SHOOTING MYLES CAÑON.
I, on the top, could mark their progress easily. I saw them flying like a cork through the turmoil; I saw them now whirled one way, now another; at one moment it seemed they were to be hurled against the adamantine walls, where they would be stove to splinters instantly; at the next they miraculously sheered away into the boiling turmoil in the midst. Clouds of spray dashed over them; they were often lost to my sight. Half a minute passed—I saw their speed slacken—was anything wrong? No, I saw they were in the eddy, and were half-way through; next moment they were again in the thick of it, and, so far as I could tell, they were having more terrible experiences still. There were then a few indescribable moments. I held my breath, as I am sure they did theirs, as they vanished from my sight round an intervening point.
Directly after one of our new acquaintances at the camp below fired two shots and waved a red blanket, the signal agreed on that all was well.
From the moment they started until I saw that signal was exactly two and a half minutes by my watch.
With thankful hearts we two shouldered our light packs, crossed the portage, and joined the others. Jim and Fan were perfectly unconcerned,—he was contentedly smoking beside the fire, she was putting our tent up. We thanked Jim, called him a brave good fellow, at which he merely grunted "Ugh"; and Fan said, "Orl right—welly good; guess we make camp here one day—eh?"
We were agreeable to this, especially as the other party was remaining too. They were Canadians, very decent fellows indeed, and on that and for several days we kept company with them with much mutual pleasure.
On the river-side were several mounds, marked with rough stones or wooden crosses. They were the graves of some of the many who had lost their lives there—many more had been drowned whose bodies had never been recovered—and we, I hope, were very grateful that we had got through so safely.
Next day a couple of us went ahead in one of their light canoes to examine the White Horse Rapids—they were two miles on—and to arrange how to attack them. Then we loaded our boats, and, by warping and towing, we, by degrees, hauled them to a place where there is slack water, just above the dangerous place.
Here we camped again, unloaded everything, and hauled boats and canoes on shore. Then we carried our packages on to smooth water below, and lastly dragged the boats there: there were many willing hands to help now, and we did it all quickly.
These rapids are full of sunken rocks, impossible to steer amongst. There is one piece particularly formidable: it is only about one hundred feet, and has been shot, but not intentionally up to that time. With light well-made canoes it would be possible, we thought, though very risky, but with the really unwieldy boat of ours it was impossible.