“We made Swift Rapids late in the afternoon, when the sun was low and a frosty wind was freezing the pools by the way. The post at Little Lake lay not more than three miles beyond 180 the foot of the rapids, and when the swish and roar of water first fell upon our ears we hallooed most joyfully, for it seemed to us that we had come within reaching distance of our destination.
“‘No,’ said John, when we stood on the shore of the river.
“‘I think we can,’ said I.
“‘No,’ he repeated.
“The rapids were clear of ice, which had broken from the quiet water above the verge of the descent, and now lay heaped up from shore to shore, where the current subsided at the foot. The water was most turbulent––swirling, shooting, foaming over great boulders. It went rushing between two high cliffs, foaming to the very feet of them, where not an inch of bank was showing. At first glance it was no thoroughfare; but the only alternative was to go round the mountain, as my father had said, and I had no fancy to lengthen my journey by four hours, so I searched the shore carefully for a passage.
“The face of the cliff was such that we could make our way one hundred yards down-stream. It was just beyond that point that the difficulty lay. The rock jutted into the river, and rose sheer from it; neither foothold nor handhold was 181 offered. But beyond, as I knew, it would be easy enough to clamber along the cliff, which was shelving and broken, and so, at last, come to the trail again.
“‘There’s the trouble, John,’ said I, pointing to the jutting rock. ‘If we can get round that, we can go the rest of the way without any difficulty.’
“‘No go,’ said John. ‘Come.’
“He jerked his head towards the bush, but I was not to be easily persuaded.
“‘We’ll go down and look at that place,’ I replied. ‘There may be a way.’