Perhaps the form of the rocks themselves helped
a little, for here was one end of the rainbow of rock which began on
the other side of the mountains. Jagged-edged canyons looking almost
as if their sides had been rent asunder came out of these mountains.
There was very little dark red here except away on top, 2300 feet
above, where a covering of pines made a soft background for
light-cream and gorgeous yellow-coloured pinnacles, or rocky walls of
pink and purple and delicate shades of various hues. Large cottonwoods
appeared again along the river banks, in brilliant autumn colours,
adding to the beauties of the scene. Back from the river, to the west,
stretched the level park, well covered with bunch-grass on which some
cattle grazed, an occasional small prickly pear cactus, and the ever
present, pungent sage. Verdure-covered islands dotted the course of
the stream, which was quiet and sluggish, doubling back and forth like
a serpent over many a useless mile. Nine miles of rowing brought us
back to a point about three miles from the mouth of Whirlpool Canyon;
where the river again enters the mountain, deliberately choosing this
course to one, unobstructed for several miles, to the right.
The next gorge was Split Mountain Canyon, so named because the stream
divided the ridge length-wise, from one end to the other. It was
short, only nine miles long, with a depth of 2700 feet in the centre
of the canyon. Three miles of the nine were put behind us before we
camped that evening.
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