CROSSING THE ATHABASCA
The boys felt a little more cheerful the next morning after they had had their breakfast, and Rob finally asked the noncommittal leader of their party what he had meant the night before when he mentioned his plan for avoiding the Roche Miette.
“Well, some of us may get wet again,” said Uncle Dick; “but if we can make it through, we can save a little time and a little risk, I think.”
“I know,” said Rob; “you mean to ford the Athabasca—or swim it.”
Uncle Dick nodded. “The horses will have to swim, but I hope we will not. For that matter, we might have to swim the Rocky River, on ahead. Of course, the higher up the Athabasca we go the less water there is in it, but down in this country she spreads out on gravel-bars and sand-flats. If we can make it across here, it’ll be a good thing, the way I figure it.”
“The streams are not as high now as they will be a month from now,” said Rob. “It’s cold up in the hills yet, and the snow isn’t melting. This country’s just like Alaska in that way.”
“That’s the way I figure,” said Uncle Dick. “I know the regular trail is on this side the Athabasca, but at the same time they do sometimes ford it down below here. We’ll go have a look, anyhow.”
Accordingly, they started out from their camp near Folding Mountain, not in the direction of Roche Miette, but departing from the trail nearly at right angles. They pulled up at last on the shores of the rushing, muddy Athabasca. Here they found a single cabin, and near it a solitary and silent Indian. What was better, and what caused Uncle Dick’s face to lighten perceptibly, was a rough home-made bateau of boards which lay fastened at the shore.
“How deep?” asked Uncle Dick, pointing to the swirling waters, here several hundred yards in width.
The Indian grinned and made signs, motioning with his hand at his knees, at his waist, and far above his head.