On the seventeenth of August we passed Independence Rock and nooned on the Sweetwater near by; then drove on to a point nearly a mile west of the Devil's Gate, where the Sweetwater passes through what seems a cleft, made by weight of the east spur of the Rocky Mountains settling away from the main chain, and throwing off Independence Rock from its north point. We camped here one day. Mountain sheep is the attractive game of the region. Captain Morrison, I note, wishes to bring one in; and I, finishing camp duty early, took my fish gig and passed most of the day chasing fish in a deep hole within the west end of the big cleft of the Devil's Gate. It varies in width, I think, from fifty to one hundred feet or more; and the walls, I should estimate, at four hundred or five hundred feet high. I did not attempt to go through this gateway. The water was not sufficient to prevent, but the hole I mentioned contained many fish and gave me a fine day's sport. The deepest place was the north side of the pool, and by going into that I scared out the largest fish to the shallows, and then threw my three-tined gig or fish spear. For the first hour I had little success, but at length I could throw it from twenty to thirty feet and strike a fish from ten to fifteen inches long. I got a fine lot, besides a day of boyish sport.
On August 19 we start early up the north bank of the Sweetwater, with stupendous rocks on the right of our course and the rounded hills south of the stream flattened into plains, in places.
It is not possible to avoid being impressed by our surroundings. I am in charge of the lead team. I am walking along talking with the two oldest girls of Captain Morrison in front of the wagon, answering their questions about the mountains; drinking in the joy of it all myself, while keeping my cattle steady. Looking for-
