The sun was now throwing his copper-colored lance of light upon the tops of the highest hills. Another mile was made, a large lumber mill was discerned, and pulling out on to a closely cropped meadow at the foot of a loudly-talking rapid, we prepared to spend the night. The air was mild. We determined to dispense with a tent, and pulling our blankets closely round us, lulled by the silvery gurgle of the rushing water close by our heads, we slept as birds must sleep after a day’s free flight into the untrammeled recesses of the air.
A quarter of a mile carry, a brief sojourn at a store which we found locked, and the proprietor at work in an adjoining field, and once more we started on to turn the leaves of the book of fate. The river now showed constant current, and the landscape much diversity and beauty. Again the low, portentous monotone of a waterfall caught the ear. This one, like that of the day previous, was just possible, but not very inviting. It consisted of three low falls, not far apart, and, though the volume of the water was ample, the sinuosities of the channel, and particularly the sight on the rocks at the foot of the third, of a skiff crushed to the fineness of kindling wood, sufficed, not, perhaps, to dampen our ardor, but to prevent it from getting dampened.
After hauling our things around, we had barely paddled away from the all-pervading din, when, as that sound grew less, the noise of another rush of water took its place. This, as we advanced, possessed the air, and disclosed its source in an apparently unbroken line of white water.
We were by this time rather ashamed of having backed out so frequently. A man whom we saw just at that moment was interrogated with regard to what lay below.
“I calkerlate you fellows can’t run it,” he drawled, “leastwise in that bit of a thing. The big lumber skiffs do sometimes go to pieces down thar. No, they ain’t no falls,” he added in a reply to our inquiry, “but you be like to find two miles of as stiff rapids as you ever see.”
Rather than undertake such a long, laborious carry, we determined to take our chances. The morning was now well advanced, and the sun so warm that we could dry our things that might get wet. Elevating all our belongings above the bottom of the canoe, so as to get them out of the way of the waves we anticipated would wash in, and lashing everything firmly into position, we headed with misgiving hearts directly for the most available opening.
What a glorious run that was! A storm at sea, with massive walls of mountainous waves making clean breaches over flooded decks, a cavalry charge, the rattle of musketry, the groans of the wounded and the dying, the shouts of the attacked and of the assailants, the impetuous momentum of the gigantic missile of flesh and blood—all these might seem tame to those who have been through them, as they lose themselves in the ecstasy of the wild rush over foam-crested billows and the plunge down the rock-studded declivity with a speed too great to realize. The waves bounded in fine style. Half way down we encountered an eddy, and taking advantage of it, ran the boat up to the rocky shore, and clinging desperately, made a hasty inspection of our condition.
We were kneeling in water. Where was the sponge? It was not to be found. It must have been left at the head of the rapid. While Maynard held the boat I made my way at my best speed to where we recollected having landed. Although walking my fastest, it took me twenty minutes to go and return. The passage by water had occupied hardly two. We accounted ourselves most fortunate in getting as far as we had. I wielded the stern paddle, and it was agreed that, upon my saying left or right, as the case might be, Maynard was to paddle on the side indicated. Shoving off, we were at once in the fray again. The earth and everything solid seemed to reel and revolve. The waves of rapids are not uniform undulations—they roll and curve in all directions. As we were thrown high into the air, twisted sideways or backwards, jerked hither and thither, shot forward into a yawning depression, nothing seemed stationary—we had apparently nothing by which to be guided.
Instead of our going toward the rocks they appeared to be moving, like spent cannon-balls, right up stream. We dodged these to the best of our ability. The fun waxed fast and furious. The immediate surroundings, the channel just ahead, and the course far below, had all to be considered at once. The combination had to be worked like a mathematical puzzle, but it must needs be solved instantly. The mental and physical acrobatics proved nearly too much for me. I could not speak my own name. I wanted Maynard to make certain moves, but was utterly unable to utter the words—I could not tell left from right.
My companion remembered our understanding. Until told, he did not intend to make a stroke. We whizzed straight for a rock. I could not avoid it unassisted; and Maynard, not knowing my intentions, did not try to keep off. Luckily, it was of a gentle slope, and not much above the surface, so the canoe, instead of hitting it a fair blow, was simply lifted clean out of the river by the tremendous force of the current and launched in the water on the lower side of the obstruction. A few more spasmodic strokes, a little more spasmodic steering, and we found ourselves out of the vortex. The river that erstwhile shook its rumpled mane in anger, looked with eyes of gentle peace again. We swept through a narrow channel past a beautiful island, and, turning a bend at its foot, found ourselves in a gentle current, and in the bright sunshine of a pastoral scene, the angry roar of furious waters replaced by the sweet melody of birds.