A DIFFICULT WAY. 123 
Iris bow and arrows in one hand, and a small cane in the other. These 
Indians all cany canes with a crooked handle, they say to kill rattlesnakes, 
and to pull rabbits from their holes. The valley is high up in the mountain, 
and we descend from it, by a rocky, precipitous trail, down, down, down 
for two long, weary hours, leading our ponies and stumbling over the rocks. 
At last we are at the foot of the mountain, standing on a little knoll, from 
which we can look into a canon below. Into this we descend, and then we 
follow it for miles, clambering down and still down. Often we cross beds 
of lava, that have been poured into the canon by lateral channels, and these 
angular fragments of basalt make the way very rough for the animals. 
About two o'clock the guide halts us with his wand, and springing over the 
rocks he is lost in a gulch. In a few minutes he returns, and tells us there 
is a little water below in a pocket. It is vile and stinking, and our ponies 
refuse to drink it. We pass on, still ever descending. A mile or two from 
the water basin we come to a precipice, more than a thousand feet to the 
bottom. There is a canon running at a greater depth, and at right angles 
to this, into which this enters by the precipice; and this second canon is a 
lateral one to the greater one, in the bottom of which we are to find the 
river. Searching about, we find a way by which we can descend along the 
shelves, and steps, and piles of broken rocks. 
We start leading our ponies; a wall upon our left; unknown depths on 
our right. At places our way is along shelves so narrow, or so sloping, that 
I ache with fear lest a pony should make a misstep, and knock a man over 
the cliffs with him. Now and then we start the loose rocks under our feet, 
and over the cliffs they go, thundering down, down, as the echoes roll 
through distant canons. At last we pass along a level shelf for some dis 
tance, then we turn to the right, and zigzag down a steep slope to the bottom. 
Now we pass along this lower canon, for two or three miles, to where it 
terminates in the Grand Canon, as the other ended in this, only the river is 
1,800 feet below us, and it seems, at this distance, to be but a creek. Our 
withered guide, the human pickle, seats himself on a rock, and seems won 
derfully amused at our discomfiture, for we can see no way by which to 
descend to the river. After some minutes, he quietly rises, and, beckoning 
us to follow, he points out a narrow sloping shelf on the right, and this is to be 
