CHAPTER XIX
The days in camp had come to an end, come insensibly to an end, for time had glided so swiftly from one event to another that it was almost impossible to believe that those four months, which had seemed so long in the spring, had actually gone.
It was about seven o’clock in the morning when the canoes put out slowly from the boathouse, one by one, and assembled in a little compact fleet just outside the swimming raft ready for the seven-hundred-mile trip down the river. When the last had joined the fleet there was a mighty wholehearted yell for the old camp, before they all shot away together toward the river. The yell was answered by the one lonely scream of a loon.
There was many a lingering backward look as long as the camp was in sight, but once in the shallow river they were soon too busy to think of it. The river was low, and the mighty Father of Waters was in many places unable to float the little fleet. They frequently had to resort to towlines and it was noon before they passed the mouth of Sucker Brook and La Salle, where they had comparatively deep water. Even then progress was slow, for the lumbermen had blocked the river in many places with splash dams to enable them to drive their logs. Night caught them less than half way to Bemidji.
“And that,” Bill Price said as he looked back up the narrow river of shallow water, “is one of the largest rivers in the world. It certainly looks as though it would have to grow some.”
Ten miles above Bemidji the next afternoon they ran onto the remnant of the spring drive and had to pick their way through the bobbing logs with care. It was slow work and not over safe, but they persevered till late in the evening and finally camped on the shore of Lake Bemidji.
From there on the going was better. The paddlers changed places every half hour to utilize the third man, the portages became less frequent and the little line of canoes slipped rapidly down the river and into Cass Lake. In the center of the lake they saw a beautiful pine-covered, star-shaped island which they recognized from the stories they had heard of it. They stopped there for lunch and had a look at the pretty little lake in the center of it believed by the Indians to be the home of the Windigo, or Indian devil. No one of the native Indians would for any consideration consent to spend a night on the island. Whatever the character of the Windigo he certainly knew how to pick out a beautiful home.
Early the next morning they came to the entrance of Lake Winnibigoshish only to find themselves blocked by an unexpected obstacle. The stiff breeze had lashed the shallow water into a tangle of white-capped waves in which a canoe would have led a very precarious life even if there had been no other danger. But the rough water was only a very small part of it. The lake had been very greatly enlarged by a high government dam which had caused the backed-up waters to spread over several square miles of forest. This flooding had killed all the trees in the overflowed area and left half the lake dotted with dead stubs, some rising high above the surface, others lurking treacherously just out of sight. This made it absolutely unsafe for any boat except on a perfectly quiet day and even then a sharp lookout was necessary.
It was very exasperating to see that great expanse of water, looking to them like a broad parade ground, after the crooked lane of the river, and yet not be able to venture across it. For two days they lolled around camp waiting impatiently while the wind blew steadily.
That evening Merton was goaded to desperation. “You fellows can do as you please,” he said determinedly, “but I am going to cross that lake tomorrow at sunrise. It ought to be smooth at that time of day, but I am going if she is standing straight on end.”