We had noticed
instances before this, where these smooth, narrow canyon had a great
magnifying effect on noises. In the section above the San Juan, where
the upper walls overhung a little, a loud call would roll along for
minutes before it finally died. A shot from a revolver sounded as if
the cliff were falling.
Our run this morning was delightful. The current was the best on which
we had travelled. The channel swung from side to side, in great half
circles, with most of the water thrown against the outside bank, or
wall, with a five-or six-mile an hour current close to the wall. We
took advantage of all this current, hugging the wall, with the stern
almost touching, and with the bow pointed out so we would not run into
the walls or scrape our oars. Then, when it seemed as if our necks
were about to be permanently dislocated, from looking over one
shoulder, the river would reverse its curve, the channel would cross
to the other side, and we would give that side of our necks a rest.
Once in a great while I would bump a rock, and would look around
sheepishly, to see if my brother had seen me do it. I usually found
him with a big grin on his face, if he happened to be ahead of me.
We rowed about twenty miles down the river before we learned what had
caused the noises heard in the morning. On rounding a turn we saw the
strange spectacle of fifteen or twenty men at work on the
half-constructed hull of a flat-bottomed steamboat, over sixty feet in
length.
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