Forests overhung the water on both banks, and no landing for our boat, much less a camping-place, could be found. This deprivation of a last resort, obliging us in any case to continue, we soon found to be a most serious matter. Rapids began to be frequent, presenting many undesirable features. Angular boulders of immense size threatened to monopolize the current at these points, while we were forcibly reminded of that great feature of the Hudson, the lumber traffic, by enormous piles of logs. These had drifted on the rocks in the freshets, and had been left high and dry far above us, blockading the channel and shutting off the view of what lay before us. Our hands were in now, and recking little of what was concealed, we plunged boldly in, paddling fast even in the swiftest water, and trusting to experience and intuition to get us through.
The mountain air grew cool in the lengthening shadows; but coats, vests and hats were thrown aside. Amidst the boom and surge of the rushing water, one interval of white, foam-crested waves succeeding another in almost unbroken succession, we shouted to each other in the din and plied our paddles from side to side, now backing with heavy stroke or desperately shoving ahead on the opposite quarter. Our blood was on fire with excitement and the spirit of battle pervaded every nerve.
The rocks thickened, the current quickened. White water appeared at the beginning of a bend, and we made right for it with the confidence born of recklessness. As we slid on to the dancing billows, we were coolly discussing the relative merits and demerits of decked and open canoes for running rapids, when on turning the point such a sight was presented as made even our madcap hearts pause in their tattoo against our ribs. For half a mile extended a toboggan slide of water, with all element of smoothness omitted. Rocks were piled in confused, broken heaps as in the crater of a volcano; and between, round and over them rushed and plunged, like an aqueous cannon-ball, the deep contracted, resistless tide. No escape: the alternatives were to get through on our muscle or die game. We became self-possessed from desperation. Onward and downward, like a descent into a maelstrom, we dived and tossed. To attempt to shape our course to suit ourselves was almost useless: the depth and volume of the narrowed flood was too great. Suddenly the broad stream became a funnel, and tumbling down a miniature cascade of some three feet, swept over a partially submerged flat rock a few yards below the middle of the plunge. Toward this we were irresistibly drawn. The bow of the canoe was higher than the stern when we dived down the incline, so the prow glided over the obstruction, the bottom gave a sharp rasp, and the stern was lifted high upon the rock. At once we shoved our paddles against the unyielding surface to push off ere our predicament was made worse. The boat would not budge; the water was driven hard against it, threatening by its force alone to tear the wood apart; the craft, balanced nicely on the end of its heel, tipped violently with the slightest movement, several times admitting water.
We calmly discussed the situation. There seemed to be little hope for us. Maynard was in the stern, I in the bow. In a hoarse, deliberate voice, he said, “If we capsize here we are both lost. I am going to attempt to get out on the rock and pull her loose. If I succeed you will go down alone, stern first, but you may get through all right. It is our only hope.”
Carefully rising, gathering his strength, he made a leap. He landed on the rock. Pressing his foot against a projection, by a succession of powerful efforts he got the boat loose, and before it had time to take the momentum of the water and be swept from his hands, he made a desperate grab at the gunwales as far forward as he could reach, drawing himself off of the stone and out of the water, and resumed his paddle before the canoe had a chance to drift broadside.
The sweat of exertion and terror stood out on our brows—but the worst was over; a few more vigorous strokes and we floated where we might again feel moderately secure.
The sun was just sinking. We thought anxiously of camp, and to our great relief, a house appeared. It must be near Riverside, so we landed. The dwelling was close to the bank, and a few cultivated fields lay around it, another habitation appearing in the distance. With these exceptions all was wild. However, a glorious blaze on the beach soon dried our wet garments. The moon was full, and as no signs of human proximity were visible, by its light we proceeded to investigate the house. A tumble-down fence and a rankly overgrown garden betokened a neglect which was soon explained by a deserted home. We shoved our dark lantern through all the windows, and being satisfied that the house was vacant, and we would not be disturbed, we produced our bedding and wrapping ourselves up on the porch were soon lost in our dreams. So ended an eventful day, the scenes of which in our slumber were re-enacted with terrifying variations. The house, fences, trees, moon, and the solid earth seemed to have an insecure, tumbling, rolling tendency; and as the roar of an actual rapid below where we landed filled the air and was echoed to our sleeping ears, one of us, as a corner of a blanket covered his mouth, would fancy that he was taking his last plunge into the cold, hurrying waters, and wake with a suffocating gasp.
The dawn found us stirring. It ushered in a day so full of queer circumstances as to seem like a chapter from “Alice in Wonderland.” After a breakfast of dried beef, bread, hot chocolate and oatmeal, which we thoroughly appreciated, our first solicitude was to find a wagon to convey our canoe to Loon Lake, via which and its outlet we intended to reach the Schroon River. This was an occasion of the mountain coming to Mahomet; for we had hardly finished our breakfast when three men bent on a swim, and attracted by the revolver practice in which we had been indulging, made their appearance. Living at a distance from any improved road, they had no wagon suitable for our purpose, but a neighbor who was to be found nearly a mile across country, might be able to satisfy our wants. Maynard made the quest; and after an hour or so of weary waiting, beguiled by the conversation of the granger delegation, I spied a box lumber wagon coming slowly and carefully through the fields. The duffle and the light little boat were soon aboard and snugly lashed down.
Now began a journey of seven miles by land, requiring as much care, but lacking the excitement of the previous day’s river trip. We took turns walking, the man on foot keeping behind to see that the craft did not lurch over to one side so that the delicate cedar would be chafed against an uneven board or protruding nail. Listening to our driver, alternately trudging and riding, picking berries, telling stories, singing and declaiming, we made our portage. Along the borders of Loon Lake we passed for about half a mile to a spot where our guide informed us we could obtain a meal. Carrying our outfit down to a beautiful sandy beach, and leaving all ready for a launch, we stormed the house. Though it was in the afternoon, the prospect of earning a little money was sufficient inducement to these frugal folks to quickly produce a dinner in which that inevitable last resort of a remote farmhouse—fried pork—largely figured.
We swept rapidly through the lake, a small body of water. Paddling down the narrow outlet, we soon reached the dam, which marked its terminus. A boom of logs on the near side of the structure, and the lack of an available place to land after the obstruction was passed, said plainly to boatmen, “No thoroughfare.” We dragged the canoe through a clump of willows uncomfortably close to a pig-sty, and much to our chagrin, frightened away two pretty girls who stood farther down on the path. We were soon at the dam, only to find by glancing below that the water supplied to the mills on the brook down which we had expected to float had been almost entirely shut off. We were in a quandary how to proceed. Inquiring, we learned that a mile below the stream received a tributary, and that beyond the junction we would probably find water enough to float. We tried the Adirondack plan; and one of us shouldering the boat and the other carrying as much as he could of what remained, we let down bars and climbed fences, cutting across fields in approved style, to strike the road at the most direct point. Perspiring, but persevering, we pushed on. The sky now began to darken. A thunder-storm was evidently rapidly approaching.