We sat silently by the fire for a few minutes, then rose and resumed
our evening's work. This camp was at a point that could be seen from
the Grand View hotel, fourteen miles from our home. We talked of
building a signal fire on the promontory above the camp, knowing that
the news would be telephoned to home if the fire was seen. But we gave
up the plan. Although less than twenty miles from Bright Angel Trail,
we were not safely through by any means. Two boats had been wrecked or
lost in different rapids less than six miles from this camp. The
forty-foot fall in the Hance or Red Canyon Rapid was three miles below
us; the Sockdologer, the Grapevine, and other rapids nearly as large
followed those; we might be no more fortunate than the others, and a
delay after once giving a signal would cause more anxiety than no
signal at all we thought, and the fire was not built.
Particular attention was paid to the loading of the boats the next
morning. The moving-picture film was tucked in the toes of our
sleeping bags, and the protecting bags were carefully laced. We were
not going to take any chances in this next plunge--the much-talked-of
entrance to the granite gorge. A half-hour's run and a dash through
one violent rapid landed us at the end of the Hance Trail--unused for
tourist travel for several years--with a few torn and tattered tents
back in the side canyon down which the trail wound its way. We half
hoped that we would find some of the prospectors who make this section
their winter home either at the Tanner or the Hance Trail, but there
was no sign of recent visitors at either place, unless it was the
numerous burro tracks in the sand.
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