The new northland

by L. P. Gratacap

Again the darkness of the canon walls fell around me, and then only the subdued mind rose and reformed, as it were, visibly, my unalterable determination. And indeed now there no longer was room for incertitude. The rush forward keyed every sense into a vivid expectancy. The bed of the river had become more gorge-like, the uneven and projecting cornice edges of the rock on either side sent back the bounding water, and the surface around me was filled with leaping waves. The course though, most luckily, remained almost undeviatingly straight. To have engineered a curve or any sharp deflection would have been almost impossible at the rapid swing the raft was taking in the descent, which, however, hardly varied from my previous experience. It was difficult enough to keep “my keel” steady, with the constant tendency of the logs to throw themselves across the stream. It was buffeted by the “rollers” sent inward from the shores, and the rapid pull of the midstream was itself interrupted or diverted by the development of short waves, that chased down the center of the channel, and that indicated obstructions or inequalities in the bed over which the water was impetuously pouring.

It was only by the stiffest exertions that I was enabled to keep the raft headed true, and, as it was, over the rougher passages it was swept with water. I was drenched, the spray and waves splashed and rose upon me. I now realized the indispensable assistance given by the posts and the unbreakable loops, one of which at least was constantly in use. The management of the tiller, in this half imprisonment, was awkward, but in spite of strains, shiftings, violent jolts and lunges the raft shot well along the center, and did not seriously deviate from an axial position.

It was evident, too, as we swept onward, though my attention was too eagerly fixed on the recurrent predicaments in the water to be able to notice it carefully, that the canon above had enormously widened. I mean that the upper walls had receded through progressive weathering; the tunnel-like grimness had somewhat softened, and more light fell on me. Fortunately there were changes in the gradient of the rocky floor, and while some were on the wrong side of the account, others introduced agreeable relief. These latter were more level stretches where the turbulence disappeared, and the raft floated evenly, and was easily kept obedient to her helm.

I had been running safely enough, though the margin of safety, it must be said, was often a very narrow one, for some ten or twelve hours, and the loss of sleep, constant anxiety, the wetting and the indifferent sustenance had been slowly telling on me when my weary eyes detected a new, perhaps a crowning danger.

Before me the walls of the canon seemed to close—they always did so in the manner of a perspective coalescence—but this was now different. There was a break in the continuity of the channel. The stream turned to the left, and I saw a wall of rock before me. At such a point a whirlpool effect was inevitable, and this, apart from the danger of a wreck on the rocks in the rapids, I had most dreaded.

I noticed the elbow was rounded towards the south, forming a sort of pool, and reminding me of the Niagara whirlpool, but it was not so large, and, as the raft began to be seized by a stronger current, it was also evident that the bed sloped again, and that the stream attained a dangerous velocity. The waves spanked and broke over the raft, the distance was white with foam; I was rocked as in a cradle, and I felt that I must abandon the tiller, insert myself between the posts, and hold on to the loops. If the raft escaped or survived engulfment I might then be saved. The balloons were intact and their attachments unbroken. They were doing some service, though a slight one, as they dragged behind me, restraining my descent.

Another feature appeared ahead in the rapidly nearing vortex, about which all doubt was now removed; I could see its powerful rotation. This new feature was a periodic uplift of the water from the pool in a broad spout or fountain, ejected obliquely and falling on the waves beyond the whirlpool itself. At first this outburst alarmed me. Its discharge seemed so unaccountable and so violent. A moment later I felt it might mean my safety.

On like an arrow we sped—the raft had become a companion—and fearing the tiller might in some way become entangled or deflected and in the turmoil of our certain submergence play some fatal trick that would disable me, I cast it loose. I could see it swing past the raft, and dance madly on the combing surges. Then it was lost but I strained my eyes to detect, if possible, its emergence in the spout ahead. I thought I saw it, but now in the clutches of the ravenous tide, I became blind with unmistakable terror. The noise of the chaotic water around me seemed like a low roar, mingled, too, with an interminable hiss, and in the gloom of the desolate stony chasm the menace almost darkened my mind and made me unconscious.

A boom struck my ear, low, definite, smothered; I attributed it to the regurgitant geyser from the whirlpool. A leap forward, a choking rattle from the logs beneath, and then a wrenching twist that threw my feet from under me, and the water rose solidly over my head. I could reach the air by pulling myself upward on the straps about my arms. I saw the balloons tugging desperately and two reports like the bursting of a bomb immediately followed. They were in tatters. Again I sank; this time it seemed like doom. Yet I was still conscious, and then, as if an omnipotent arm thrust from below raised us, I felt the raft pressed upward against the welter and inrush, and then a titanic convulsion, and the raft, and I dangling to the posts, were shot bodily out of the maelstrom, though scarcely lifted above the surface; and, enveloped in the hill of water that accompanied us, the raft swam out again upon the descending stream, in a turbulence of waves that made me dizzy with its confusion.

I hardly realized I was alive, but in a few minutes every sense attested its reality. I felt the pack on my back—I had very early secured it there—I heard that the creaking, groaning logs were still intact, I looked before me and saw the hamper had been swept away, I tasted the cold water in my mouth. I was saturated, it almost seemed, and I was faint, perhaps from shock, in a measure. The sturdy posts which had been my refuge were unshaken, and now, straight before me in a shouting turmoil, the waters put on to me a friendly guise, and seemed just delirious over my escape. So quickly does the temperature and spirit of the heart find its reflection in inanimate nature. For now, though I had been despoiled I was safe, and my gun, my cartridges, some food at least, my fishing tackle, the evidences of Krocker Land, many notes, the compass, matches—in a watertight box—and, thanks to my forethought a rug and a sleeping bag were all with me, as most helpful friends.