The 16th was the hottest day of the season--a hard one on the trackers, who now pulled along walls of solid limestone, perpendicular or stepped, or wrought into elaborate cornices, as if by the art of some giant stonecutter.

At one place we came to a lovely little _rideau_, and on the opposite shore were two curious caves, scooped out of the rock, and supported by Egyptian-like columns wrought by the age-action of water.
Towards evening we reached the Crooked Rapid--Kahwakak o Powestik--and here the portage path followed on the summit of the limestone rampart, which the viscous gumbo-slides made almost impassable in rainy weather, and indeed very dangerous, forming, at the time we passed, pits of mud and broken masses of half-hard clay, along the very verge of the wall of rock, likely at any moment to give way and precipitate one into the raging torrent below.

At other parts the path was jammed out to the wall-edge, to be stepped round with a gulp in the throat.

But these and other features of a like interesting character, though a lively experience to the tenderfoot, were of no account whatever to those wonderful trackers.

At one of the worst spots I was hesitating as to how and where I should step next, when a carrier, returning for his load, seeing my fix, humped his back with a laugh and gave me a lift over.
We camped for the night below a point where the river makes a sharp bend, parallel with its course.