaks on the left, where the wall of Glen Canyon breaks away to the southward.  The view was superb.  Mountains, solid and solitary, rose up here and there, and lines of cliffs, strangely coloured, stretched everywhere across the wide horizon, while from our feet, like a veritable huge writhing dragon, Marble Canyon zigzagged its long, dark line into the blue distance, its narrow tributaries looking like the monster’s many legs.  I took it into my head to try to shoot from there into the water of Glen Canyon beneath us, and borrowed