Marooned in the Forest: The Story of a Primitive Fight for Life

by A. Hyatt Verrill

And, like Columbus, I had trouble with my crew, and mutiny threatened even before the voyage commenced, for Lobo refused to go aboard and no amount of coaxing, threats, or argument would induce him to change his mind.

I hated to leave him behind, but I could scarce afford to remain a Crusoe of the wilderness on his account, and, thinking he might overcome his fears when he saw I was actually abandoning him, I cast off the fastenings of the raft and with a long pole pushed it a few yards from shore.

Instantly the wolf set up a dismal howl and ran up and down the shore, evidently in great distress at seeing me depart, and, feeling that he had learned a lesson, I pushed the end of the raft against the bank. But no sooner did the logs grate upon the beach than the rascal retreated to a safe distance and, squatting upon his haunches, grinned at me with his great red tongue hanging from his mouth.

Evidently the wolf considered it was some sort of a game and had no intention of taking the matter seriously, and, somewhat irritated at his behavior, I again poled the raft away from shore. For a few moments Lobo looked at me curiously, evidently expecting me to return, and then, finding the space of water was steadily widening between raft and shore, he plunged into the lake and swam after me. I at once ceased to propel the raft and waited for the wolf to come alongside and clamber aboard, but he showed no intention of doing this and kept well out of reach, evidently preferring to trust to his own powers rather than to my makeshift vessel.

The raft floated buoyantly and the crisscross layers of saplings kept my feet dry and above the water which slopped over the logs and I was soon well out upon the lake. And then I discovered that I had overlooked a most important matter and that by my carelessness and short-sightedness I was in imminent peril.

I had trusted to poling the raft across the lake, but the bottom was now beyond my reach, I had no oars or paddle, and my raft was drifting steadily in the sweep of the current toward the outlet of the lake.

Furiously I strove to paddle the clumsy craft with the pole, but my efforts only served to whirl the raft round and round, and each moment it was drawing nearer to the rushing river and its speed was increasing.

I was now filled with real terror, and not without reason, for the stream flowed from the lake in rocky rapids and I realized that in a few moments I would be drawn into the torrent, that my raft would be dashed to pieces on the jagged rocks, and that I would be left struggling hopelessly in the icy current.

Then, just as the raft shot toward the maelstrom my pole touched bottom, I threw all my weight upon it with a last, despairing shove, the raft lurched, tipped, and plunged, and the next instant I was thrown, spluttering and surprised, but safe, into a shallow backwater.

Scrambling to my feet, for the water was scarce six inches deep, I splashed ashore, and, glancing back, saw my raft, splintered and rent, bobbing among the foam and rocks of the rapids.