I am inclined to think that the double turn of the swirling river where it enters Flaming Gorge is the place known at that time as the Green River Suck.

Our camp under the cottonwoods was delightful.

We took advantage of the halt to write up notes, clean guns, mend clothes, do our washing, and all the other little things incident to a breathing spell on a voyage of this kind.

It was Sunday too, and when possible we stopped on that account, though, of course, progress could not be deferred for that reason alone.
Monday morning we left the pleasant camp in the grove and went on with the tide.

The river was rough from a heavy gale, but otherwise offered no obstacle.