“You fellows did pretty well to come out of that all right,” said a man who had come up behind us. “It’s no fool trick to get through there. Last summer there was a young millionaire blood that came up from Warrensburg, just for the fun of running these rapids. He had a fine cedar boat that cost him considerably over $100, and he was skillful enough to go to everlasting smash just a half mile above here.”
After a hearty dinner we spent the afternoon in getting through some minor rapids, eventually, just at dusk, pulling out to portage round a bit of water that was absolutely impassable. Our route lay over a hill, on the crest of which we paused to drink in the inspiriting scene made by the river as it leaped, bounded and reverberated through the perpendicular cañon at our feet. A house, a green meadow with a barn in the centre, made the end of the carry a most inviting spot for camping.
The next day was one of hard work. We had reached the quiet part of Schroon River. The shores were now entirely alluvial. The valley broadened and the stream wound in and out in snake-like curves. Trees, swamps and sand-bars constituted the scenery. The banks were uniformly low, and any mile, like one of a block of city houses, was a counterpart of every other.
We had been afloat that morning at seven o’clock. By unremitting labor, at eleven A. M. we had covered the distance of twenty-two miles to the village of Warrensburg. This beautiful place lies scattered in wide, shaded avenues, fine houses and attractive gardens close along the river, as if fearful lest the stream in its winding course might escape from those who prize it so highly.
Our trip was now practically ended. Lake George lay but six miles to the eastward. At the lower part of the village, a few miles before the Schroon joins the Hudson, is a rapid with an ugly reputation. We were anxious to stir our blood once more by a farewell wrestle with the river demon that had been so long slumbering. Engaging a conveyance to meet and carry us from the foot of the rapids to Lake George, I put the canoe upon my back, and marching ceremoniously through the business thoroughfare, a crowd followed us to the huge wood-pulp paper mill, at which point began our half-mile run. Well-nigh unanimous was the testimony regarding our inability to do what we had announced. An ominous shaking of all heads proclaimed that it was generally expected that we stood a better chance of getting to the bottom of the river than the bottom of the rapid, and made us feel half fool and half hero, filling us with a strong desire to act the part of neither by taking the land route out of the difficulty. However, having committed ourselves, we threw the town and people over our shoulders by slipping out into the stream. It was like a salmon ladder—all zigzag. We had a very good aquatic representation of broncho riding:
A forward plunge,
A sidelong lunge,
A dash, a splash,
A just-missed smash;
The paddles fly,