Wanawassis Falls
Soon we run under high bluffs and notice the fine growth of woods covering the almost perpendicular heights, and which touch the side of the steep slope with their projecting side branches. The varying shades of green in the woodland, the giddy height, the far-extending reflection in the now sunlit river, all combine in a beautiful picture; and again are we tempted to land and drink of a sparkling stream that can be seen flowing down the mountain side in a minute but clearly-defined rivulet.
Giving the engine a few minutes’ rest, we again push on, and, after passing French Village, the pretty little Macinquac stream joins ours on the right, and directly under the picturesque bluff, with its quaint white church showing like a beacon through the trees, a landing is made and we push our canoe tip into the mouth of the little stream, drinking in the while all the beauties that are on every hand.
Once more afloat, for we are thinking of a place for dinner, and we wish to find refreshment without waiting. In this way we may push forward and cover the considerable distance of swift water that intervenes before we reach our destination where we are to sup and lodge.
Fortunately, a suitable place is fairly close at hand, and, dinner over, we resume our course upstream. The engine now “kicks-up” a little, as all self-respecting motors must do, sooner or later. Again oiling the parts, we push from off-shore again, for we had pulled in to avoid being drawn down by the current, and thus losing ground.
But we do lose ground, for when we push off into deep water to give the screw a chance to revolve without chipping the rocks, the canoe is turned right around, and downstream we go, the engine obstinately refusing a single turn.
Back to the shore we go with paddle, and after a few operations with the motorist’s beloved tool, the wrench, and sundry squirts here and there from his much cherished oil-can, the engine starts to revolve with savage energy. It came so unexpectedly that we are off full speed downstream before we recover. Putting the helm over we head up the river and are just settling down to regain the lost way, when—the engine stops!
“Variety is the spice of life,” so we take to the shore again and hold fast to a log conveniently stranded for our use. These little incidents, it may be remarked, give added pleasure to the excursion, and for the true motorist they supply that fulness and joy in life that cannot be obtained in any other way. This time the real seat of the trouble is found—moisture bridging the spark-gap.
Hurrah! Now we are off, in real earnest, and triumphant smiles come quickly as swift water is passed and we finally get over Big Bear Island Bar with only a few glancing knocks of the propeller on a stray rock or two.