It was late when we
reached it, and instead of a sand-bar we found a delta of bottomless
mud. We had drifted past the point where the rivers joined, before
noticing that the stream turned directly to the west, with canyon
walls two or three hundred feet high, and no moonlight entered there.
Instead, it was black as a dungeon. From down in that darkness there
came a muffled roar, reverberating against the walls, and sounding
decidedly like a rapid. There was not a minute to lose. We pulled, and
pulled hard--for the stream was now quite swift close to the right
shore, and a sheer bank of earth about ten feet high made it difficult
to land. Jumping into the mud at the edge of the water, we tied the
boats to some bushes, then tore down the bank and climbed out on a
dry, sandy point of land. At the end or sharp turn of the sheer wall
we found a fair camp, with driftwood enough for that night. Emery,
weak from his former illness and the long day's run, went to bed as
soon as we had eaten a light supper. I looked after the cooking that
evening, making some baking-powder bread,--otherwise known as a
flapjack,--along with other arrangements for the next day; but I fear
my efforts as a cook always resulted rather poorly.
We had breakfast at an early hour the next morning and were ready for
the boats at 7.15, the earliest start to our record. Our rapid of the
night before proved to be a false alarm, being nothing more than the
breaking of swift water as it swept the banks of rocks at the turn.
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