us, after which we had our first real essay at "packing," and we concluded that it was not our forte. We found our boat and her cargo safe and sound below, which was no small blessing. It took two days to pack all down to her. Then on we went again, the stream carrying us along between smooth grassy hills and sandy knolls. Soon the current became stronger, and we heard a distinct roar ahead, and on the bank we saw a board stuck up by some friendly voyageur, on which was scrawled in big letters—"Danger, Stop," which at once we did.

We had arrived at Myles Cañon, the grand cañon of the Lewes—the Miners' Grave.

Eager to examine what we had now to encounter, Meade and I landed and went ahead to prospect. Where we had stopped the river was two hundred yards wide at least: it was roaring ahead in the middle, rushing vehemently on its way.

We mounted the basalt cliff above where we were camped, and came in full view of the cañon. We knew the length of it and the width, we had heard so much about it, and believed we knew just what to expect, yet the reality appalled us. How could we get through? It looked impossible: still, knowing that it had been done, and if we were to reach our destination we must negotiate it, we sat on an outstanding point and wondered.

The walls of the gorge, which averages one hundred feet in width, are about the same height; they are worn into fantastic shapes, very little vegetation clings to them, but along the top there is timber, and one can march through it with ease.

The river, forced through this narrow cañon, is heaped up in the middle much higher than at the sides: it is one mass of foam, and it flashes along at lightning speed, roaring and raging. It is about three-quarters of a mile from fairly smooth water up stream to quietness below.

As we sat on the summit of the cliff, critically examining the scene, we presently perceived two tents at what looked to be the lower end of the gorge, and there was the smoke of a camp-fire.

With Jim and Fan, who had joined us, we consulted; it resulted in Meade and Jim going ahead to visit these campers and obtaining information. From them they learned that they had got through safely. There were half-a-dozen men, old Yukoners, friendly and communicative, who had wintered by Lake Marsh, where they had got a little gold. They offered to help us. Some of them returned and packed each a load over the portage, and then as they saw that neither of us was experienced at shooting rapids, one of them very kindly volunteered to go through with Fan and Jim in our boat.

Everything was carefully planned, the strength of the steering sweep tested; Jim stripped, Fan doffed all she could decently, and our new friend, whom his chums called Samson, did the same,—then the start was made.

Meade stayed to push them off; I went to the cliff-top to watch the proceedings.

Fan and Samson took the oars, Jim was steersman. They pulled far out into the eddy, straining every nerve, even after the current caught them, so as to keep steerage way on the boat. They soon shot into the dark shadows of the walls. Here, they told us, they were nearly stopped by the first huge breaker, but only for a second: the frail boat trembled, seemed to stagger, then surmounting the crest, dashed on.