RUNNING THE RAPIDS ON WEBSTER RIVER.
The stream issues from the lake with little force, being clogged above by a mass of logs, the remnants of various “booms.” As it passes downward in its course, heavy walls of rock, crowned by tall pines, arise on all sides, often darkening the waters and producing a cañon-like appearance of the surroundings.
The course of the river is over immense bowlders and ledges, often unobservable, just beneath the surface, while others in sight stand like sentinels in the middle of the stream, disputing one’s passage. The flow is repeatedly marked by beautiful falls and rapids, not high, but crowded together in narrow parts, which give greater expression and grandeur to the water, presenting at various points the most remarkable scenery in this section. Cascade succeeds cascade, ending often in an abrupt pitch of three to five feet, and at their base are dark boiling pools, flecked with snowy foam. The river has not great depth of water at any time, three to five feet on the average, but we were fortunate in the extra supply of the last week’s rain, which, although it prevented many “carries,” also increased the volume and force of water to that extent that made canoeing more hazardous, and filled our path with greater dangers.
The ladened birch canoes had passed us down the river, when the “Quartermaster” and the writer, buckling their belts tighter about them, stepped lightly into the canvas canoe and swung out into the impetuous river, with feelings similar to what might be expected in one entering a battle.
My friend at the stern held a trusty paddle, whose strength had more than once been tried, while the writer, in a devotional attitude on a rubber blanket at the bow, held a long “setting pole” ready for duty at a moment’s notice. In half the time I have narrated the above, we were among the furious rapids, battling with their difficulties, and shouting to each other above the roar of the waters, how best to circumvent them. The sun, unfortunately, shone the greater part of the time in our faces, which produced a glimmer on the water, often preventing the discovery of sunken rocks. At one time, while dashing down a cascade, we mounted such a bowlder, and, swinging around, leaped a five-foot fall, stern first, much to our peril. Again, with mighty force we were hurled close to the rocky shore, which only a desperate use of the paddle prevented our striking.
At times we were obliged to hold the canoe in the middle of the stream by the long “setting poles,” firmly planted in the bottom, while we made our decision regarding the better of two channels, the dangers of which there was little choice, then on we went through the rush of waters, our “setting poles” keeping time with our eyes, noting the sunken rocks by the water’s upheaval, avoiding this sharp ledge, or that rough bowlder, or swinging into the foam of another as we shot swiftly by.
Often with ease we thought to pass a distant rock, but mistaking the velocity of the water, doubled it by a hair’s breadth. One fall over which the guides had led their canoes, we amateurs passed in the canvas canoe, the water falling in spray about us, but the cheer for our bravery with which we were greeted at its base, paid us well for the risk incurred.