This portage over, and all on board, we again glided swiftly along, ran through what is called the Little Dalles, and soon reached the narrowest place in the Columbia, where the water rushes through sharp projecting rocks, causing it to turn and whirl and rush in every conceivable shape for about three-fourths of a mile, till it finds a large circular basin below, into which it runs and makes one grand turn round and passes smoothly out at right angles and down in a deep smooth current, widening as it enters the lofty range of the Cascade Mountains. The river was deemed a little too high, by our Iroquois pilot, to run the Big Dalles at that time, although, in January following, the writer, in company with another party, did run them with no more apparent danger than we experienced on the same trip at what is called John Day's Rapids. At the Dalles our party made another portage, paying our Indians as at Celilo Falls. The Indians' curiosity to look at the white women caused us a little delay at the falls, and also at the Dalles; in fact, numbers of them followed our boats in their canoes to the Dalles, to look at these two strange beings who had nothing to carry but their own persons, and were dressed so differently from the men. We proceeded down the river for a few miles and met the Hudson's Bay Company's express canoe, in charge of Mr. Hovey, on its way to Lachine, going across the continent; stopped and exchanged greetings for a few minutes and passed on to camp just above Dog River. Next morning made an early start to reach La Cascade to make the portage there before night. We had proceeded but about one hour, with a gentle breeze from the east, sails all set, and in fine spirits, admiring the sublimely grand scenery, when, looking down the river, the ladies inquired what made the water look so white. In a moment our boatmen took in sail, and laid to their oars with all their might to reach land and get under shelter, which we did, but not till we had received considerable wetting, and experienced the first shock of a severe wind-storm, such as can be gotten up on the shortest possible notice in the midst of the Cascade Mountains. Our camp was just below White Salmon River. The storm was so severe that all our baggage, furs, and even boats had to be taken out of the water to prevent them from being dashed to pieces on the shore. For three days and nights we lay in this miserable camp watching the storm as it howled on the waves and through this mountain range. Stormy as it was, a few Indians found our camp and crawled over the points of rocks to get sight of our party.