ACROSS THE DESERT 97 



In the White Mountains, far to the south- 

 east, we had caught trout in the headwaters of 

 the Little Colorado River. There, fed by 

 banks of perpetual snow, it was a sparkling 

 crystal brook, rushing down over a rocky bed 

 through a great primeval forest of pine and 

 spruce and balsam fir. Here in the Navajo 

 desert it had been transformed into a sluggish 

 river thick with yellow mud, flowing heavily 

 northward in a winding course through banks 

 of drifted sand,' past pink-and-red and gray- 

 blue buttes of sandstone and limestone, molded 

 into fantastic shapes by ages of erosion. Now 

 and again, close to the river bank, were scat- 

 tered stunted cottonwood trees, struggling 

 bravely for existence, the only green break in 

 the expanse of wide, arid desert. 



The old emigrant trail followed the general 

 course of the river, until trail and river finally 

 parted. By the general course of the river I 

 mean that while we were sometimes within a 

 few hundred yards of its banks, the larger 

 bends were cut off by short cuts, and when this 

 occurred we were often three or four miles to 

 the eastward of it, crossing gulches, dry ar- 

 royos, and low sand ridges and mesas. 



We halted for a noonday rest at the Black 

 Frlls, a point where the river with a swift cur- 



