Though the storm cracked above our heads, it was too beautiful and too awful to fear. We whipped on our slickers. In a second they were drenched, and streams were running to our saddles and soaking us. Toby, protecting her camera with one hand, and her person from the banging of a bag of pottery, wearing the slicker the cow had chewed short, was quickly drenched, and rode in dejected silence. Ahead, the helper, whose thin shirt streamed rivers, shouted in glee, and drove on the stumbling pack-beasts with variegated profanity. The guides took the onslaught of the storm unmoved, dripping like male Naiads. Sometimes the thunder smashed so near it seemed as if our horses had been struck, sometimes it cracked on the cliffs beside us. The scenery became increasingly dramatic. We were out of the piñon, and riding through nothing but granite and sandstone. An hour passed, while we huddled uncomfortably, fearing to move lest a rivulet find a new and hitherto unwet channel on our bodies. Then as suddenly as it began the storm ceased, and just in time, for we were nearing the crux of the trail,--Bald Rock. Even Roosevelt described this pass as dangerous. The storm had increased the danger. Five minutes more of rain, and the rocks would have been too slippery to cross; as it was, we barely kept our footing. Bald Rock is a huge dome of solid granite, bordering a precipice several hundred feet deep, overlooking tangled and twisted crags. Crossing it was like crossing the surface of an inverted bowl. Worn smooth by erosion, the only semblance of foothold it offered was a seam a few inches wide near the edge. With the dome polished by rain, it was not easy to keep both footing and nerve. Our tendency was to move cautiously, when the safest way was at a jog trot, though the mental hazard of the drop at the edge made the latter course hard. Even the bronchos shared our caution. We naturally had dismounted, though the intrepid Hostein Chee rode his horse part way across. The horses dug their hoofs in hard, and even then they slipped and scrambled about helplessly. One balked, and another fell several feet. For a moment it looked as if his bones would be left to whiten in the chasm below, but goaded by the Navajo he regained his feet, and, trembling, crossed safely. Beyond came a still worse spot,--a narrow ledge, with cliffs on one side shouldering one toward the edge. Here the horses were halted until blankets and armfuls of grass could be placed along the slanting ledge. In all, we were half an hour passing Bald Rock. Though this is the worst bit of trail on the way to the Bridge, and enough to give one a little thrill, there is nothing to dread under ordinary conditions. Nevertheless, I should not like to cross Bald Rock after dark. [Illustration: CROSSING BALD ROCK, ON RAINBOW BRIDGE TRAIL. The worst bit of trail on the way to the bridge.]