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National Geographic : 1936 Jul
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THE NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC MAGAZINE CHEROKEE BOB DIED OF "LEAD POISONING" His Christian name was Henry Talbotte and he came from Georgia. "Bob" tried to make the local gentry recognize his low-caste "gal" Cynthia, but the resulting quixotic battle ended in his being shot. Even to the placer miner, a burial place is sacred ground. Although this grave is at the head of one of Florence's richest gulches, the soil has not been washed for gold. pole was without immediate success, princi pally because we pried loose huge bowlders instead of moving the boat. But after a half hour's labor the boat was again free. Rice Creek was our first camp without good fresh water, thus marking the transi tion from the mountains, where clear streams abound, and the more arid plateau country. Below Rice Creek we used boiled river water. It was late on the 25th before the sun rose high enough to warm the huddled group on the scow and make a camera more than a burden. Our course now lay through lava that extended to the water's edge. Its pillarlike columnar jointing is similar to that of the Giant's Causeway in far-away Ireland. Locally the jointing radiates in huge rosettes as much as 50 feet in diameter. At the treacherous Snow Hole Rapids, about 63 miles below Riggins, the whole volume of the river is concentrated in a narrow stream that roars and foams be tween angular blocks of rock rising 20 feet or more above the water. No choice of channels was offered and there was no chance of simply hanging up on rocks until the boat could be pulled free. Obviously we would either rush through without a scratch or the boat would be demolished. Slowly the scow eased toward the brink, became caught in the now swift but still smooth current, and then was hurled bodily into the churning, foaming wildness of the Snow Hole. Through the spray we could see the sharp edges of the cold, wet rocks as they appeared to grasp for our frail craft, and some missed by inches only. In a few moments it was over and the boat was flung out into a quiet, sunny, foam-flecked pool. Sixty-eight miles below Riggins, as the low-hanging sun began to throw chill shad ows across the stream, we tore through China Rapids, deadly at high water but comparatively easy at this low stage. Beds were made as Dave started supper, and Captain Hancock soon had a roaring campfire on the beach near Billie Creek. As we gratefully crowded around its warmth we were visited by a local prospector and his wife. The soft-spoken, intelligent con versation of the girl led Williams to ask the name of her college. To our surprise she was not a graduate but, like a majority of 134
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