102 EXPLORATION OF THE CANONS OF THE COLORADO. 
around behind some great rocks, and is lost in the mad, white foam below. 
We stand frozen with fear, for we see no boat. Bradley is gone, so it seems. 
But now, away below, we see something coming out of the waves. It is 
evidently a boat. A moment more, and we see Bradley standing on deck, 
swinging his hat to show that he is all right. But he is in a whirlpool. We 
have the stem-post of his boat attached to the line. How badly she may be 
disabled we know not. I direct Sumner and Powell to pass along the cliff, 
and see if they can reach him from below. Rhodes, Hall, and myself run 
to the other boat, jump aboard, push out, and away we go over the falls. 
A wave rolls over us, and our boat is unmanageable. Another great wave 
strikes us, the boat rolls over, and tumbles and tosses, I know not how. All 
I know is that Bradley is picking us up. We soon have all right again, and 
row to the cliff, and wait until Sumner and Powell can come. After a diffi 
cult climb they reach us. We run two or three miles farther, and turn again 
to the northwest, continuing until night, when we have run out of the 
granite once more. 
August 29. We start very early this morning. The river still con 
tinues swift, but we have no serious difficulty, and at twelve o'clock emerge 
from the Grand Canon of the Colorado. 
We are in a valley now, and low mountains are seen in the distance, 
coming to the river below. We recognize this as the Grand Wash. 
A few years ago, a party of Mormons set out from St. George, Utah, 
taking with them a boat, and came down to the mouth of the Grand Wash, 
where they divided, a portion of the party crossing the river to explore the 
San Francisco Mountains. Three men Hamblin, Miller, and Crosby tak 
ing the boat, went on down the river to Callville, landing a few miles below 
the mouth of the Rio Virgen. We have their manuscript journal with us, 
and so the stream is comparatively well known. 
To night we camp on the left bank, in a mesquite thicket. 
The relief from danger, and the joy of success, are great. When he 
who has been chained by wounds to a hospital cot, until his canvas tent 
seems like a dungeon cell, until the groans of those who lie about, tortured 
with probe and knife, are piled up, a weight of horror on his ears that he 
cannot throw off, cannot forget, and until the stench of festering wounds 
