How Precious This Little Flour Has Become! (August 17, 1869)

On the 85th day of the journey, just a few miles past Bright Angel Canyon, we find this entry from the journal of John Wesley Powell:

August 17, 1869/

Our rations are still spoiling; the bacon is so injured that we are compelled to throw it away. By an accident, this morning, the saleratus is lost overboard. We have now only musty flour sufficient for ten days, a few dried apples, but plenty of coffee. We must make all haste possible. If we meet with difficulties, as we have done in the canyon above, we may be compelled to give up the expedition, and try to reach the Mormon settlements to the north. Our hopes are that the worst places are passed, but our barometers are all so much injured as to be useless, so we have lost our reckoning in altitude, and know not how much descent the river has yet to make.
The stream is still wild and rapid, and rolls through a narrow channel. we make but slow progress, often landing against a wall, and climbing around some point, where we can see the river below. Although very anxious to advance, we are determined to run with great caution, lest, by another accident, we lose all our supplies. How precious this little flour has become! We divide it among the boats, and carefully store it away, so that it can be lost only by the loss of the boat itself.
We make ten miles and a half, and camp among the rocks on the right. We have had rain, from time to time, all day, and have been thoroughly drenched and chilled. But between showers the sun shines with great power, and the mercury in our thermometer stands at 115 degrees, so that we have rapid changes from great extremes, which are very disagreeable. It is especially cold in the rain tonight. The little canvas we have is rotten and useless; the rubber ponchos, with which we started from Green River City, have all been lost. More than half the party is without hats, and not one of us has an entire suit of clothes. We have not a blanket apiece. So we gather driftwood, and build a fire; but after supper, the rain, coming down in torrents, extinguishes it, and we sit up all night, on the rocks, shivering, and are more exhausted by the night's discomfort than by the day's toil.