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diff --git a/38249-h/38249-h.htm b/38249-h/38249-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..268b1b4 --- /dev/null +++ b/38249-h/38249-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,14420 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<!-- $Id: header.txt 236 2009-12-07 18:57:00Z vlsimpson $ --> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of Down The Columbia, by Lewis R. Freeman. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + h1 { text-align:center; line-height:1.5; } + p.title { text-align:center; text-indent:0; + font-weight:bold; + line-height:1.4; margin-bottom:3em; } + small { font-size:60%; } + big { font-size:140%; } + + h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; +} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; +} + + ul.decimal {list-style-type: decimal;} + ul.none {list-style-type: none;} + + +.pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; +} /* page numbers */ + + +blockquote,.blockquot { + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 5%; + font-size: 90%; +} + +.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + +.bigfont {font-size: 1.3em; font-weight: bold;} + +.ralign {position: absolute;right: 11%; top: auto;} + +.caption {font-size: .8em; font-weight: bold;} + +.index {font-size: 90%; + list-style-type: none; + margin-left: 3%; + margin-top: 1em;} + +.gap4 {margin-top: 4em;} +.center {text-align: center;} + +/* Images */ +.figcenter { + margin: auto; + text-align: center; + + +} +p.caption { + margin-top: 0; /* snuggled up to its image */ + font-size: smaller; + text-align: center; + font-weight: bold; +} + +/* Footnotes */ + + +.footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + +.footnote .label {position: absolute; right: 84%; text-align: right;} + +.fnanchor { + vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: + none; +} + +/* Poetry */ + + div.poem {border:none; + text-align:left; + margin: 1em auto; + } + .poem .stanza { + margin-top: 1em; + } + .stanza span + {border:none; + display:block; + line-height: 1.2em; + padding-left: 2em; + text-indent: -2em; + margin-top: 0; + } + .stanza br { + display: none; + } + + .poem .i0 {display:block; margin-left: 0em;} + .poem .i1 {display:block; margin-left: 1em;} + .poem .i2 {display:block; margin-left: 2em;} + + + + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Down the Columbia, by Lewis R. Freeman + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Down the Columbia + +Author: Lewis R. Freeman + +Release Date: December 9, 2011 [EBook #38249] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DOWN THE COLUMBIA *** + + + + +Produced by Pat McCoy, Greg Bergquist and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 394px;"> +<img src="images/i_frontcover.jpg" width="394" height="600" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg i]</span></p> + +<h1>DOWN THE COLUMBIA</h1> + + +<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg ii]</span></p> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><a id="pageii" name="pageii"></a></p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 373px;"> +<img src="images/illo_005.jpg" width="373" height="600" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="center">Courtesy of Byron Harmon, Banff<br /> +MT. SIR DONALD, WHICH DRAINS FROM ALL SIDES TO THE COLUMBIA</span> +</div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg iii]</span></p> + +<h1> +DOWN THE COLUMBIA<br /> + +BY<br /> + +LEWIS R. FREEMAN<br /> +</h1> + +<p class="title"><big> +AUTHOR OF “IN THE TRACKS OF THE TRADES,”<br /> +“HELL’S HATCHES,” ETC.</big><br /> +</p> + +<p class="title"><big> +WITH ILLUSTRATIONS<br /> +FROM PHOTOGRAPHS</big><br /> +</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 100px;"> +<img src="images/illo_006.png" width="100" height="94" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<p class="title"><big> +NEW YORK<br /> +DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY<br /> +1921</big></p> +<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg iv]</span></p> + +<p class="center"> +<span class="smcap">Copyright 1921</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">By DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, Inc.</span></p> + +<p class="center">The Quinn & Boden Company</p> + +<p class="center">BOOK MANUFACTURERS<br /> +RAHWAY NEW JERSEY</p> +<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg v]</span></p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p class="title"><big>TO<br /> +C. L. CHESTER</big></p> + +<p class="center">Hoping he will find in these pages +some compensation for the fun +he missed in not being along.</p> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg vi]<br />[Pg vii]</span></p> + +<h2><a id="pagevi" name="pagevi"></a>INTRODUCTION</h2> + +<p>The day on which I first conceived the idea of a +boat trip down the Columbia hangs in a frame all its +own in the corridors of my memory. It was a number +of years ago—more than a dozen, I should say. Just +previously I had contrived somehow to induce the Superintendent +of the Yellowstone National Park to +grant me permission to attempt a winter journey on +ski around this most beautiful of America’s great +playgrounds. He had even sent a Government scout +along to keep, or help, me out of trouble. We were a +week out from the post at Mammoth Hot Springs.</p> + +<p>Putting the rainbow revel of the incomparable Canyon +behind, we had crossed Yellowstone Lake on the +ice and fared onward and upward until we came at +last to the long climb where the road under its ten +feet of snow wound up to the crest of the Continental +Divide. It was so dry and cold that the powdery +snow overlying the crust rustled under our ski like +autumn leaves. The air was diamond clear, so transparent +that distant mountain peaks, juggled in the +wizardry of the lens of the light, seemed fairly to +float upon the eyeball.</p> + +<p>At the summit, where we paused for breath, an old +Sergeant of the Game Patrol, letting down a tin can +on a string, brought up drinks from an air-hole which +he claimed was teetering giddily upon the very ridge-pole +of North America.</p> + +<p>“If I dip to the left,” he said, suiting the action to<span class="pagenum">[Pg viii]</span> +the word, “it’s the Pacific I’ll be robbing of a pint of +Rocky Mountain dew; while if I dip to the right it’s +the Atlantic that’ll have to settle back a notch. And +if I had a string long enough, and a wing strong +enough, to cast my can over there beyond Jackson’s +Hole,” he went on, pointing southeasterly to the +serrated peaks of the Wind River Mountains, “I +could dip from the fount of the Green River and keep +it from feeding the Colorado and the Gulf of California +by so much.”</p> + +<p>That led me to raise the question of boating by +river from the Great Divide to the sea, and the Scout, +who knew something of the Madison, Jefferson and +Gallatin to the east, and of the Salmon, Clearwater +and Snake to the west, said he reckoned the thing +could be done in either direction provided a man had +lots of time and no dependent family to think of and +shake his nerve in the pinches.</p> + +<p>The old Sergeant agreed heartily. River boating +was good, he said, because it was not opposed to Nature, +like climbing mountains, for instance, where you +were bucking the law of gravity from start to finish. +With a river it was all easy and natural. You just +got into your boat and let it go. Sooner or later, +without any especial effort on your part, you reached +your objective. You might not be in a condition to +appreciate the fact, of course, but just the same you +got there, and with a minimum of hard work. Some +rivers were better for boating than others for the +reason that you got there quicker. The Snake and +the Missouri were all very well in their way, but for +him, he’d take the Columbia. There was a river that<span class="pagenum">[Pg ix]</span> +started in mountains and finished in mountains. It +ran in mountains all the way to the sea. No slack +water in all its course. It was going somewhere all +the time. He had lived as a kid on the lower Columbia +and had trapped as a man on the upper Columbia; so +he ought to know. <i>There</i> was a “he” river if there +ever was one. If a man really wanted to travel from +snowflake to brine and not be troubled with “on-wee” +on the way, there was no stream that ran one-two-three +with the Columbia as a means of doing it.</p> + +<p>That night, where we steamed in the black depths of +a snow-submerged Government “Emergency” cabin, +the Sergeant’s old Columbia memories thawed with +the hunk of frosted beef he was toasting over the +sheet-iron stove. He told of climbing for sheep and +goat in the high Kootenay, of trailing moose and caribou +in the valleys of the Rockies, and finally of his +years of trapping on the creeks and in the canyons that +run down to the Big Bend of the Columbia; of how he +used to go down to Kinbasket Lake in the Fall, portaging +or lining the three miles of tumbling cascades at +Surprise Rapids, trap all winter on Sullivan Creek +or Middle River, and then come out in the Spring to +Revelstoke, playing ducks-and-drakes with his life +and his scarcely less valuable catch of marten, mink +and beaver running the riffles at Rock Slide, Twelve +Mile and the terrible <i>Dalles des Morts</i>. He declared +that there were a hundred miles of the Big Bend of the +Columbia that had buffaloed to a fare-ye-well any +equal stretch on any of the great rivers of North +America for fall, rocks and wild rip-rarin’ water generally. +But the dread Rapids of Death and the<span class="pagenum">[Pg x]</span> +treacherous swirls and eddies of Revelstoke Canyon +were not the last of swift water by a long shot. Just +below the defile of the Arrow Lakes the white caps +began to rear their heads again, and from there right +on down through the seven hundred miles and more +to tide-water below the Cascade Locks in Oregon +there was hardly a stretch of ten miles without its +tumble of rapids, and mostly they averaged not more +than three or four miles apart.</p> + +<p>“She’s sure some ‘he’ river,” the old chap concluded +as he began to unroll his blankets, “going somewhere +all the time, tumbling over itself all the way +trying to beat itself to the finish.”</p> + +<p>Confusing as the Sergeant was with his “he” and +“she” and “it” as to the gender of the mighty Oregon, +there was no question of the fascination of the pictures +conjured up by his descriptions of that so-well-called +“Achilles of Rivers.” Before I closed my eyes +that night I had promised myself that I should take +the first opportunity to boat the length of the Columbia, +to follow its tumultuous course from its glacial +founts to the salt sea brine, to share with it, to jostle +it in its “tumble to get there first.”</p> + +<p>I held by that resolve for more than a dozen years, +although, by a strange run of chance, I was destined to +have some experience of almost every one of the great +rivers of the world before I launched a boat upon the +Columbia. My appetite for swift water boating had +grown by what it fed on. I had come more and more +to the way of thinking of my Yellowstone companion +who held that boating down rivers was good because +it was not opposed to Nature, “like mountain climb<span class="pagenum">[Pg xi]</span>ing, +for instance, where you bucked the law of gravity +all the way.” In odd craft and various, and of diverse +degree of water worthiness, I had trusted to luck and +the law of gravity to land me somewhere to seaward +of numerous up-river points of vantage to which I had +attained by means of travel that ranged all the way +from foot and donkey-back to elephant and auto. The +Ichang gorges of the Yangtze I had run in a <i>sampan</i> +manned by a yelling crew of Szechuan coolies, and the +Salween and Irawadi below the Yunnan boundary +in weird Burmese canoes whose crews used their legs +as well as their arms in plying their carved paddles. +I had floated down the Tigris from Diarbekir to +Mosul on a <i>kalek</i> of inflated sheepskins, and the Nile +below the Nyanzas in a cranky craft of zebra hide, +whose striped sides might have suggested the idea of +modern marine camouflage. On the middle Niger I +had used a condemned gunboat’s life-raft, and on the +Zambesi a dugout of saffron-tinted wood so heavy +that it sank like iron when capsized. And it had been +in native dugouts of various crude types that I had +boated greater or lesser lengths of the swifter upper +stretches of the Orinoco, Amazon and Parana.</p> + +<p>But through it all—whether I was floating in a +reed-wrapped <i>balsa</i> on Titacaca or floundering in a +pitch-smeared <i>gufa</i> on the Euphrates—pictures conjured +up by remembered phrases of the old ex-trapper +keep rising at the back of my brain. “The big +eddy at the bend of Surprise Rapids, where you go +to look for busted boats and dead bodies;” “the +twenty-one mile of white water rolling all the way +from Kinbasket Lake to Canoe River;” “the double<span class="pagenum">[Pg xii]</span> +googly intake at the head of Gordon Rapid;” “the +black-mouthed whirlpool waiting like a wild cat at +the foot of <i>Dalles des Morts</i>”—how many times had I +seen all these in fancy! And at last the time came +when those pictures were to be made real—galvanized +into life.</p> + +<p>It was well along toward the end of last summer +that my friend C. L. Chester, whose work in filming +the scenic beauties of out-of-the-way parts of the +world has made the name Chester-Outing Pictures a +byword on both sides of the Atlantic, mentioned that +he was sending one of his cameramen to photograph +the sources of the Columbia in the Selkirks and +Rockies of western Canada. Also that he was thinking +of taking his own holiday in that incomparably +beautiful region. He supposed I knew that there +were considerable areas here that had barely been explored, +to saying nothing of photographed. This was +notably so of the Big Bend country, where the Columbia +had torn its channel between the Rockies and +Selkirks and found a way down to the Arrow Lakes. +He was especially anxious to take some kind of a boat +round the hundred and fifty miles of canyon between +Beavermouth and Revelstoke and bring out the first +movies of what he had been assured was the roughest +stretch of swift water on any of the important rivers +of the world. Was there, by any chance, a possibility +that my plans and commitments were such that I +would be free to join him in the event that he made the +trip personally?</p> + +<p>As a matter of fact there were several things that +should have prevented my breaking away for a trip to<span class="pagenum">[Pg xiii]</span> +the upper Columbia in September, not the least among +which was a somewhat similar trip I had already +planned for the Grand Canyon of the Colorado that +very month. But the mention of the Big Bend was +decisive. “I’ll go,” I said promptly. “When do you +start?”</p> + +<p>It was finally arranged that I should go on ahead +and engage men and boats for the Big Bend part of +the trip, while Chester would endeavour to disentangle +himself from business in Los Angeles and New +York in time to join his cameraman and myself for a +jaunt by packtrain to the Lake of the Hanging +Glaciers. The latter is one of the high glacial sources +of the Columbia in the Selkirks, and Chester, learning +that it had never been photographed, desired especially +to visit it in person. Returning from our visit to the +source of the river, we planned to embark on the boating +voyage around the Big Bend. It was not until +business finally intervened to make it impossible for +Chester to get away for even a portion of the trip +which he had been at such trouble to plan, that I +decided to attempt the voyage down the Columbia as +I had always dreamed of it—all the way from the +eternal snows to tide-water. At Chester’s suggestion, +it was arranged that his cameraman should accompany +me during such portion of the journey as the +weather was favourable to moving picture work.</p> + +<p>Our preliminary work and exploration among the +sources of the river over (this was carried on either +on foot or by packtrain, or in runs by canoe over short +navigable stretches of the upper river), we pushed +off from Beavermouth, at the head of the Big Bend.<span class="pagenum">[Pg xiv]</span> +For this most arduous part of the voyage there were +four in the party, with a big double-ended boat specially +built for rough water. Further down, for a +considerable stretch, we were three, in a skiff. Then, +for a couple of hundred miles, there were four of +us again, manning a raft and a towing launch. After +that we were two—just the cameraman and myself, +with the skiff. Him I finally dropped at the foot of +Priest Rapids, fifty miles above Pasco, and the last +two hundred and fifty miles down to Portland I rode +alone. This “solo” run—though a one-man boat crew +is kept rather too busy in swift water to have much +time for enjoying the scenery—was far from proving +the least interesting period of the journey.</p> + +<p>So far as I have been able to learn, my arrival in +Portland marked the end of the first complete journey +that has been made from the glacial sources of the +Columbia to tide-water. David Thompson, scientist +and explorer for the Northwest Company, racing +against the Astor sea expedition to be first to establish +a post at the mouth of the Columbia, boated down a +very large part of the navigable part of the river over +a hundred years ago. I have found no evidence, however, +that he penetrated to the glacial fields in the +Selkirks above Windermere and Columbia Lake from +which spring the main feeders of the upper river. +Thompson’s, and all of the other voyages of the early +days of which there is authentic record, started from +Boat Encampment, where the road from the plains +and Montreal led down to the Columbia by the icy +waters of Portage River, or, as it is now called, Wood +River. Thus all of the old Hudson Bay and North<span class="pagenum">[Pg xv]</span>west +voyageurs ran only the lower seventy-five miles +of the Big Bend, and avoided what is by far its worst +water—Surprise Rapids and the twenty-one miles of +cascades below Kinbasket Lake. Ross Cox, Alexander +Ross and Franchiere, whose diaries are the best +commentaries extant upon early Columbia history, +had no experience of the river above Boat Encampment. +Lewis and Clark, and Hunt, with the remnants +of the Astor transcontinental party, boated the +river only below the Snake, and this was also true of +Whitman and the other early missionaries and settlers. +Frémont made only a few days’ journey down +the river from the Dalles.</p> + +<p>Of recent down-river passages, I have been able to +learn of no voyageur who, having rounded the Big +Bend, continued his trip down to the lower Columbia. +The most notable voyage of the last three or four +decades was that of Captain F. P. Armstrong and +J. P. Forde, District Engineer of the Department of +Public Works of Nelson, British Columbia, who, +starting at the foot of the Lower Arrow Lake in a +Peterboro canoe, made the run to Pasco, just above +the mouth of the Snake, in ten days. As Captain +Armstrong already knew the upper Columbia above +the Arrow Lakes from many years of steamboating +and prospecting, and as both he and Mr. Forde, after +leaving their canoe at Pasco, continued on to Astoria +by steamer, I am fully convinced that his knowledge +of that river from source to mouth is more comprehensive +than that of any one else of the present generation. +This will be, perhaps, a fitting place to acknowledge +my obligation to Captain Armstrong (who<span class="pagenum">[Pg xvi]</span> +accompanied me in person from the mouth of the +Kootenay to the mouth of the Spokane) for advice +and encouragement which were very considerable factors +in the ultimate success of my venture. To Mr. +Forde I am scarcely less indebted for his courtesy in +putting at my disposal a copy of his invaluable report +to the Canadian Government on the proposal to open +the Columbia to through navigation to the Pacific +Ocean.</p> + +<p>Compared to the arduous journeys of the old +Astorian and Hudson Bay voyageurs on the Columbia, +my own trip—even though a considerably greater +length of river was covered than by any of my predecessors—was +negligible as an achievement. Only in +rounding the Big Bend in Canada does the voyageur +of to-day encounter conditions comparable to those +faced by those of a hundred, or even fifty years ago +who set out to travel on any part of the Columbia. +For a hundred miles or more of the Bend, now just as +much as in years long gone by, an upset with the loss +of an outfit is more likely than not to spell disaster +and probably tragedy. But in my own passage of the +Big Bend I can claim no personal credit that those +miles of tumbling water were run successfully. I was +entirely in the hands of a pair of seasoned old river +hands, and merely pulled an oar in the boat and did +a few other things when I was told.</p> + +<p>But it is on the thousand miles of swiftly flowing +water between the lower end of the Big Bend and the +Pacific that conditions have changed the most in favour +of the latter day voyageur. The rapids are, to be +sure, much as they must have appeared to Thompson,<span class="pagenum">[Pg xvii]</span> +Ross, Franchiere and their Indian contemporaries. +The few rocks blasted here and there on the lower +river in an attempt to improve steamer navigation +have not greatly simplified the problems of the man +in a rowboat or canoe. Nor is an upset in any part of +the Columbia an experience lightly to be courted even +to-day. Even below the Big Bend there are a score +of places I could name offhand where the coolest kind +of an old river hand, once in the water, would not have +one chance in ten of swimming out. In half a hundred +others he might reckon on an even break of crawling +out alive. But if luck were with him and he <i>did</i> reach +the bank with the breath in his body, then his troubles +would be pretty well behind him. Below the Canadian +border there is hardly ten miles of the river without +a farm, a village, or even a town of fair size. +Food, shelter and even medical attention are not, +therefore, ever more than a few hours away, so that +the man who survives the loss of his boat and outfit is +rarely in serious straits.</p> + +<p>But in the case of the pioneers, their troubles in like +instance were only begun. What between hostile +Indians and the loss of their only means of travel, the +chances were all against their ever pulling out with +their lives. The story of how the vicious cascade of +the <i>Dalles des Morts</i> won its grisly name, which I will +set down in its proper place, furnishes a telling instance +in point.</p> + +<p>It is a callous traveller who, in strange lands and +seas, does not render heart homage to the better men +that have gone before him. Just as you cannot sail +the Pacific for long without fancying that Cook and<span class="pagenum">[Pg xviii]</span> +Drake and Anson are sharing your night watches, so +on the Columbia it is Thompson and Cox and Lewis +and Clark who come to be your guiding spirits. At +the head of every one of the major rapids you land +just as you know they must have landed, and it is as +through their eyes that you survey the work ahead. +And when, rather against your better judgment, you +decide to attempt to run a winding gorge where the +sides are too steep to permit lining and where a portage +would mean the loss of a day—you know that the +best of the men who preceded you must have experienced +the same hollowness under the belt when they +were forced to the same decision, for were they not +always gambling at longer odds than you are? And +when, elate with the thrill of satisfaction and relief +that come from knowing that what had been a menacing +roar ahead has changed to a receding growl astern, +you are inclined to credit yourself with smartness for +having run a rapid where Thompson lined or Ross +Cox portaged, that feeling will not persist for long. +Sooner or later—and usually sooner—something or +somebody will put you right. A broken oar and all +but a mess-up in an inconsiderable riffle was all that +was needed to quench the glow of pride that I felt +over having won through the roughly tumbling left-hand +channel of Rock Island Rapids with only a short +length of lining. And it was a steady-eyed old river +captain who brought me back to earth the night I told +him—somewhat boastfully, I fear—that I had slashed +my skiff straight down the middle of the final pitch +of Umatilla Rapids, where Lewis and Clark had felt +they had to portage.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg xix]</span>“But you must not forget,” he said gently, with +just the shadow of a smile softening the line of his +firm lips, “that Lewis and Clark had something to +lose besides their lives—that they had irreplaceable +records in their care, and much work still to do. It +was their duty to take as few chances as possible. But +they never let the risk stop them when there wasn’t +any safer way. When you are pulling through Celilo +Canal a few days from now, and being eased down a +hundred feet in the locks, just remember that Lewis +and Clark put their whole outfit down the Tumwater +and Five-Mile Rapids of the Dalles, in either of which +that skiff of yours would be sucked under in half a +minute.”</p> + +<p>Bulking insignificantly as an achievement as does +my trip in comparison with the many Columbia voyages, +recorded and unrecorded, of early days, it still +seems to me that the opportunity I had for a comprehensive +survey of this grandest scenically of all the +world’s great rivers gives me warrant for attempting +to set down something of what I saw and experienced +during those stirring weeks that intervened between +that breathless moment when I let the whole stream +of the Columbia trickle down my back in a glacial ice-cave +in the high Selkirks, and that showery end-of-the-afternoon +when I pushed out into tide-water at +the foot of the Cascades.</p> + +<p>It is scant enough justice that the most gifted of +pens can do to Nature in endeavouring to picture in +words the grandest of her manifestations, and my own +quill, albeit it glides not untrippingly in writing of +lighter things, is never so inclined to halt and sputter<span class="pagenum">[Pg xx]</span> +as when I try to drive it to its task of registering in +black scrawls on white paper something of what the +sight of a soaring mountain peak, the depth of a black +gorge with a white stream roaring at the bottom, or +the morning mists rising from a silently flowing river +have registered on the sensitized sheets of my memory. +Superlative in grandeur to the last degree as are the +mountains, glaciers, gorges, waterfalls, cascades and +cliffs of the Columbia, it is to my photographs rather +than my pen that I trust to convey something of their +real message.</p> + +<p>If I can, however, pass on to my readers some suggestion +of the keenness of my own enjoyment of what +I experienced on the Columbia—of the sheer <i>joie de +vivre</i> that is the lot of the man who rides the running +road; it will have not been in vain that I have cramped +my fingers and bent my back above a desk during +several weeks of the best part of the California year. +Robert Service has written something about</p> + +<div class="poem" style="width: 28em;"> +<span class="i0">“Doing things just for the doing,</span> +<span class="i2">Letting babblers tell the story....”</span> +</div> + +<p>Shall I need to confess to my readers that the one +cloud on the seaward horizon during all of my voyage +down the Columbia was brooding there as a consequence +of the presentiment that, sooner or later, I +should have to do my own babbling?</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Pasadena</span>, July, 1921.</p> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> + + +<table border="0" style="width: 85%" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="2" summary=""> +<tr><td align="right">CHAPTER</td><td align="left"> </td><td align="center">PAGE</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right"> </td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Introduction</span></td><td align="center"><a href="#pagevi"> vi</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">I.</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Preparing for the Big Bend</span></td><td align="center"><a href="#page1">1</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">II.</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Up Horse Thief Creek</span></td><td align="center"><a href="#page20"> 20</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">III.</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">At the Glacier</span></td><td align="center"><a href="#page48"> 48</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">IV.</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Lake of the Hanging Glaciers</span></td><td align="center"><a href="#page63"> 63</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">V.</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Canal Flats to Beavermouth</span></td><td align="center"><a href="#page77"> 77</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">VI.</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Through Surprise Rapids</span></td><td align="center"><a href="#page92"> 92</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">VII.</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Kinbasket Lake and Rapids</span></td><td align="center"><a href="#page134">134</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">VIII.</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Boat Encampment to Revelstoke</span></td><td align="center"><a href="#page160">160</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">IX.</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Revelstoke to the Spokane</span></td><td align="center"><a href="#page192">192</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">X.</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Rafting Through Hell Gate</span></td><td align="center"><a href="#page235"> 235</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">XI.</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">By Launch Through Box Canyon</span></td><td align="center"><a href="#page267"> 267</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">XII.</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Chelan to Pasco</span></td><td align="center"><a href="#page286"> 286</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">XIII.</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Pasco to the Dalles</span></td><td align="center"><a href="#page323"> 323</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">XIV.</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Home Stretch</span></td><td align="center"><a href="#page360">360</a></td></tr> +</table> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<h2>ILLUSTRATIONS</h2> + +<div class="index"><ul class="none"> +<li>Mt. Sir Donald, which drains from all sides to the Columbia + +<span class="ralign"><a href="#pageii"><i>Frontispiece</i></a></span><br /> +</li></ul></div> + +<p><span class="ralign">FACING PAGE</span><br /></p> +<div class="index"><ul class="none"> +<li>Mt. Assiniboine, near the headwaters of the Columbia<span class="ralign"><a href="#page10"> 10</a></span></li> + +<li>Twin Falls, Takakaw Falls, two great cataracts of the +Columbia watershed<span class="ralign"><a href="#page11"> 11</a></span></li> + +<li>The “turning-in” scene shot in silhouette<span class="ralign"><a href="#page38">38</a></span></li> + +<li>"Reverse" of the "going-to-bed" shot<span class="ralign"><a href="#page38">38</a></span></li> + +<li>On the Horse Thief Trail<span class="ralign"><a href="#page39">39</a></span></li> + +<li>A dead-fall on the trail<span class="ralign"><a href="#page39">39</a></span></li> + +<li>Looking toward the entrance of the ice cave<span class="ralign"><a href="#page52"> 52</a></span></li> + +<li>Where the Hanging Glacier is about to fall<span class="ralign"><a href="#page53"> 53</a></span></li> + +<li>My shower bath in an ice cave<span class="ralign"><a href="#page58">58</a></span></li> + +<li>Warming up after my glacial shower bath<span class="ralign"><a href="#page58">58</a></span></li> + +<li>Ross and Harmon. Dragon moraine in distance<span class="ralign"><a href="#page59">59</a></span></li> + +<li>The horses in the mouth of the ice cave<span class="ralign"><a href="#page59"> 59</a></span></li> + +<li>Looking across the Lake of the Hanging Glaciers<span class="ralign"><a href="#page66"> 66</a></span></li> + +<li>The Lake of the Hanging Glaciers, taken from the ice +walls, looking north<span class="ralign"><a href="#page67">67</a></span></li> + +<li>The face of the Hanging Glacier<span class="ralign"><a href="#page72"> 72</a></span></li> + +<li>Where my party foregathered with Harmon’s on the shore +of the Lake of the Hanging Glacier<span class="ralign"><a href="#page73"> 73</a></span></li> + +<li>Old Hudson Bay cart at Beavermouth <span class="ralign"><a href="#page80"> 80</a></span></li> + +<li>My first push-off at the head of canoe navigation on the +Columbia<span class="ralign"><a href="#page80"> 80</a></span></li> + +<li>Opening scene of the “Farmer” picture<span class="ralign"><a href="#page81"> 81</a></span></li> + +<li>Old stern wheelers at Golden<span class="ralign"><a href="#page81"> 81</a></span></li> + +<li>A quiet stretch of the Columbia near Golden<span class="ralign"><a href="#page81"> 81</a></span></li> + +<li>Arrival of our boat at Beavermouth<span class="ralign"><a href="#page96"> 96</a></span></li> + +<li>Our first camp at Beavermouth<span class="ralign"><a href="#page96">96</a></span></li> + +<li>The remains of a sunken forest<span class="ralign"><a href="#page96">96</a></span></li> + +<li>Trapper’s cabin where we found shelter for the night<span class="ralign"><a href="#page97">97</a></span></li> + +<li>Where we landed above Surprise Rapids<span class="ralign"><a href="#page97"> 97</a></span></li> + +<li>Where we tied up at “Eight mile”<span class="ralign"><a href="#page97"> 97</a></span></li> + +<li>“Shooting” the first bit of lining at Surprise Rapids<span class="ralign"><a href="#page122">122</a></span></li> + +<li>The camp where the roar of the rapids deafened us <span class="ralign"><a href="#page122"> 122</a></span></li> + +<li>Where Steinhof was drowned <span class="ralign"><a href="#page122">122</a></span></li> + +<li>Where Andy just missed drowning in Surprise Rapids<span class="ralign"><a href="#page123"> 123</a></span></li> + +<li>Looking through the pines at Surprise Rapids<span class="ralign"><a href="#page123"> 123</a></span></li> + +<li>Head of second fall of Surprise Rapids<span class="ralign"><a href="#page123"> 123</a></span></li> + +<li>Blackmore and the ling that refused to “register”<span class="ralign"><a href="#page142"> 142</a></span></li> + +<li>The winter, with pike-pole just before lining Death Rapids<span class="ralign"><a href="#page142"> 142</a></span></li> + +<li>Andy and I pulling down Kinbasket Lake <span class="ralign"><a href="#page143">143</a></span></li> + +<li>Our wettest camp, at Kinbasket Lake <span class="ralign"><a href="#page156">156</a></span></li> + +<li>The old ferry tower above Canoe River <span class="ralign"><a href="#page156"> 156</a></span></li> + +<li>Where we tied up at Kinbasket Lake <span class="ralign"><a href="#page157"> 157</a></span></li> + +<li>The bridge which the Columbia carried a hundred miles and +placed across another stream<span class="ralign"><a href="#page157">157</a></span></li> + +<li>Lining down to the head of Death Rapids <span class="ralign"><a href="#page157">157</a></span></li> + +<li>Trapper’s cabin being undermined by stream <span class="ralign"><a href="#page168"> 168</a></span></li> + +<li>The camp above Twelve-Mile<span class="ralign"><a href="#page168">168</a></span></li> + +<li>Landing at sunset above Canoe River<span class="ralign"><a href="#page169"> 169</a></span></li> + +<li>Andy and Blackmore swinging the boat into the head of +Rock Slide Rapids<span class="ralign"><a href="#page169"> 169</a></span></li> + +<li>The big rollers, from 15 to 20 feet from hollow to crest, at +head of Death Rapids<span class="ralign"><a href="#page169">169</a></span></li> + +<li>Looking across to Boat Encampment<span class="ralign"><a href="#page180">180</a></span></li> + +<li>“Wood smoke at twilight” above Twelve-Mile<span class="ralign"><a href="#page180">180</a></span></li> + +<li>Lining down Rock Slide Rapids<span class="ralign"><a href="#page181">181</a></span></li> + +<li>When the Columbia took half of my riding breeches<span class="ralign"><a href="#page181">181</a></span></li> + +<li>Bonnington Falls of the Kootenay<span class="ralign"><a href="#page198">198</a></span></li> + +<li>Plastered log cabin in the Doukhobor village<span class="ralign"><a href="#page198">198</a></span></li> + +<li>Trucking the skiff through Kettle Falls<span class="ralign"><a href="#page199">199</a></span></li> + +<li>Twilight in the gorge at Kettle Falls<span class="ralign"><a href="#page199">199</a></span></li> + +<li>Waiting for the fog to lift above Bishop’s Rapids<span class="ralign"><a href="#page210"> 210</a></span></li> + +<li>Ross and Armstrong registering “gloom”<span class="ralign"><a href="#page210">210</a></span></li> + +<li>The “intake” at the Little Dalles<span class="ralign"><a href="#page211">211</a></span></li> + +<li>Where we started to line the Little Dalles<span class="ralign"><a href="#page211"> 211</a></span></li> + +<li>Map of the Upper Columbia<span class="ralign"><a href="#page236"> 236</a></span></li> + +<li>A “close-up” of Ike building his raft<span class="ralign"><a href="#page237"> 237</a></span></li> + +<li>My fifty pound salmon<span class="ralign"><a href="#page237"> 237</a></span></li> + +<li>Ike riding a log<span class="ralign"><a href="#page256"> 256</a></span></li> + +<li>Ike on the mooring line of the raft<span class="ralign"><a href="#page256"> 256</a></span></li> + +<li>Raft in tow of launch near mouth of San Poil<span class="ralign"><a href="#page257">257</a></span></li> + +<li>Ike at the sweep below Hell Gate<span class="ralign"><a href="#page257"> 257</a></span></li> + +<li>The suspension bridge at Chelan Falls<span class="ralign"><a href="#page270"> 270</a></span></li> + +<li>Old River veterans on the landing at Potaris. (Capt. McDermid +on left, Ike Emerson on right)<span class="ralign"><a href="#page270"> 270</a></span></li> + +<li>Night was falling as we headed into Box Canyon<span class="ralign"><a href="#page271"> 271</a></span></li> + +<li>The Columbia above Box Canyon<span class="ralign"><a href="#page271"> 271</a></span></li> + +<li>A rocky cliff near head of Lake Chelan<span class="ralign"><a href="#page288"> 288</a></span></li> + +<li>Rainbow Falls, 350 feet high, above head of Lake Chelan<span class="ralign"><a href="#page288"> 288</a></span></li> + +<li>Wenatchee under the dust cloud of its speeding autos<span class="ralign"><a href="#page289"> 289</a></span></li> + +<li>Head of Rock Island Rapids<span class="ralign"><a href="#page289"> 289</a></span></li> + +<li>The picture that cost me a wetting<span class="ralign"><a href="#page310"> 310</a></span></li> + +<li>The wreck of the “Douglas”<span class="ralign"><a href="#page310"> 310</a></span></li> + +<li>We cooked our breakfast in the galley of the wreck of the +"Douglas"<span class="ralign"><a href="#page311"> 311</a></span></li> + +<li>A rocky cliff above Beverly<span class="ralign"><a href="#page311"> 311</a></span></li> + +<li>Lifted drawbridge on Celilo Canal<span class="ralign"><a href="#page354"> 354</a></span></li> + +<li>Tumwater Gorge of the Grand Dalles<span class="ralign"><a href="#page354"> 354</a></span></li> + +<li>“Imshallah” in the lock at Five-Mile<span class="ralign"><a href="#page355"> 355</a></span></li> + +<li>“Imshallah” half way through the Celilo Canal<span class="ralign"><a href="#page355">355</a></span></li> + +<li>Palisade Rock, lower Columbia River<span class="ralign"><a href="#page362"> 362</a></span></li> + +<li>Multnomah Falls, Columbia River Highway, near Portland<span class="ralign"><a href="#page363">363</a></span></li> + +<li>City of Portland with Mt. Hood in the distance<span class="ralign"><a href="#page370"> 370</a></span></li> + +<li>Bridge on Columbia Highway near Portland, Oregon<span class="ralign"><a href="#page371"> 371</a></span></li> +</ul></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page1" name="page1">[Pg 1]</a></span></p> +<p class="title"><big>DOWN THE COLUMBIA</big></p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER I<br /> +<br /> +PREPARING FOR THE BIG BEND</h2> + +<p>The itinerary of our Columbia trip as originally +planned in Los Angeles called, first, for an expedition +to the source of the river, next, a voyage by boat +around the Big Bend from Beavermouth to Revelstoke, +and, finally, if there was time and good weather +held, a voyage of indefinite length on toward the sea. +As the trip to the glaciers was largely a matter of +engaging a good packer well in advance, while there +was no certainty of getting any one who would undertake +the passage of the Big Bend, it was to the latter +that we first directed our attention. Chester wired the +Publicity Department of the Canadian Pacific and I +wrote friends in various parts of British Columbia. +The C. P. R. replied that they had requested their +Sub-Divisional Superintendent at Revelstoke to institute +inquiries for boatmen in our behalf. The only +one of my friends who contributed anything tangible +stated that “while the Columbia above Golden and +below Revelstoke was admirably suited to pleasure +boating, any attempt to run the Big Bend between +those points would result in almost certain disaster.”</p> + +<p>As this appeared to be about the extent of what we<span class="pagenum">[Pg 2]</span> +were likely to learn from a distance, I decided to +start north at once to see what could be arranged on +the ground. Victoria yielded little save some large +scale maps, and even these, they assured me in the +Geographic Department of the B. C. Government +where I secured them, were very inaccurate as to +detail. The Big Bend region, it appeared, had never +been surveyed north of the comparatively narrow zone +of the C. P. R. grant. Several old hunting friends +whom I met at the Club, although they had ranged the +wildernesses of the Northwest from the Barren Lands +to Alaska, spoke of the Big Bend as a veritable <i>terra +incognita</i>.</p> + +<p>“It’s said to be a great country for grizzly,” one +of them volunteered, “but too hard to get at. Only +way to get in and out is the Columbia, and that is +more likely to land you in Kingdom Come than back +in Civilization. Best forget about the Big Bend and +go after sheep and goat and moose in the Kootenays.”</p> + +<p>At Kamloops I was told of an Indian who had gone +round the Big Bend the previous May, before the +Spring rise, and come out not only with his own skin, +but with those of seven grizzlies. I was unable to +locate the Indian, but did find a white man who had +made the trip with him. This chap spent half an hour +apparently endeavouring to persuade me to give up +the trip on account of the prohibitive risk (my experience +on other rivers, he declared, would be worse +than useless in such water as was to be encountered at +Surprise, Kinbasket and Death Rapids) and about +an equal amount of time trying to convince me that +my life would be perfectly safe if only I would en<span class="pagenum">[Pg 3]</span>gage +him and his Indian and confide it to their care. +As the consideration suggested in return for this immunity +figured out at between two and three times +the rate we had been expecting to pay for boatmen, +I had to decline to take advantage of it.</p> + +<p>Finally, in Revelstoke, through the efforts of T. C. +McNab of the Canadian Pacific, who had been at considerable +trouble to line up possible candidates for a +Big Bend trip, I met Bob Blackmore. After that +things began moving toward a definite end.</p> + +<p>“You won’t find old Bob Blackmore an active +church-worker,” I was told in Revelstoke, “and at +one time he had the reputation of being the smoothest +thing in the way of a boot-legger in this part of +B. C. But he drinks little himself, is a past-master of +woodcraft, a dead shot, and has twice the experience +of swift-water boating of any man on the upper Columbia. +In spite of the fact that he has undergone +no end of hardship in his thirty years of packing, +hunting, prospecting, trapping and boating all over +the West, he’s as hard to-day at fifty odd as most men +are at thirty. Because he dished a boatload of freight +last year somewhere up river, there are a few who are +saying that old Bob Blackmore is losing his grip. +Don’t believe it. He was never better in his life than +he is right now, and if you can persuade him to run +your show round the Big Bend you’re in luck. Once +you start, you’ll come right on round to Revelstoke all +right. No fear on that score. But if you have old +Bob Blackmore you’ll stand a jolly lot better chance +of arriving on top of the water.”</p> + +<p>I found Bob Blackmore at his river-side home in the<span class="pagenum">[Pg 4]</span> +old town—what had been the metropolitan centre of +Revelstoke in the days when it was the head of navigation +of steamers from below the Arrow Lakes, and +before the railway had come to drag settlement a +mile northeastward and away from the Columbia. +He was picking apples with one hand and slapping +mosquitoes with the other—a grey-haired, grey-eyed +man of middle height, with a muscular torso, a steady +stare, and a grip that I had to meet half way to save +my fingers. He might have passed for a well-to-do +Middle Western farmer except for his iron-grey +moustaches, which were long and drooping, like those +affected by cowboy-town sheriffs in the movies.</p> + +<p>I knew at once that this was the man I wanted, and +my only doubt was as to whether or not he felt the +same way about me. They had told me in town that +Blackmore, having some means and being more or less +independent, never went out with a man or an outfit +he did not like. I felt that it was I who was on approval, +not he. I need not have worried, however. In +this instance, at least, Bob Blackmore’s mind was +made up in advance. It was the movies that had +done it.</p> + +<p>“The C. P. R. people wrote me that you might be +wanting me for the Bend,” he said genially after I +had introduced myself, “and on the chance that we +would be hitching up I have put my big boat in the +water to give her a good soaking. I’ve figured that +she’s the only boat on the upper river that will do for +what you want. I reckon I know them all. She’ll +carry three or four times as much as the biggest Peterboro. +Besides, if you tried to go round in canoes,<span class="pagenum">[Pg 5]</span> +you’d be portaging or lining in a dozen places where +I would drive this one straight through. With any +luck, and if the water doesn’t go down too fast, I’d +figure on going the whole way without taking her out +of the river at more’n one place, and maybe not there.”</p> + +<p>“So you’re willing to go ahead and see us through,” +I exclaimed delightedly. “They told me in the town +that you’d probably need a lot of persuading, especially +as you’ve been saying for the last two or three +years that you were through with the Bend for good +and all.”</p> + +<p>Blackmore grinned broadly and somewhat sheepishly. +“So I have,” he said. “Fact is, I’ve never yet +been round the Bend that I didn’t tell myself and +everybody else that I’d never try it again. I really +meant it the last time, which was three or four years +ago. And I’ve really meant it every time I said it +right up to a few days back, when I heard that you +wanted to take a movie machine in there and try and +get some pictures. If that was so, I said to myself, +it was sure up to me to do what I could to help, for +there’s scenery in there that is more worth picturing +than any I’ve come across in thirty years of knocking +around all over the mountain country of the West. +So I’m your man if you want me. Of course you +know something of what you’re going up against in +bucking the Bend?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” I replied a bit wearily. “I’ve been hearing +very little else for the last week. Let’s talk about the +scenery.”</p> + +<p>“So they’ve been trying to frighten you out of it,” +he said with a sympathetic smile. “They always do<span class="pagenum">[Pg 6]</span> +that with strangers who come here to tackle the Bend. +And mostly they succeed. There was one chap they +couldn’t stop, though. He was a professor of some +kind from Philadelphia. Fact is, he wasn’t enough +frightened. That’s a bad thing with the Columbia, +which isn’t to be taken liberties with. I buried him +near the head of Kinbasket Lake. We’ll see his grave +when we come down from Surprise Rapids. I’ll want +to stop off for a bit and see if the cross I put up is still +standing. He was....”</p> + +<p>“<i>Et tu Brute</i>,” I muttered under my breath. Then, +aloud: “Let’s look at the boat.”</p> + +<p>Already this penchant of the natives for turning the +pages of the Big Bend’s gruesome record of death and +disaster was getting onto my nerves, and it was rather +a shock to find even the quiet-spoken, steady-eyed +Blackmore addicted to the habit. Afterwards, when +I got used to it, I ceased to mind. As a matter of +fact, the good souls could no more help expatiating +on what the Big Bend had done to people who had +taken liberties with it than an aviator who is about to +take you for a flight can help leading you round back +of the hangar and showing you the wreckage of his +latest crash. It seems to be one of the inevitable +promptings of the human animal to warn his brother +animal of troubles ahead. This is doubtless the outgrowth +of the bogies and the “don’ts” which are calculated +to check the child’s explorative and investigative +instincts in his nursery days. From the source to +the mouth of the Columbia it was never (according to +the solicitous volunteer advisers along the way) the +really dangerous rapids that I had put behind me.<span class="pagenum">[Pg 7]</span> +These were always somewhere ahead—usually just +around the next bend, where I would run into them +the first thing in the morning. Luckily, I learned to +discount these warnings very early in the game, and +so saved much sleep which it would have been a real +loss to be deprived of.</p> + +<p>Blackmore led the way back through his apple +orchard and down a stairway that descended the +steeply-sloping river bank to his boat-house. The +Columbia, a quarter of a mile wide and with just a +shade of grey clouding its lucent greenness to reveal +its glacial origin, slid swiftly but smoothly by with a +purposeful current of six or seven miles an hour. A +wing-dam of concrete, evidently built to protect the +works of a sawmill a bit farther down stream, jutted +out into the current just above, and the boat-house, set +on a raft of huge logs, floated in the eddy below.</p> + +<p>There were two boats in sight, both in the water. +Blackmore indicated the larger one of the pair—a +double-ender of about thirty feet in length and generous +beam—as the craft recommended for the Big +Bend trip. “I built her for the Bend more than fifteen +years ago,” he said, tapping the heavy gunwale +with the toe of his boot. “She’s the only boat I know +that has been all the way round more than once, so +you might say she knows the road. She’s had many a +hard bump, but—with any luck—she ought to stand +one or two more. Not that I’m asking for any more +than can be helped, though. There’s no boat ever +built that will stand a head-on crash ’gainst a rock in +any such current as is driving it down Surprise or +Kinbasket or Death Rapids, or a dozen other runs of<span class="pagenum">[Pg 8]</span> +swift water on the Bend. Of course, you’re going to +hit once in a while, spite of all you can do; but, if +you’re lucky, you’ll probably kiss off without staving +in a side. If you’re not—well, if you’re not +lucky, you have no business fooling with the Bend +at all.</p> + +<p>“Now what I like about this big boat of mine,” he +continued, taking up the scope of the painter to bring +her in out of the tug of the current, “is that she’s a +lucky boat. Never lost a man out of her—that is, +directly—and only one load of freight. Now with +that one (indicating the smaller craft, a canoe-like +double-ender of about twenty feet) it’s just the other +way. If there’s trouble around she’ll have her nose +into it. She’s as good a built boat as any on the river, +easy to handle up stream and down—but unlucky. +Why, only a few weeks ago a lad from the town borrowed +her to have a bit of a lark running the ripple +over that dam there. It’s covered at high water, and +just enough of a pitch to give the youngsters a little +excitement in dropping over. Safe enough stunt with +any luck at all. But that boat’s not lucky. She +drifted on sidewise, caught her keel and capsized. The +lad and the two girls with him were all drowned. They +found his body a week or two later. All his pockets +were turned wrong-side-out and empty. The Columbia +current most always plays that trick on a man—picks +his pockets clean. The bodies of the girls never +did show up. Probably the sand got into their clothes +and held them down. That’s another little trick of +the Columbia. She’s as full of tricks as a box of +monkeys, that old stream there, and you’ve got to<span class="pagenum">[Pg 9]</span> +keep an eye lifting for ’em all the time if you’re going +to steer clear of trouble.”</p> + +<p>“It won’t be the first time I’ve had my pockets +picked,” I broke in somewhat testily. “Besides, if +you’re going to charge me at the rate that Indian I +heard of in Kamloops demanded, there won’t be anything +left for the Columbia to extract.”</p> + +<p>That brought us down to business, and I had no +complaint to make of the terms Blackmore suggested—twelve +dollars a day for himself and boat, I to buy +the provisions and make my own arrangements with +any additional boatmen. I already had sensed +enough of the character of the work ahead to know +that a good boatman would be cheap at any price, and +a poor one dear if working only for his grub. Blackmore +was to get the big boat in shape and have it +ready to ship by rail to Beavermouth (at the head of +the Bend and the most convenient point to get a craft +into the river) when I returned from the source of the +Columbia above Windermere.</p> + +<p>Going on to Golden by train from Revelstoke, I +looked up Captain F. P. Armstrong, with whom I had +already been in communication by wire. The Captain +had navigated steamers between Golden and Windermere +for many years, they told me at C. P. R. headquarters +in Revelstoke, and had also some experience +of the Bend. He would be unable to join me for the +trip himself, but had spoken to one or two men who +might be induced to do so. In any event his advice +would be invaluable.</p> + +<p>I shall have so much to say of Captain Armstrong +in the account of a later part of my down-river voy<span class="pagenum">[Pg 10]</span>age +that the briefest introduction to a man who has +been one of the most picturesque personalities in the +pioneering history of British Columbia will suffice +here. Short, compactly but cleanly built, with iron-grey +hair, square, determined jaw and piercing black +eyes, he has been well characterized as “the biggest +little man on the upper Columbia.” Although he +confessed to sixty-three years, he might well have +passed for fifty, a circumstance which doubtless had +much to do with the fact that he saw three years of +active service in the transport service on the Tigris +and Nile during the late war. Indeed, as became apparent +later, he generally had as much reserve energy +at the end of a long day’s paddling as another man +I could mention who is rather loath to admit +forty.</p> + +<p><a id="page10" name="page10"></a></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 393px;"> +<img src="images/illo_042.jpg" width="393" height="600" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">Courtesy of Byron Harmon, Banff<br /> +MT. ASSINIBOINE, NEAR THE HEADWATERS OF THE COLUMBIA</span> +</div> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p><a id="page11" name="page11"></a></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> +<img src="images/illo_043.jpg" width="600" height="425" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">TWIN FALLS (<i>left</i>)<br /> +TAKAKAWA FALLS (<i>right</i>)<br /> +TWO GREAT CATARACTS OF THE COLUMBIA WATERSHED</span> +</div> + +<p>Captain Armstrong explained that he was about to +close the sale of one of his mines on a tributary of the +upper Columbia, and for that reason would be unable +to join us for the Big Bend trip, as much as he would +have enjoyed doing so. In the event that I decided +to continue on down the Columbia after circling the +Bend, it was just possible he would be clear to go +along for a way. He spoke highly of Blackmore’s +ability as a river man, and mentioned one or two others +in Golden whom he thought might be secured. Ten +dollars a day was the customary pay for a boatman +going all the way round the Bend. That was about +twice the ordinary wage prevailing at the time in the +sawmills and lumber camps. The extra five was +partly insurance, and partly because the work was +hard and really good river men very scarce. It was +<span class="pagenum">[Pg 11]</span>fair pay for an experienced hand. A poor boatman +was worse than none at all, that is, in a pinch, while a +good one might easily mean the difference between +success and disaster. And of course I knew that disaster +on the Bend—with perhaps fifty miles of trackless +mountains between a wet man on the bank and +the nearest human habitation—was spelt with a +big D.</p> + +<p>So far as I can remember, Captain Armstrong was +the only one with whom I talked in Golden who did +not try to dramatize the dangers and difficulties of the +Big Bend. Seemingly taking it for granted that I +knew all about them, or in any case would hear enough +of them from the others, he turned his attention to +forwarding practical plans for the trip. He even +contributed a touch of romance to a venture that the +rest seemed a unit in trying to make me believe was a +sort of a cross between going over Niagara in barrel +and a flight to one of the Poles.</p> + +<p>“There was a deal of boot-legging on the river between +Golden and Boat Encampment during the +years the Grand Trunk was being built,” he said as +we pored over an outspread map of the Big Bend, +“for that was the first leg of the run into the western +construction camps, where the sale of liquor was forbidden +by law. Many and many a boatload of the +stuff went wrong in the rapids. This would have been +inevitable in any case, just in the ordinary course of +working in such difficult water. But what made the +losses worse was the fact that a good many of the bootleggers +always started off with a load under their belts +as well as in their boats. Few of the bodies were ever<span class="pagenum">[Pg 12]</span> +found, but with the casks of whisky it was different, +doubtless because the latter would float longer and +resist buffeting better. Cask after cask has kept +turning up through the years, even down to the present, +when B. C. is a comparative desert. They are +found in the most unexpected places, and it’s very +rare for a party to go all the way round the Bend +without stumbling onto one. So bear well in mind you +are not to go by anything that looks like a small barrel +without looking to see if it has a head in both ends. +If you have time, it will pay you to clamber for a few +hours over the great patch of drift just below Middle +River on Kinbasket Lake. That’s the one great catch-all +for everything floatable that gets into the river +below Golden. I’ve found just about everything there +from a canary bird cage to a railway bridge. Failing +there (which will only be because you don’t search +long enough), dig sixteen paces northwest by compass +from the foundation of the west tower of the +abandoned cable ferry just above Boat Encampment.”</p> + +<p>“How’s that again!” I exclaimed incredulously. +“Sure you aren’t confusing the Big Bend with the +Spanish Main?”</p> + +<p>“If you follow my directions,” replied the Captain +with a grin, “you’ll uncover more treasure for five +minutes’ scratching than you’d be likely to find in +turning over the Dry Tortugas for five years. You +see, it was this way,” he went on, smiling the smile of +a man who speaks of something which has strongly +stirred his imagination. “It was only a few weeks +after Walter Steinhoff was lost in Surprise Rapids<span class="pagenum">[Pg 13]</span> +that I made the trip round the Bend in a Peterboro to +examine some silver-lead prospects I had word of. I +had with me Pete Bergenham (a first-class river man; +one you will do well to get yourself if you can) and +another chap. This fellow was good enough with the +paddle, but—though I didn’t know it when I engaged +him—badly addicted to drink. That’s a fatal weakness +for a man who is going to work in swift water, +and especially such water as you strike at Surprise +and the long run of Kinbasket Rapids. The wreckage +of Steinhoff’s disaster (Blackmore will spin you +the straightest yarn about that) was scattered all the +way from the big whirlpool in Surprise Rapids down +to Middle River, where they finally found his body. +We might easily have picked up more than the one +ten-gallon cask we bumped into, floating just submerged, +in the shallows of the mud island at the head +of Kinbasket Lake.</p> + +<p>“I didn’t feel quite right about having so much +whisky along; but the stuff had its value even in those +days, and I would have felt still worse about leaving +it to fall into the hands of some one who would be +less moderate in its use than would I. I knew Pete +Bergenham was all right, and counted on being able +to keep an eye on the other man. That was just +where I fell down. I should have taken the cask to +bed with me instead of leaving it in the canoe.</p> + +<p>“When the fellow got to the whisky I never knew, +but it was probably well along toward morning. He +was already up when I awoke, and displayed unwonted +energy in getting breakfast and breaking +camp. If I had known how heavily he had been tip<span class="pagenum">[Pg 14]</span>pling +I would have given him another drink before +pushing off to steady his nerve. That might have held +him all right. As it was, reaction in mind and body +set in just as we headed into that first sharp dip below +the lake—the beginning of the twenty-one miles +of Kinbasket Rapids. At the place where the bottom +has dropped out from under and left the channel +blocked by jagged rocks with no place to run +through, he collapsed as if kicked in the stomach, and +slithered down into the bottom of the canoe, blubbering +like a baby. We just did manage to make our +landing above the cascade. With a less skilful man +than Bergenham at the stern paddle we would have +failed, and that would have meant that we should +probably not have stopped for good before we settled +into the mud at the bottom of the Arrow Lakes.</p> + +<p>“Even after that I could not find it in my heart to +dish for good and all so much prime whisky. So I +compromised by burying it that night, after we had +come through the rapids without further mishap, at +the spot I have told you of. That it was the best thing +to do under the circumstances I am quite convinced. +The mere thought that it was still in the world has +cheered me in many a thirsty interval—yes, even +out on the Tigris and the Nile, when there was no certainty +I would ever come back to get it again.</p> + +<p>“And now I’m going to tell you how to find it, for +there’s no knowing if I shall ever have a chance to go +for it myself. If you bring it out to Revelstoke safely, +we’ll split it fifty-fifty, as they say on your side of the +line. All I shall want to know is who your other boatmen +are going to be. Blackmore is all right, but if<span class="pagenum">[Pg 15]</span> +any one of the men whom he takes with him is a real +drinker, you’d best forget the whole thing. If it’s an +‘all-sober’ crew, I’ll give you a map, marked so plainly +that you can’t go wrong. It will be a grand haul, for +it was Number One Scotch even when we planted it +there, and since then it has been ageing in wood for +something like ten years. I suppose you’ll be keen to +smuggle your dividend right on down into the ‘The +Great American Desert’?” he concluded with a grin.</p> + +<p>“Trust me for that,” I replied with a knowing shake +of my head. “I didn’t spend six months writing up +opium smuggling on the China Coast for nothing.” +Then I told him the story of the Eurasian lady who +was fat in Amoy and thin in Hongkong, and who +finally confessed to having smuggled forty pounds of +opium, three times a week for five years, in oiled silk +hip- and bust-pads.</p> + +<p>“You must have a lot of prime ideas,” said the +Captain admiringly. “You ought to make it easy, +especially if you cross the line by boat. How would a +false bottom ... but perhaps it would be safer to +float it down submerged, with an old shingle-bolt for +a buoy, and pick it up afterwards.”</p> + +<p>“Or inside my pneumatic mattress,” I suggested. +“But perhaps it would taste from the rubber.” By +midnight we had evolved a plan which could not fail, +and which was almost without risk. “The stuff’s as +good as in California,” I told myself before I went to +sleep—“and enough to pay all the expenses of my trip +in case I should care to boot-leg it, which I won’t.”</p> + +<p>Captain Armstrong’s mention of the Steinhoff disaster +was not the first I had heard of it. The chap<span class="pagenum">[Pg 16]</span> +with whom I had talked in Kamloops had shown me a +photograph of a rude cross that he and his Indian +companion had erected over Steinhoff’s grave, and in +Revelstoke nearly every one who spoke of the Bend +made some reference to the tragic affair. But here in +Golden, which had been his home, the spectacularity of +his passing seemed to have had an even more profound +effect. As with everything else connected with the +Big Bend, however, there was a very evident tendency +to dramatize, to “play up,” the incident. I +heard many different versions of the story, but there +was one part, the tragic finale, in which they all were +in practical agreement. When his canoe broke loose +from its line, they said, and shot down toward the big +whirlpool at the foot of the second cataract of Surprise +Rapids, Steinhoff, realizing that there was no +chance of the light craft surviving the maelstrom, +coolly turned round, waved farewell to his companions +on the bank, and, folding his arms, went down to his +death. Canoe and man were sucked completely out +of sight, never to be seen again until the fragments +of the one and the battered body of the other were +cast up, weeks later, many miles below.</p> + +<p>It was an extremely effective story, especially as +told by the local member in the B. C. Provincial Assembly, +who had real histrionic talent. But somehow +I couldn’t quite reconcile the Nirvanic resignation +implied by the farewell wave and the folded arms with +the never-say-die, cat-with-nine-lives spirit I had +come to associate with your true swift-water boatman +the world over. I was quite ready to grant that the +big sockdolager of a whirlpool below the second pitch<span class="pagenum">[Pg 17]</span> +of Surprise Rapids was a real all-day and all-night +sucker, but the old river hand who gave up to it like +the Kentucky coons at the sight of Davy Crockett’s +squirrel-gun wasn’t quite convincing. That, and the +iterated statement that Steinhoff’s canoe-mate, who +was thrown into the water at the same time, won his +way to the bank by walking along the bottom <i>beneath</i> +the surface, had a decidedly steadying effect on the +erratic flights to which my fancy had been launched +by Big Bend yarns generally. There had been something +strangely familiar in them all, and finally it +came to me—Chinese <i>feng-shui</i> generally, and particularly +the legends of the sampan men of the portage +villages along the Ichang gorges of the Yangtze. +The things the giant dragon lurking in the whirlpools +at the foot of the rapids would do to the luckless ones +he got his back-curving teeth into were just a slightly +different way of telling what the good folk of Golden +claimed the Big Bend would do to the hapless wights +who ventured down its darksome depths.</p> + +<p>Now that I thought of it in this clarifying light, +there had been “dragon stuff” bobbing up about almost +every stretch of rough water I had boated. +Mostly it was native superstition, but partly it was +small town pride—pride in the things their “Dragon” +had done, and would do. Human nature—yes, and +river rapids, too—are very much the same the world +over, whether on the Yangtze, Brahmaputra or upper +Columbia.</p> + +<p>That brought the Big Bend into its proper perspective. +I realized that it was only water running +down hill after all. Possibly it was faster than any<span class="pagenum">[Pg 18]</span>thing +I had boated previously, and certainly—excepting +the Yukon perhaps—colder. A great many men +had been drowned in trying to run it; but so had men +been drowned in duck-ponds. But many men had +gone round without disaster, and that would I do, +<i>Imshallah</i>. I always liked that pious Arab qualification +when speaking of futurities. Later I applied +the name—in fancy—to the skiff in which I made the +voyage down the lower river.</p> + +<p>Yes, undoubtedly the most of the yarns and the +warnings were “dragon stuff” pure and simple, but +Romance remained. A hundred miles of river with +possible treasure lurking in every eddy, and one place +where it <i>had</i> to be! I felt as I did the first time I +read “Treasure Island,” only more so. For that I +had only <i>read</i>, and now I was going to search for myself—yes, +and I was going to find, too. It was a golden +sunset in more ways than one the evening before +I was to leave for the upper river. Barred and +spangled and fluted with liquid, lucent gold was the +sky above hills that were themselves golden with the +tints of early autumn. And in the Northwest there +was a flush of rose, old rose that deepened and glowed +in lambent crimson where a notch between the Selkirks +and Rockies marked the approximate location +of historic Boat Encampment. “Great things have +happened at Boat Encampment,” I told myself, “and +its history is not all written.” Then: “Sixteen paces +northwest by compass from the foundation of the +west tower of the abandoned cable ferry....” Several +times during dinner that evening I had to check +myself from humming an ancient song. “What’s that<span class="pagenum">[Pg 19]</span> +about, ‘<i>Yo, ho, ho and a bottle of rum</i>’?” queried the +mackinaw drummer from Winnipeg who sat next me. +“I thought you were from the States. I don’t quite +see the point.”</p> + +<p>“It’s just as well you don’t,” I replied, and was +content to let it go at that.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page20" name="page20">[Pg 20]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER II<br /> +<br /> +UP HORSE THIEF CREEK</h2> + + +<p>When I started north from Los Angeles toward +the end of August Chester, held up for the moment by +business, was hoping to be able to shake free so as to +arrive on the upper Columbia by the time I had arrangements +for the Big Bend voyage complete. We +would then go together to the Lake of the Hanging +Glaciers before embarking on the Bend venture. +Luck was not with him, however. The day I was +ready to start on up river from Golden I received a +wire stating that he was still indefinitely delayed, and +that the best that there was now any chance of his +doing would be to join me for the Bend. He had +ordered his cameraman to Windermere, where full +directions for the trip to the glaciers awaited him. He +hoped I would see fit to go along and help with the +picture, as some “central figure” besides the guides +and packers would be needed to give the “story” continuity. +I replied that I would be glad to do the best +I could, and left for Lake Windermere by the next +train. Few movie stars have ever been called to +twinkle upon shorter notice.</p> + +<p>One is usually told that the source of the Columbia +is in Canal Flats, a hundred and fifty miles above Golden, +and immediately south of a wonderfully lovely +mountain-begirt lake that bears the same name as the +river. This is true in a sense, although, strictly speak<span class="pagenum">[Pg 21]</span>ing, +the real source of the river—the one rising at the +point the greatest distance from its mouth—would be +the longest of the many mountain creeks which converge +upon Columbia Lake from the encompassing +amphitheatre of the Rockies and Selkirks. This is +probably Dutch Creek, which rises in the perpetual +snow of the Selkirks and sends down a roaring torrent +of grey-green glacier water into the western side +of Columbia Lake. Scarcely less distant from the +mouth of the Columbia are the heads of Toby and +Horse Thief creeks, both of which bring splendid +volumes of water to the mother river just below Lake +Windermere.</p> + +<p>It was the presence of the almost totally unknown +Lake of the Hanging Glaciers near the head of the +Horse Thief Creek watershed that was responsible +for Chester’s determination to carry his preliminary +explorations up to the latter source of the Columbia +rather than to one slightly more remote above the +upper lake. We had assurance that a trail, upon +which work had been in progress all summer, would +be completed by the middle of September, so that it +would then be possible for the first time to take pack-horses +and a full moving-picture outfit to one of the +rarest scenic gems on the North American continent, +the Lake of the Hanging Glaciers. To get the first +movies of what is claimed to be the only lake in the +world outside of the polar regions that has icebergs +perpetually floating upon its surface was the principal +object of Chester in directing his outfit up Horse +Thief Creek. My own object was to reach one of the +several points where the Columbia took its rise in the<span class="pagenum">[Pg 22]</span> +glacial ice, there to do a right-about and start upon my +long-dreamed-of journey from snowflake to brine.</p> + +<p>It is a dozen years or more since one could travel +the hundred miles of the Columbia between Golden +and Lake Windermere by steamer. The comparatively +sparse population in this rich but thinly settled +region was not sufficient to support both rail and +river transport, and with the coming of the former +the latter could not long be maintained. Two or +three rotting hulks on the mud by the old landing at +Golden are all that remain of one of the most picturesque +steamer services ever run, for those old +stern-wheelers used to flounder up the Columbia to +Windermere, on through Mud and Columbia Lakes +to Canal Flats, through a log-built lock to the Kootenay +watershed, and then down the winding canyons +and tumbling rapids of that tempestuous stream to +Jennings, Montana. Those were the bonanza days +of the upper Columbia and Kootenay—such days as +they have never seen since nor will ever see again. +I was to hear much of them later from Captain Armstrong +when we voyaged a stretch of the lower river +together.</p> + +<p>There is a train between Golden and Windermere +only three times a week. It is an amiable, ambling +“jerk-water,” whose conductor does everything from +dandling babies to unloading lumber. At one station +he held over for five minutes to let me run down to a +point where I could get the best light on a “reflection” +picture in the river, and at another he ran the +whole train back to pick up a basket of eggs which +had been overlooked in the rush of departure. The<span class="pagenum">[Pg 23]</span> +Canadian Pacific has the happy faculty of being all +things to all men. Its main line has always impressed +me as being the best-run road I have ever travelled on +in any part of the world, including the United States. +One would hardly characterize its little country feeders +in the same words, but even these latter, as the +instances I have noted will bear out, come about as +near to being run for the accommodation of the travelling +public as anything one will ever find. There is +not the least need of hurrying this Golden-Windermere +express. It stops over night at Invermere anyway, +before continuing its leisurely progress southward +the next morning.</p> + +<p>Chester’s cameraman met me with a car at the station, +and we rode a mile to the hotel at Invermere, on +the heights above the lake. His name was Roos, he +said—Len H. Roos of N. Y. C. It was his misfortune +to have been born in Canada, he explained, but +he had always had a great admiration for Americans, +and had taken out his first papers for citizenship. He +could manage to get on with Canadians in a pinch, +he averred further; but as for Britishers—no “Lime-juicers” +for him, with their “G’bly’me’s” and afternoon +teas. I saw that this was going to be a difficult +companion, and took the occasion to point out that, +since he was going to be in Canada for some weeks, it +might be just as well to bottle up his rancour against +the land of his birth until he was back on the other +side of the line and had completed the honour he intended +to do Uncle Sam by becoming an American +citizen. Maybe I was right, he admitted thoughtfully; +but it would be a hard thing for him to do, as he<span class="pagenum">[Pg 24]</span> +was naturally very frank and outspoken and a great +believer in saying just what he thought of people and +things.</p> + +<p>He was right about being outspoken. He had +also rather a glittering line of dogma on the finer +things of life. Jazz was the highest form of music +(he ought to know, for had he not played both jazz +and grand opera when he was head drummer of the +Galt, Ontario, town band?); the Mack Sennett bathing +comedy was his <i>belle ideal</i> of kinematic art; and +the newspapers of William Hearst were the supreme +development of journalism. This latter he knew, because +he had done camera work for a Hearst syndicate +himself. I could manage to make a few degrees +of allowance for jazz and the Mack Sennett knockabouts +under the circumstances, but the deification of +Hearst created an unbridgeable gulf. I foresaw that +“director” and “star” were going to have bumpy +sledding, but also perceived the possibility of comedy +elements which promised to go a long way toward redeeming +the enforced partnership from irksomeness, +that is, if the latter were not too prolonged. That it +could run to six or seven weeks and the passage of +near to a thousand miles of the Columbia without +turning both “director” and “star” into actual assassins, +I would never have believed. Indeed, I am +not able to figure out even now how it could have +worked out that way. I can’t explain it. I merely +state the fact.</p> + +<p>Walter Nixon, the packer who was to take us “up +Horse Thief,” had been engaged by wire a week previously. +His outfit had been ready for several days,<span class="pagenum">[Pg 25]</span> +and he called at the hotel the evening of my arrival +to go over the grub list and make definite plans. As +there were only two of us, he reckoned that ten horses +and two packers would be sufficient to see us through. +The horses would cost us two dollars a day a head, and +the packers five dollars apiece. The provisions he +would buy himself and endeavour to board us at a +dollar and a half apiece a man. This footed up to +between thirty-five and forty dollars a day for the +outfit, exclusive of the movie end. It seemed a bit +stiff offhand, but was really very reasonable considering +present costs of doing that kind of a thing and the +thoroughly first-class service Nixon gave us from beginning +to end.</p> + +<p>Nixon himself I was extremely well impressed with. +He was a fine up-standing fellow of six feet or more, +black-haired, black-eyed, broad-shouldered and a +swell of biceps and thigh that even his loose-fitting +mackinaws could not entirely conceal. I liked particularly +his simple rig-out, in its pleasing contrast +to the cross-between-a-movie-cowboy-and-a-Tyrolean-yodeler +garb that has come to be so much affected +by the so-called guides at Banff and Lake Louise. +Like the best of his kind, Nixon was quiet-spoken and +leisurely of movement, but with a suggestion of +powerful reserves of both vocabulary and activity. I +felt sure at first sight that he was the sort of a man +who could be depended upon to see a thing through +whatever the difficulties, and I never had reason to +change my opinion on that score.</p> + +<p>It was arranged that night that Nixon should get +away with the pack outfit by noon of the next day, and<span class="pagenum">[Pg 26]</span> +make an easy stage of it to the Starbird Ranch, at the +end of the wagon-road, nineteen miles out from Invermere. +The following morning Roos and I would +come out by motor and be ready to start by the time +the horses were up and the packs on. That gave us +an extra day for exploring Windermere and the more +imminent sources of the Columbia.</p> + +<p>Roos’ instructions from Chester called for a +“Windermere Picture,” in which should be shown the +scenic, camping, fishing and hunting life of that region. +The scenic and camping shots he had already +made; the fish and the game had eluded him. I arrived +just in time to take part in the final scurry to +complete the picture. The fish to be shown were +trout, and the game mountain sheep and goat, or at +least that was the way Roos planned it at breakfast +time. When inquiry revealed that it would take a day +to reach a trout stream, and three days to penetrate to +the haunts of the sheep and goats, he modified the +campaign somewhat to conform with the limited time +at our disposal. Close at hand in the lake there was +a fish called the squaw-fish, which, floundering at the +end of a line, would photograph almost like a trout, or +so the hotel proprietor thought. And the best of it +was that any one could catch them. Indeed, at times +one had to manœuvre to keep them from taking the +bait that was meant for the more gamy and edible, +but also far more elusive, ling or fresh-water cod. +As for the game picture, said Roos, he would save +time by having a deer rounded up and driven into the +lake, where he would pursue it with a motor boat and +shoot the required hunting pictures. He would like<span class="pagenum">[Pg 27]</span> +to have me dress like a tourist and do the hunting and +fishing. That would break me in to adopting an easy +and pleasing manner before the camera, so that a +minimum of film would be spoiled when he got down +to our regular work on the Hanging Glacier picture. +It wouldn’t take long. That was the advantage of +“news” training for a cameraman. You could do +things in a rush when you had to.</p> + +<p>Mr. Clelland, secretary of the Windermere Company, +courteously found us tackle and drove us down +to the outlet of the lake to catch the squaw-fish. +Three hours later he drove us back to the hotel for +lunch without one single fragment of our succulent +salt-pork bait having been nuzzled on its hook. I +lost my “easy and pleasing manner” at the end of the +first hour, and Roos—who was under rather greater +tension in standing by to crank—somewhat sooner. +He said many unkind things about fish in general and +squaw-fish in particular before we gave up the fight +at noon, and I didn’t improve matters at all by suggesting +that I cut out the picture on a salmon can +label, fasten it to my hook, and have him shoot me +catching that. There was no sense whatever in the +idea, he said. You had to have studio lighting to get +away with that sort of thing. He couldn’t see how I +could advance such a thing seriously. As I had some +doubts on that score myself, I didn’t start an argument.</p> + +<p>In the afternoon no better success attended our +effort to make the hunting picture,—this because no +one seemed to know where a deer could be rounded up +and driven into the lake. Again I discovered a way<span class="pagenum">[Pg 28]</span> +to save this situation. On the veranda of the country +club there was a fine mounted specimen of <i>Ovis Canadensis</i>, +the Canadian mountain sheep. By proper +ballasting, I pointed out to Roos, this fine animal +could be made to submerge to a natural swimming +depth—say with the head and shoulders just above +the water. Then a little Evinrude engine could be +clamped to its hind quarters and set going. Forthwith +the whole thing must start off ploughing across +the lake just like a live mountain sheep. By a little +manœuvring it ought to be possible to shoot at an +angle that would interpose the body of the sheep between +the eye and the pushing engine. If this proved +to be impossible, perhaps it could be explained in a +sub-title that the extraneous machinery was a fragment +of mowing-machine or something of the kind +that the sheep had collided with and picked up in his +flight. Roos, while admitting that this showed a considerable +advance over my salmon-label suggestion of +the morning, said that there were a number of limiting +considerations which would render it impracticable. I +forget what all of these were, but one of them was +that our quarry couldn’t be made to roll his eyes and +register “consternation” and “mute reproach” in the +close-ups. I began to see that there was a lot more +to the movie game than I had ever dreamed. But +what a stimulator of the imagination it was!</p> + +<p>As there was nothing more to be done about the +hunting and fishing shots for the present, we turned +our attention to final preparations for what we had +begun to call the “Hanging Glacier Picture.” Roos<span class="pagenum">[Pg 29]</span> +said it would be necessary to sketch a rough sort of +scenario in advance—nothing elaborate like “Broken +Blossoms” or “The Perils of Pauline” (we hadn’t the +company for that kind of thing), but just the thread +of a story to make the “continuity” ripple continuously. +It would be enough, he thought, if I would +enact the rôle of a gentleman-sportsman and allow +the guides and packers to be just their normal selves. +Then with these circulating in the foreground, he +would film the various scenic features of the trip as +they unrolled. All the lot of us would have to do +would be to act naturally and stand or lounge gracefully +in those parts of the picture where the presence +of human beings would be best calculated to balance +effectively and harmoniously the composition. I +agreed cheerfully to the sportsman part of my rôle, +but demurred as to “gentleman.” I might manage it +for a scene, but for a sustained effort it was out of the +question. A compromise along this line was finally +effected. I engaged to act as much like a gentleman +as I could for the opening shot, after which I was to +be allowed to lapse into the seeming of a simple +sportsman who loved scenery-gazing more than the +pursuit and slaying of goat, sheep and bear. Roos +observed shrewdly that it would be better to have the +sportsman be more interested in scenery than game +because, judging from our experience at Windermere, +we would find more of the former than the latter. +He was also encouragingly sympathetic about +my transient appearance as a gentleman. “I only +want about fifty feet of that,” he said as he gave me<span class="pagenum">[Pg 30]</span> +a propitiating pat on the back; “besides, it’s all a +matter of clothes anyhow.”</p> + +<p>Before we turned in that night it transpired that +Chester’s hope of being the first to show moving pictures +of the Lake of the Hanging Glaciers to the +world was probably doomed to disappointment, or, +at the best, that this honour would have to be shared +with an equally ambitious rival. Byron Harmon, of +Banff, formerly official photographer for the Canadian +Pacific, arrived at Invermere and announced +that he was planning to go “up Horse Thief” and endeavour +to film a number of the remarkable scenic features +which he had hitherto tried to picture in vain. +His schedule was temporarily upset by the fact that +we had already engaged the best packtrain and +guides available. Seasoned mountaineer that he was, +however, this was of small moment. A few hours’ +scurrying about had provided him with a light but +ample outfit, consisting of four horses and two men, +with which he planned to get away in the morning. +He was not in the least perturbed by the fact that +Roos had practically a day’s start of him. “There’s +room for a hundred cameramen to work up there,” he +told me genially; “and the more the world is shown of +the wonders of the Rockies and the Selkirks, the more +it will want to see. It will be good to have your company, +and each of us ought to be of help to the other.”</p> + +<p>I had some difficulty in bringing Roos to a similarly +philosophical viewpoint. His “Hearst” training impelled +him to brook no rivalry, to beat out the other +man by any means that offered. He had the better +packtrain, he said, to say nothing of a day’s start.<span class="pagenum">[Pg 31]</span> +Also, he had the only dynamite and caps available that +side of Golden, so that he would have the inside track +for starting avalanches and creating artificial icebergs +in the Lake of the Hanging Glaciers. I would +like to think that it was my argument that, since it +was not a “news” picture he was after, the man who +took the most time to his work would be the one to get +the best results, was what brought him round finally. +I greatly fear, however, it was the knowledge that the +generous Harmon had a number of flares that did the +trick. He had neglected to provide flares himself, and +without them work in the ice caves—second only in +interest to the Lake of the Hanging Glaciers itself—would +be greatly circumscribed. At any rate, he +finally agreed to a truce, and we took Harmon out to +the end of the road in our car the following morning. +Of the latter’s really notable work in picturing the +mountains of western Canada I shall write later.</p> + +<p>The horses were waiting, saddled and packed, as +we drove up to the rendezvous. The packer was a +powerfully built fellow, with his straight black hair +and high cheek bones betokening a considerable mixture +of Indian blood. His name was Buckman—Jim +Buckman. He was the village blacksmith of Athalmere, +Nixon explained. He was making plenty of +money in his trade, but was willing to come along at a +packer’s wage for the sake of the experience as an +actor. The lure of the movies was also responsible for +the presence of Nixon’s fourteen-year-old son, Gordon, +who had threatened to run away from home if he +wasn’t allowed to come along. He proved a useful +acquisition—more than sufficiently so, it seemed to<span class="pagenum">[Pg 32]</span> +me, to compensate for what he did to the jam and +honey.</p> + +<p>Roos called us around him and gave instructions +for the “business” of the opening shot. Nixon and +Jim were to be “picked up” taking the last of the +slack out of a “diamond hitch,” Gordon frolicking in +the background with his dog. When the car drove +up, Nixon was to take my saddle horse by the bridle, +walk up and shake hands with me. Then, to make +the transition from Civilization to the Primitive +(movie people never miss a chance to use that word) +with a click, I was to step directly from the car into +my stirrups. “Get me!” admonished Roos; “straight +from the running board to the saddle. Don’t touch +the ground at all. Make it snappy, all of you. I +don’t want any of you to grow into ‘foot-lice.’”</p> + +<p>My saddle horse turned out to be a stockily-built +grey of over 1200 pounds. He looked hard as nails +and to have no end of endurance. But his shifty eye +and back-laid ears indicated temperamentality, so that +Nixon’s warning that he “warn’t exactly a lady’s +hawss” was a bit superfluous. “When you told me +you tipped the beam at two-forty,” he said, “I know’d +‘Grayback’ was the only hawss that’d carry you up +these trails. So I brung him in, and stuffed him up +with oats, and here he is. He may dance a leetle on +his toes jest now, but he’ll gentle down a lot by the +end of a week.”</p> + +<p>Whether “Grayback” mastered all of the “business” +of that shot or not is probably open to doubt, +but that he took the “Make it snappy!” part to heart +there was no question. He came alongside like a<span class="pagenum">[Pg 33]</span> +lamb, but the instant I started to make my transition +from “Civilization to the Primitive with a click” he +started climbing into the car. The only click I heard +was when my ear hit the ground. Roos couldn’t have +spoiled any more film than I did cuticle, but, being a +“Director,” he made a good deal more noise about it. +After barking his hocks on the fender, “Grayback” +refused to be enticed within mounting distance of the +car again, so finally, with a comparatively un-clicky +transition from Civilization to the Primitive, I got +aboard by the usual route from the ground.</p> + +<p>The next shot was a quarter of a mile farther up +the trail. Here Roos found a natural sylvan frame +through which to shoot the whole outfit as it came +stringing along. Unfortunately, the “Director” +failed to tell the actors not to look at the camera—that, +once and for all, the clicking box must be reckoned +as a thing non-existent—and it all had to be done +over again. The next time it was better, but the actors +still had a wooden expression on their faces. +They didn’t look at the camera, but the expression on +their faces showed that they were conscious of it. +Roos then instructed me to talk to my companions, or +sing, or do anything that would take their minds off +the camera and make them appear relaxed and natural. +That time we did it famously. As each, in +turn, cantered by the sylvan bower with its clicking +camera he was up to his neck “doing something.” +Nixon was declaiming Lincoln’s Gettysburg speech +as he had learned it from his phonograph, Gordon was +calling his dog, Jim was larruping a straggling pinto +and cursing it in fluent local idiom, and I was singing<span class="pagenum">[Pg 34]</span> +“Onward, Christian Soldiers!” We never had any +trouble about “being natural” after that; but I hope +no lip reader ever sees the pictures.</p> + +<p>After picking up Roos and his camera we made +our real start. One pack-horse was reserved for the +camera and tripod, and to prevent him from ranging +from the trail and bumping the valuable apparatus +against trees or rocks, his halter was tied to the tail +of Nixon’s saddle animal. Except that the latter’s +spinal column must have suffered some pretty severe +snakings when the camera-carrier went through corduroy +bridges or lost his footings in fords, the arrangement +worked most successfully. The delicate +instrument was not in the least injured in all of the +many miles it was jogged over some of the roughest +trails I have ever travelled.</p> + +<p>The sunshine by which the last of the trail shots was +made proved the parting glimmer of what had been a +month or more of practically unbroken fair weather. +Indeed, the weather had been rather too fine, for, +toward the end of the summer, lack of rain in western +Canada invariably means forest fires. As these had +been raging intermittently for several weeks all over +British Columbia, the air had become thick with +smoke, and at many places it was impossible to see +for more than a mile or two in any direction. Both +Roos and Harmon had been greatly hampered in +their work about Banff and Lake Louise by the +smoke, and both were, therefore, exceedingly anxious +for early and copious rains to clear the air. Otherwise, +they said, there was no hope of a picture of the +Lake of the Hanging Glaciers that would be worth<span class="pagenum">[Pg 35]</span> +the film it was printed on. They must have rain. +Their prayer was about to be answered, in full measure, +pressed down and running over—and then some.</p> + +<p>We had been encountering contending currents of +hot and cold air all the way up the wagon-road from +Invermere and the lower valley. Now, as we entered +the mountains, these became more pronounced, taking +the form of scurrying “dust-devils” that attacked +from flank and van without method or premonitory +signal. The narrowing gorge ahead was packed solid +with a sullen phalanx of augmenting clouds, sombre-hued +and sagging with moisture, and frequently illumined +with forked lightning flashes discharged from +their murky depths. Nixon, anxious to make camp +before the storm broke, jogged the horses steadily all +through the darkening afternoon. It was a point +called “Sixteen-mile” he was driving for, the first +place we would reach where there was room for the +tent and feed for the horses. We were still four +miles short of our destination when the first spatter +of ranging drops opened up, and from there on the +batteries of the storm concentrated on us all the way.</p> + +<p>We made camp in a rain driving solidly enough to +deflect the stroke of an axe. I shall not enlarge upon +the acute discomfort of it. Those who have done it +will understand; those who have not would never be +able to. It was especially trying on the first day out, +before the outfit had become shaken down and one had +learned where to look for things. Nixon’s consummate +woodcraftsmanship was put to a severe test, +but emerged triumphant. So, too, Jim, who proved +himself as impervious to rain as to ill-temper. The<span class="pagenum">[Pg 36]</span> +fir boughs for the tent floor came in dripping, of +course, but there were enough dry tarpaulins and +blankets to blot up the heaviest of the moisture, and +the glowing little sheet-iron stove licked up the rest. +A piping hot dinner drove out the last of the chill, +and we spent a snug, comfy evening listening to Nixon +yarn about his mountaineering exploits and of the +queer birds from New York and London whom he had +nursed through strange and various intervals of +moose and sheep-hunting in the Kootenays and +Rockies. We slept dry but rather cold, especially +Roos, who ended up by curling round the stove and +stoking between shivers. Nixon and Jim drew generously +on their own blanket rolls to help the both of +us confine our ebbing animal heat, and yet appeared +to find not the least difficulty in sleeping comfortably +under half the weight of cover that left us shaking. +It was all a matter of what one was used to, of course, +and in a few days we began to harden.</p> + +<p>It was September tenth that we had started from +Invermere, hoping at the time to be able to accomplish +what we had set out to do in from four to six days. +The rain which had come to break the long dry spell +put a very different face on things, however. The +eleventh, twelfth and thirteenth we were held in our +first camp by an almost continuous downpour, which +turned the mountain streams into torrents and raised +Horse Thief till it lapped over the rim of the flat +upon which our tent was pitched. The night of the +thirteenth, with a sharp drop of the temperature, the +rain turned to snow, and we crawled out on the fourteenth +to find the valley under a light blanket of<span class="pagenum">[Pg 37]</span> +white. Then the clouds broke away and the sunshine +and shadows began playing tag over the scarps and +buttresses of the encompassing amphitheatre of +mountains. For the first time there was a chance for +a glimpse of the new world into which we had come. +The transition from the cultivation and the gentle +wooded slopes of Windermere was startling. Under +the mask of the storm clouds we had penetrated from +a smooth, rounded, pleasant country to one that was +cliffy and pinnacled and bare—a country that was all +on end, a land whose bones showed through. A towering +Matterhorn reared its head six or eight thousand +feet above us, and so near that slabs of rock +cracked away from its scarred summit were lying +just across the trail from the tent. The peaks walling +in Horse Thief to the north were not so high but no +less precipitous and barren, while to the west a jumble +of splintered pinnacles whose bases barred the way +were still lost in the witch-dance of the clouds. A +tourist folder would have called it a “Land of Titans,” +but Jim, leaning on his axe after nicking off a +fresh back-log for the camp fire, merely opined it was +“some skookum goat country. But not a patch,” he +added, “to what we’ll be hittin’ to-night if we get them +<i>geesly</i> hawsses rounded up in time fer a start ’fore +noon.”</p> + +<p>It appeared that the horses, with their grazing +spoiled by the snow, had become restless, broken +through the barrier Nixon had erected at a bridge just +below camp, and started on the back trail for Invermere. +As their tracks showed that they had broken +into a trot immediately beyond the bridge, it looked<span class="pagenum">[Pg 38]</span> +like a long stern-chase, and Nixon did not reckon on +being able to hit the trail for several hours. Roos +grasped the occasion to make a couple of “camp life” +shots his fertile brain had conceived the idea of during +the long storm-bound days of enforced inaction. In +one of these the “sportsman” was to go to bed in silhouette +by candlelight. Ostensibly this was to be the +shadow of a man crawling into his blankets <i>inside</i> of +the tent, and taken from the outside. In reality, however, +Roos set up his camera <i>inside</i> of the tent and +shot the antics of the shadow the sunlight threw on the +canvas when I went through the motions of turning in +close against the <i>outside</i> of the wall. This went off +smartly and snappily; but I would have given much +for a translation of the voluble comments of a passing +Indian who pulled up to watch the agile action of the +retiring “sportsman.”</p> + +<p>It was while Roos was rehearsing me for this shot +that Gordon must have heard him iterating his invariable +injunction that I should not be a “foot-hog,” +meaning, I shall hardly need to explain, that I should +be quick in my movements so as not to force him to use +an undue footage of film. A little later I overheard +the boy asking Jim what a “foot-hog” was. “I don’t +quite <i>kumtrux</i> myself,” the sturdy blacksmith-packer +replied, scratching his head. “It sounds as if it might +be suthin like pig’s feet, but they want actin’ as if +they wuz ready to eat anythin’, ’less it was each other.” +Now that I think of it, I can see how the clash of the +artistic temperaments of “Director” and “Star” over +just about every one of the shots they made might +have given Jim that impression.</p> + +<p><a id="page38" name="page38"></a></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 462px;"> +<img src="images/illo_072.jpg" width="462" height="600" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">THE “TURNING-IN” SCENE SHOT IN SILHOUETTE (<i>above</i>)<br /> +“REVERSE” OF THE “GOING-TO-BED” SHOT (<i>below</i>)</span> +</div> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p><a id="page39" name="page39"></a></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> +<img src="images/illo_073.jpg" width="600" height="462" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">ON THE HORSE THIEF TRAIL <i>(left)</i><br /> +A DEAD-FALL ON THE TRAIL <i>(right)</i></span> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 39]</span>The other shot we made that morning was one +which Roos had labelled as “Berry Picking and Eating” +in his tentative scenario. The “sportsman” was +to fare forth, gather a bowlful of raspberries, bring +them back to camp, put sugar and condensed milk on +them, and finally eat them, all before the camera. I +objected to appearing in this for two reasons: for one, +because berry-picking was not a recognized out-door +sport, and, for another, because I didn’t like raspberries. +Roos admitted that berry-picking was not a +sport, but insisted he had to have the scene to preserve +his continuity. “Gathering and eating these +products of Nature,” he explained, “shows how far +the gentleman you were in the first scene has descended +toward the Primitive. You will be getting +more and more Primitive right along, but we must +register each step on the film, see?” As for my distaste +for raspberries, Roos was quite willing that, +after displaying the berries heaped in the bowl in a +close-up, I should do the real eating with strawberry +jam. It was that last which overcame my spell of +“temperament.” Both Roos and Gordon already had +me several pots down in the matter of jam consumption, +and I was glad of the chance to climb back a +notch.</p> + +<p>We found raspberry bushes by the acre but, thanks +to the late storm, almost no berries. This didn’t matter +seriously in the picking shot, for which I managed +to convey a very realistic effect in pantomime, but for +the heaped-high close-up of the bowl it was another +matter. One scant handful was the best that the four +of us, foraging for half an hour, could bring in. But<span class="pagenum">[Pg 40]</span> +I soon figured a way to make these do. Opening a +couple of tins of strawberry jam into the bowl, I +rounded over smoothly the bright succulent mass and +then made a close-set raspberry mosaic of one side of +it. That did famously for the close-up. As I settled +back for the berry-eating shot Roos cut in sharply +with his usual: “Snappy now! Don’t be a foot-hog!” +Gordon, who had been digging his toe into the mud for +some minutes, evidently under considerable mental +stress, lifted his head at the word. “Hadn’t you better +say ‘jam-hog’, Mr. Roos?” he queried plaintively.</p> + +<p>“I’m afraid it wouldn’t be any use,” was the dejected +reply. Roos was right. At the word “Action!” +I dug in with my spoon on the unpaved side of +the bowl of jam, and several turns before the crank +ceased revolving there was nothing left but a few +daubed raspberries and several broad red smears radiating +from my mouth. Roos tossed the two empty +jam tins into the murky torrent of Horse Thief +Creek and watched them bob away down stream. +“You’re getting too darn primitive,” he said peevishly.</p> + +<p>It was nearly eleven o’clock before Nixon came +with the horses; but we had camp struck and the +packs made, so there was little delay in taking the +trail. The bottom of the valley continued fairly +open for a few miles, with the swollen stream serpentining +across it, turned hither and thither by huge logjams +and fortress-like rock islands. Where the North +Fork came tumbling into the main creek in a fine run +of cascades there was a flat several acres in extent and +good camping ground. Immediately above the valley +narrowed to a steep-sided canyon, and continued<span class="pagenum">[Pg 41]</span> +so all the way up to the snow and glacier-line. The +trail from now on was badly torn and washed and +frequently blocked with dead-falls. Or rather it had +been so blocked up to a day or two previously. Now +I understood the reason for Nixon’s complaisance +when Harmon’s outfit, travelling in the rain, had +passed our camp a couple of days before. “Don’t +worry, sonny,” he had said in comforting the impetuous +Roos; “we won’t lose any time, and we will save +a lot of chopping.” And so it had worked out. Harmon’s +men had cut the dead-falls out of the whole +twelve miles of trail between North Fork and the +Dragon-Tail Glacier.</p> + +<p>Even so it was a beastly stretch of trail. The +stream, completely filling the bottom of the gorge, +kept the path always far up the side of the mountain. +There were few dangerous precipices, but one had +always to be on the lookout to keep his head from +banging on dead-falls just high enough to clear a +pack, and which, therefore, no one would take the +trouble to cut away. The close-growing shrubbery +was dripping with moisture, and even riding second to +Nixon, who must have got all the worst of it, I found +myself drenched at the end of the first half mile. +Riding through wet underbrush can wet a man as no +rain ever could. No waterproof ever devised offers +the least protection against it; nothing less than a safe +deposit vault on wheels could do so.</p> + +<p>Streams, swollen by the now rapidly melting snow, +came tumbling down—half cataract, half cascade—all +along the way. At the worst crossings these had been +roughly bridged, as little footing for men or horses<span class="pagenum">[Pg 42]</span> +was afforded by the clean-swept rock. Only one +crossing of the main stream was necessary. It was a +good natural ford at low water, but quite out of the +question to attempt at high. We found it about medium—a +little more than belly deep and something +like an eight-mile current. With a foot more water it +would have commenced to get troublesome; with +another two feet, really dangerous. That prospect, +with the rapidly rising water, was reserved for our +return trip.</p> + +<p>Such a road was, of course, wonderfully picturesque +and colourful, and Roos, with a quick eye for an +effective composition, made the most of his opportunities +for “trail shots.” A picture of this kind, +simple enough to look at on the screen, often took half +an hour or more to make. The finding of a picturesque +spot on the trail was only the beginning. This +was useless unless the light was right and a satisfactory +place to set up the tripod was available. When +this latter was found, more often than not a tree or +two had to be felled to open up the view to the trail. +Then—as the party photographed had to be complete +each time, and with nothing to suggest the presence of +the movie camera or its operator—Roos’ saddle horse +and the animal carrying his outfit had to be shuttled +along out of line and tied up where they would not get +in the picture. This was always a ticklish operation on +the narrow trails, and once or twice the sheer impossibility +of segregating the superfluous animals caused +Roos to forego extremely effective shots.</p> + +<p>The mountains became higher and higher, and +steeper and steeper, the farther we fared. And the<span class="pagenum">[Pg 43]</span> +greater the inclines, the more and more precarious +was the hold of the winter’s snow upon the mountainsides. +At last we climbed into a veritable zone of +avalanches—a stretch where, for a number of miles, +the deep-gouged troughs of the snow-slides followed +each other like the gullies in a rain-washed mudbank. +Slide-time was in the Spring, of course, so the +only trouble we encountered was in passing over the +terribly violated mountainsides. If the trail came to +the track of an avalanche far up on the mountainside, +it meant descending a cut-bank to the scoured bedrock, +click-clacking along over this with the shod +hooves of the horses striking sparks at every step for +a hundred yards or more, and then climbing out again. +If the path of the destroyer was encountered low +down, near the river, the way onward led over a fifty-feet-high +pile of upended trees, boulders and sand. +In nearly every instance one could see where the +slides had dammed the stream a hundred feet high or +more, and here and there were visible swaths cut in +the timber of the further side, where the buffer of +the opposite mountain had served to check the onrush.</p> + +<p>The going for the horses was hard at all times, but +worst perhaps where the dam of a slide had checked +the natural drainage and formed a bottomless bog too +large for the trail to avoid. Here the hard-blown +animals floundered belly deep in mud and rotten +wood, as did also their riders when they had to slide +from the saddles to give their mounts a chance to reach +a solid footing. The polished granite of the runways +of the slide was almost as bad, for here the horses +were repeatedly down from slipping. My air-tread<span class="pagenum">[Pg 44]</span>ing, +toe-dancing “Grayback” of the morning was +gone in the back and legs long before we reached the +end. My weight and the pace (Nixon was driving +hard to reach a camping place before a fresh gathering +of storm clouds were ready to break) had proved +too much for him. The fighting light was gone from +his eye, his head was between his legs, and his breath +was expelled with a force that seemed to be scouring +the lining from his bleeding nostrils. Dropping back +to slacken his girths and breathe him a moment before +leading him up the last long run of zigzags, I heard +the sobbing <i>diminuendo</i> of the packtrain die out in +the sombre depths above. It was like the shudder of +sounds that rise through a blow-hole where the sea +waves are pounding hard on the mouth of a subterranean +grotto.</p> + +<p>I had developed a warm and inclusive sympathy for +“Grayback” before I reached the crest of that final +shoulder of mountain we had to surmount, but lost +most of it on the slide back to the valley when, in lieu +of anything else to hand as he found himself slipping, +he started to canter up my spine. I found Nixon and +Jim throwing off packs on a narrow strip of moss-covered +bottom between the drop-curtain of the fir-covered +mountainside and the bank of the creek. It +was practically the only place for a camp anywhere +in the closely-walled valley. Slide-wreckage claimed +all the rest of it. An upward trickle of lilac smoke a +half mile above told where Harmon’s outfit had effected +some sort of lodgment, but it was on a <i>geesly</i> +slither of wet side-hill, Nixon said, and badly exposed<span class="pagenum">[Pg 45]</span> +to the wind that was always sucking down from the +glacier.</p> + +<p>The moss underfoot was saturated with water, but +with an hour of daylight and pines close at hand this +was a matter of small moment. We were well under +cover by the time the snuffer of the darkness clapped +sharply down, and with a good day’s supply of wood +for stove and camp-fire piled up outside the tent. +Not having stopped for lunch on the trail, we were +all rather “peckish” (to use Nixon’s expression) by +the time dinner was ready. After that there was +nothing much to bother about. Nixon told goat hunting +stories all evening, putting a fresh edge on his axe +the while with a little round pocket whetstone. A +Canadian guide is as cranky about his private and +personal axe as a Chicago clothing drummer is about +his razors. So it was only to be expected that Nixon +took it a bit hard when Roos had employed his keenly +whetted implement to crack open a hunk of quartz +with. That was the reason, doubtless, why most of his +stories had to do with the fool escapades of various of +the <i>geesly</i> (that was Nixon’s favourite term of contempt, +and a very expressive one it was) tenderfeet +he had guided. But one of his yarns (and I think a +true one) was of a time that he was caught by a storm +at ten thousand feet in the Rockies and had to spend +the night on the rocks a mile above the timber-line. +Lightly dressed and without a blanket, the only protection +he had from a temperature many degrees below +freezing was from the carcasses of the two freshly-shot +goats that had lured him there. Splitting these<span class="pagenum">[Pg 46]</span> +down the middle with his hunting knife, he had covered +himself with them, entrails and all, in the hope +that the remaining animal heat would keep him alive +till daylight. Man and goat were frozen to one stiff +mass by morning, but the man had still enough vitality +to crack himself loose and descend to his camp. +The exposure and hardship some of these northwest +mountaineers have survived is almost beyond belief.</p> + +<p>I went to sleep with the sizzle of snowflakes on the +dying embers of the camp-fire in my ears, and awoke +to find the tent roof sagging down on my ear under +the weight of a heavy night’s fall. The storm was +over for the moment, but the clouds were still lurking +ominously above the glacier, and there was little light +for pictures. Harmon, crossing the several channels +of the creek on fallen logs, came over later in the day. +He had been storm-bound ever since his arrival, he said, +and had done nothing at all in taking either stills or +movies yet. But fires and smoke were finished for the +year now, he added philosophically, and it was his intention +to remain until he got what he was after. +Before he left he told me something of his work. +“Stills,” it appeared, were the main thing with him; +his movie work was carried on merely as a side-line to +pay the expenses of trips he could not otherwise afford. +He had been photographing in the Selkirks +and Rockies for a dozen years, and he would not be +content to rest until the sets of negatives—as nearly +perfect as they could be made—of every notable peak +and valley of western Canada. Then he was going to +hold a grand exhibition of mountain photographs at +Banff and retire. The Lake of the Hanging Gla<span class="pagenum">[Pg 47]</span>ciers +was one of the very few great scenic features he +had never photographed, and he only hoped he would +be able to do it justice. The fine reverence of Harmon’s +attitude toward the mountains that he loved +was completely beyond Roos’ ken. “I never worries +about not doing ’em justice—not for a minute. What +does worry me is whether or not these cracked up lakes +and glaciers are going to turn out worth my coming +in to do justice to. Get me?” “Yes, I think so,” replied +the veteran with a very patient smile.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page48" name="page48">[Pg 48]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER III<br /> +<br /> +AT THE GLACIER</h2> + +<p>Snow flurries kept us close to camp all that day. +The next one, the sixteenth, was better, though +still quite hopeless for movie work. After lunch we +set out on foot for the big glacier, a mile above, from +which the creek took its life. The clouds still hung +too low to allow anything of the mountains to be seen, +but one had the feeling of moving in a long narrow +tunnel through which a cold jet of air was constantly +being forced. A few hundred yards above our camp +was a frightful zone of riven trees mixed with gravel +and boulders. It was one of the strangest, one of the +savagest spots I ever saw. It was the battle ground +of two rival avalanches, Nixon explained, two great +slides which, with the impetus of six or eight thousand +feet of run driving uncounted millions of tons of snow +and earth, met there every spring in primeval combat. +No man had ever seen the fantastic onslaught (for +no man could reach that point in the springtime), but +it was certain that the remains of it made a mighty +dam all the way across the valley. Then the creek +would be backed up half way to the glacier, when it +would accumulate enough power to sweep the obstruction +away and scatter it down to the Columbia.</p> + +<p>Straight down the respective paths of the rival +slides, and almost exactly opposite each other, tumbled +two splendid cascades. The hovering storm clouds<span class="pagenum">[Pg 49]</span> +cut off further view of them a few hundred feet above +the valley, but Nixon said that they came plunging +like that for thousands of feet, from far up into the +belt of perpetual snow. The one to the east (which +at the moment seemed to be leaping straight out of +the heart of a sinister slaty-purple patch of cumulonimbus) +drained the Lake of the Hanging Glaciers; +that to the west a desolate rock and ice-walled valley +which was rimmed by some of the highest summits in +the Selkirks. Our road to the lake would be wet with +the spray of the former for a good part of the distance.</p> + +<p>We were scrambling through a land of snow-slides +all the way to the glacier. For the first half mile +patches of stunted fir survived here and there, +due to being located in the lee of some cliff or +other rocky outcrop which served to deflect the springtime +onslaughts from above; then all vegetation +ceased and nothing but snow-churned and ice-ground +rock fragments remained. All along the last quarter +of a mile the successive stages of the glacier’s retreat +were marked by great heaps of pulverized rock, like +the tailings at the mouth of a mine. Only the face +of the glacier and the yawning ice caves were visible +under the cloud-pall. The queerly humped uplift of +the “dragon” moraine could be dimly guessed in the +shifting mists that whirled and eddied in the icy +draughts from the caves.</p> + +<p>Our principal object in going up to the grottoes on +so inclement a day was to experiment with our dynamite +on the ice, with a view to turning our knowledge +to practical use in making artificial icebergs for the +movies in the Lake of the Hanging Glaciers. Se<span class="pagenum">[Pg 50]</span>lecting +what looked like a favourable spot at the base +of what seemed a “fracturable” pinnacle of grey-green +ice, we dug a three-feet-deep hole with a long-handled +chisel, pushed in two sticks of sixty per cent. +dynamite, tamped it hard with snow after attaching +a lengthy fuse, touched a match to the latter and retired +to a safe distance. The result, to put it in Roos’ +latest imported slang, was an “oil can,” which connotes +about the same thing as fizzle, I took it. There’s +a deal of kick in two sticks of “sixty per” set off in +rock, but here it was simply an exuberant “whouf” +after the manner of a blowing porpoise. A jet of soft +snow and ice shot up some distance, but the pinnacle +never trembled. And the hole opened up was smooth-sided +and clean, as if melted out with hot water. Not +the beginning of a crack radiated from it. Jim +opined that a slower burning powder might crack ice, +but there was certainly no hope of “sixty per” doing +the trick. It was evident that we would have to find +some other way of making artificial icebergs. We +did. We made them of rock. But I won’t anticipate.</p> + +<p>It snowed again in the night, snowed itself out for a +while. The following morning it was warm and brilliantly +clear, and for the first time there was a chance +to see what sort of a place it was to which we had entered. +For a space the height and abruptness of the +encompassing walls seemed almost appalling; it was +more like looking up out of an immeasurably vast +crater than from a valley. All around there were +thousands of feet of sheer rocky cliff upon which no +snow could effect a lodgment; and above these more +thousands of feet solid with the glittering green of<span class="pagenum">[Pg 51]</span> +glacial ice and the polished marble of eternal snow. +The jagged patch of sky was a vivid imperial blue, +bright and solid-looking like a fragment of rich old +porcelain. The morning sun, cutting through the +sharp notches between the southeastern peaks, was +dappling the snow fields of the western walls in gay +splashes of flaming rose and saffron, interspersed +with mottled shadows of indigo and deep purple. +Reflected back to the still shadowed slopes of the +eastern walls, these bolder colours became a blended +iridescence of amethyst, lemon and pale misty lavender. +The creek flowed steely cold, with fluffs of grey-wool +on the riffles. The tree patches were black, dead +funereal black, throwing back no ray of light from +their down-swooping branches. The air was so clear +that it seemed almost to have assumed a palpability of +its own. One imagined things floating in it; even that +it might tinkle to the snip of a finger nail, like a crystal +rim.</p> + +<p>In movies as in hay-making, one has to step lively +while the sun shines. This was the first good shooting +light we had had, and no time was lost in taking advantage +of it. Long before the sun had reached the +bottom of the valley we were picking our way up +toward the foot of the glacier, this time on horseback. +Early as we had started, the enterprising Harmon had +been still earlier. He was finishing his shots of the +face of the glacier and the mouth of the ice caves as +we came up. He would now leave the field clear for +Roos for an hour, he said, while he climbed to the +cliffs above the glacier to make a goat-hunting picture. +That finished, he would return and, by the light of his<span class="pagenum">[Pg 52]</span> +flares both parties could shoot the interior of the ice +caves. Before starting on his long climb, Harmon +briefly outlined the scenario of his “goat” picture, +part of which had already been shot. Two prospectors—impersonated +by his guide and packer—having +been in the mountains for many weeks without a +change of diet, had become terribly sick of bacon. +Finally, when one of them had disgustedly thrown +his plate of it on the ground, even the camp dog, after +a contemptuous sniff, had turned his back. He had +had no trouble in getting the men to register “disgust,” +Harmon explained, but that “contemptuous +sniff” business with the dog was more difficult. After +their voracious Airedale pup had wolfed three plates +of bacon without paying the least heed to the director’s +attempts to frighten him off at the psychological moment, +they had tried thin strips of birch-bark, trimmed +to represent curling rashers. Even these the hungry +canine had persisted in licking, probably because they +came from a greasy plate. Finally Harmon hit upon +the expedient of anointing the birch-bark rashers with +some of the iodine carried as an antiseptic in the event +of cuts and scratches. “If the pup ate it, of course it +would die,” he explained; “but that would be no more +than he deserved in such a case.” But the plan worked +perfectly. After his first eager lick, the outraged +canine had “sniffed contemptuously” at the pungent +fumes of the iodine, and then backed out of the picture +with a wolfish snarl on his lifted lip.</p> + +<p><a id="page52" name="page52"></a></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> +<img src="images/illo_088a.jpg" width="600" height="397" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">Courtesy of Byron Harmon, Banff<br /> +LOOKING TOWARD THE ENTRANCE OF THE ICE CAVE</span> +</div> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p><a id="page53" name="page53"></a></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> +<img src="images/illo_089.jpg" width="600" height="398" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">Courtesy of Byron Harmon, Banff<br /> +WHERE THE HANGING GLACIER IS ABOUT TO FALL</span> +</div> + +<p>Then the packer registered “fresh meat hunger” +(“cut-in” of a butcher shop to be made later), immediately +after which the guide pointed to the cliffs +<span class="pagenum">[Pg 53]</span>above the camp where some wild goats were frisking. +By the aid of his long-distance lens, Harmon had shot +the goats as they would appear through the binoculars +the guide and packers excitedly passed back and forth +between them. And now they were going forth to +shoot the goats. Or rather they were going forth to +“shoot” the goats, for these had already been shot +with a rifle. In order to avoid loss of time in packing +his cumbersome apparatus about over the cliffs, Harmon +had sent out Conrad, his Swiss guide, the previous +afternoon, with orders to shoot a goat—as fine a +specimen as possible—and leave it in some picturesque +spot where a re-shooting could be “shot” with the +camera when the clouds lifted. The keen-eyed Tyrolese +had experienced little difficulty in bringing down +two goats. One of these—a huge “Billy”—he had +left at the brink of a cliff a couple of thousand feet +above the big glacier, and the other—a half-grown +kid—he had brought into camp to cut up for the +“meat-guzzling” shots with which guide, packer and +canine were to indulge in as a finale. It was a cleverly +conceived “nature” picture, one with a distinct +“educational” value; or at least it was such when +viewed from “behind the camera.” Roos was plainly +jealous over it, but, as he had no goats of his own, and +as Harmon’s goat was hardly likely to be “borrowable” +after bouncing on rock pinnacles for a thousand +feet, there was nothing to do about it. He would have +to make up by putting it over Harmon on his “glacier +stuff,” he said philosophically. And he did; though it +was only through the virtuosity of his chief actor.</p> + +<p>Harmon had confined his glacier shots to one of his<span class="pagenum">[Pg 54]</span> +party riding up over the rocks, and another of it +grouped at the entrance of the largest cave and looking +in. Being an old mountaineer, he was disinclined +to take any unnecessary chances in stirring up a racket +under hanging ice. Roos was new to the mountains, +so didn’t labour under any such handicap. His idea +was to bring the whole outfit right up the middle of the +stream and on into the cave. The approach and the +entrance into the mouth of the cave were to be shot +first from the outside, and then, in silhouette, from the +inside.</p> + +<p>Nixon, pointing out that the roof of the cave had +settled two or three feet since we were there yesterday +and that the heat seemed to be honeycombing all the +lower end of the glacier pretty badly, said that he +didn’t like the idea of taking horses inside, but would +do so if it would make a better picture that way. He +was quite willing to take chances if there was any +reason for it. But what he did object to was trying +to take the horses up the middle of the stream over big +boulders when it would be perfectly plain to any one +who saw the picture that there was comparatively +smooth going on either side. “You can easy break a +hawss’ leg in one of them <i>geesly</i> holes,” he complained; +“but the loss of a hawss isn’t a patch to what +I’d feel to have some guy that I’ve worked with see the +pictur’ and think I picked that sluiceway as the best +way up.”</p> + +<p>Roos replied with a rush of technical argument in +which there was much about “continuity” and “back-lighting,” +and something about using the “trick crank +so that the action can be speeded up when it’s run.”<span class="pagenum">[Pg 55]</span> +Not knowing the answer to any of this, Nixon finally +shrugged his shoulders helplessly and signalled for +Jim to bring up the horses. There was no need of a +“trick crank” to speed up the action in the stream, for +that glacial torrent, a veritable cascade, had carried +away everything in its course save boulders four or +five feet high. Nixon, in a bit of a temper, hit the +ditch as though he were riding a steeplechase. So did +Jim and Gordon. All three of them floundered +through without mishap. “Grayback” tried to climb +up on the tip of a submerged boulder, slipped with all +four feet at once and went over sidewise. I kicked +out my stirrups, but hit the water head first, getting +considerably rolled and more than considerably wet. +To Roos’ great indignation, this occurred just outside +the picture, but he had the delicacy not to ask me to +do it over again.</p> + +<p>Taking the horses inside the cave was a distinctly +ticklish performance, though there could be no question +of its effectiveness as a picture. Roos set up a +hundred feet in from the fifty-feet-wide, twenty-feet-high +mouth and directed us to ride forward until a +broad splashing jet of water from the roof blocked +our way, and then swing round and beat it out. “Beat +it out snappy!” he repeated. “Get me?” “Yep, <i>I</i> got +you,” muttered Nixon; “you’re in luck if nothin’ else +does.”</p> + +<p>The ice that arched above the entrance looked to me +like the salt-eaten packing round an ice-cream can as +we pushed up and under it. The horses could hardly +have noticed this, and it must have been their instincts—their +good sound horse-sense—that warned them<span class="pagenum">[Pg 56]</span> +that a dark hole full of hollow crackings and groanings +and the roar of falling water was no place for self-respecting +equines to venture. It took a deal of spurring +and swearing to force them inside, and most of +the linear distance gained was covered in circles on +their hind legs. It was old “Grayback” whose nerves +gave way first; he that started the stampede back to +light and sunshine. There was no question but what +we “beat it snappy.”</p> + +<p>Roos came out rubbing his hands gleefully. “That +photographed like a million dollars,” he cried with +enthusiasm. “Now just one thing more....” +And forthwith he revealed what had been in his heart +ever since he chanced onto that “natural shower bath” +in the cave the previous afternoon. No one could deny +that it was a natural shower bath. And since it <i>was</i> +a natural shower bath, what could be more natural +than for some one to take a shower under it? How +would Nixon feel about trying it? Or Jim? He admitted +that it might be something of a shock, but he +was willing to make that all right. Would ten dollars +be fair? Or say twenty? Or why not twenty-five? +He knew Mr. Chester didn’t reckon cost when it was +a question of getting a high class, he might say a +unique, picture. Now which should it be? Nixon, a +bit snappily, said his rheumatism put him out of the +running, and Jim was equally decided. Money +wouldn’t tempt him to go even into the Columbia at +Windermere, let alone a liquid icicle under a glacier.</p> + +<p>And right then and there I did a thing which Roos +maintained to the end of our partnership repaid him +for all the grief and worry I had caused him to date,<span class="pagenum">[Pg 57]</span> +and much that was still to accrue. “Since I’ve got +to take a bath and dry these wet togs out sooner or +later,” I said with a great assumption of nonchalance, +“perhaps the ice cave will do as well as anywhere else. +Just promise me you won’t spring a flare on the scene, +and build a fire to dry my clothes by....” Roos +was gathering wood for a fire before I finished speaking. +As for the flares, Harmon had not given him +any yet. It was only a silhouette he wanted—but +that would show up like a million dollars in the spray +and ice. There never had been such a picture; perhaps +would never be again. I wasn’t joking, was I? +And primitive....</p> + +<p>“Go on and set up,” I cut in with. “I’ll be there +by the time you’re ready to shoot. And don’t ever +let me hear you say primitive again. Oh, yes—and +you needn’t remind me to ‘Be snappy!’ There won’t +be any trouble on that score. Just make sure your +lens is fast enough to catch the action.”</p> + +<p>I’ve had many a plunge overboard off the California +coast that shocked me more than that “natural +shower bath” did, but never a one with so exhilarant +a reaction. Stripping off my wet clothes by the fire, +I slipped into my big hooded “lammy” coat and hippity-hopped +into the cave. Roos, set up ten yards +inside the splashing jet from the roof, was already +standing by to shoot. At his call of “Action!” I +jumped out of my coat and into the black, unsparkling +column of water. There was a sharp sting to the impact, +but it imparted nothing of the numbing ache +that accompanies immersion in water a number of +degrees less cold than this—a feeling which I came<span class="pagenum">[Pg 58]</span> +later to know only too well on the Columbia. Nixon +had warned me against tempting Providence again +by making any unnecessary racket in the cave, but it +was no use. No one could have the fun that I was +having and not holler. It was against nature. +Whooping like a Comanche, I continued my hydro-terpsichorean +revel until a muffled “Nuff” from Roos +called a halt. He had come to the end of his roll. +I have been in more of a shiver coming out of the +Adriatic at the Lido in August than I was when I +ambled back to dry off by the fire and the sunshine. +Glowing with warmth, I even loafed along with my +dressing, as one does at Waikiki.</p> + +<p>“You’d make a fortune pulling the rough stuff in +the movies,” Roos exclaimed, patting me on the back. +“You’ve got everything the real gripping cave-man +<i>has</i> to have—size, beef, a suggestion of brutal, elemental +force, primitive....” I chucked a burning +brand at him and went over to borrow Nixon’s +glass. A shot from far up the cliffs told that Harmon’s +“goat-hunt” was in full cry. The real thrill +of the day was about to come off; rather more of a +thrill, indeed, than any one was prepared for, Harmon +included.</p> + +<p><a id="page58" name="page58"></a></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> +<img src="images/illo_096.jpg" width="600" height="465" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">MY SHOWER BATH IN AN ICE CAVE <i>(left)</i><br /> +WARMING UP AFTER MY GLACIAL SHOWER BATH <i>(right)</i></span> +</div> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p><a id="page59" name="page59"></a></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 459px;"> +<img src="images/illo_097.jpg" width="459" height="600" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">ROSS AND HARMON. DRAGON MORAINE IN DISTANCE (<i>above</i>)<br /> +THE HORSES IN THE MOUTH OF THE ICE CAVE (<i>below</i>)</span> +</div> + +<p>While we had been filming our “cave stuff” Harmon +had finished setting the stage for his picture. +He had two shots to make—one of his packers firing +at the goat at the top of the cliff, and the other of +the body of the goat falling to the glacier. Conrad, +the Tyrolean, climbing like a fly, had scaled the face +of the cliff and was standing by for the signal to start +the goat “falling.” The shot which had attracted my +<span class="pagenum">[Pg 59]</span>attention had been the packer discharging his rifle +at the goat, which had been propped up in a life-like +position, as though peering down onto the glacier. +Harmon was still cranking when I got him in focus, +while the packer had jumped to his feet and was +executing a <i>pas seul</i> evidently intended to convey the +impression he had made a hit. A curl of blue smoke +from his rifle was still floating in the air. They had +contrived that effective little touch by dribbling a bit +of melted butter down the barrel before firing. +Smokeless powder is hardly “tell-tale” enough for +movie work.</p> + +<p>Harmon now moved over and set up at the foot of +the cliff, apparently to get as near as possible to the +point where the goat was going to hit. As the sequel +proves, he judged his position to a hair. Now he made +his signal. I saw the flutter of his handkerchief. The +goat gave a convulsive leap, and then shot straight out +over the brink of the cliff. From where we stood I +could plainly see the useful Conrad “pulling the +strings,” but from where Harmon was set up this +would hardly show. He was too careful to overlook a +point like that in a “nature picture.” The white body +caromed sharply off a couple of projecting ledges, +and then, gathering momentum, began to describe a +great parabola which promised to carry it right to the +foot of the cliff.</p> + +<p>I had kept my eyes glued to the glass from the +start, but it was Nixon’s unaided vision which was +first to catch the drift of what was impending. “You +couldn’t drive a six-hawss team ’tween the side o’ +Mista Ha’mon’s head and the trail in the air that<span class="pagenum">[Pg 60]</span> +<i>geesly</i> goat’s going to make passing by,” he said with +a calculating drawl. “Not so su’ you could squeeze a +pack-hawss through.” Then, a couple of seconds +later: “No’ ev’n a big dawg.” And almost immediately: +“By Gawd, it’s going to get him!”</p> + +<p>And that surely was what it looked like, to every +one at least but the calmly cranking Harmon. He +went on humping his back above the finder, and I +could see the even rise and fall of his elbow against +the snow. The dot of white had become a streak of +grey, and it was the swift augmentation of this in +his finder which finally (as he told me later) caused +Harmon suddenly to duck. To me it looked as if +the flying streak had passed right through him, but he +was still there at the foot of his tripod after the Bolt +of Wrath, striking the surface of the glacier with a +resounding impact, threw up a fountain of pulverized +snow and laid still. He was never quite sure whether +it was the almost solid cushion of air or a side-swipe +from a hoof or horn that joggled the tripod out of +true. It was a near squeeze, for the flying body, +which must have weighed all of two hundred pounds, +was frozen hard as a rock. Conrad came staggering +down with the remnants of the battered trunk over his +shoulders. Only the heart and liver were fit to eat. +The rest was a sausage of churned meat and bone +splinters. There was no question about its fall having +limbered it up.</p> + +<p>The illumination of the cave by the calcium flares +was beautiful beyond words to describe, or at least so +I was told. The first one was a failure, through the +outward draught of air carrying the smoke back onto<span class="pagenum">[Pg 61]</span> +the cameras. I had set this off in a side gallery, about +a hundred yards in from the mouth, with the idea of +throwing a sort of concealed back light. Foolishly +opening my eyes while the calcium was burning, I was +completely blinded by the intense glare and did not +regain my sight for several minutes. Harmon’s +packer, who held the next flare set off—this time to +the leeward of the cameras—had still worse luck. A +flake of the sputtering calcium kicked back up his +sleeve and inflicted a raw, round burn with half the +colours of the spectrum showing in its concentric rings +of singed cuticle. The chap displayed astonishing +nerve in refusing to relinquish his grip on the handle +of the flare and thus ruin the picture. I most certainly +would never have done so myself. Roos described +the glittering ice walls as a “veritable +Aladdin’s Cave of jewels,” and only regretted that he +couldn’t have had that lighting on my shower-bath.</p> + +<p>That night we tried a camp-fire scene by flare. +Roos set up on the further bank of the side channel +of the creek which flowed past the tent. Between the +door of the tent and the water a hole was dug in such +a way that light from it would shine on a group in +front of the tent but not on the lens of the camera. +The glow from a flare burning in this hole represented +the camp-fire. I was supposed to stroll up and tell +a jovial story to Nixon, Jim and Gordon, who were +to be “picked up” already seated around the fire. I +made my entrance very snappily, but, unluckily, the +blanket roll upon which I sat down spread out and +let me back against the corner of the glowing sheet-iron +stove, which was set up just inside the tent open<span class="pagenum">[Pg 62]</span>ing. +Seeing I had not rolled out of the picture, Roos +shouted for me to carry on, as it was the last flare. +So, with the reek of burning wool rising behind me, +I did carry on, making plausible gestures intended +to convey the idea that the bit of comedy was just a +humorous piece of by-play of my own. I carried on +for something over half a minute. The only circumstance +that prevented my carrying on my back the +print of the corner of the stove for the rest of my +days was the fact that the combined thicknesses of my +duffle coat, lumberman’s shirt, sweater and heavy +woollen undershirt were interposed to absorb the heat. +The duffle coat was the worst sufferer, coming out +with a bar-sinister branded most of the way through +its half inch of pressed brown wool.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page63" name="page63">[Pg 63]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER IV<br /> +<br /> +THE LAKE OF THE HANGING GLACIERS</h2> + +<p>It was now neck-or-nothing with the Lake of the +Hanging Glaciers picture. Having already been out +much longer than we had expected to be, there were +left only provisions for two days. Nixon had suggested +making a hurried trip out and bringing in fresh +supplies, but as the time set by Chester for his arrival +for the Big Bend trip was already past, I did not +feel warranted in prolonging the present jaunt any +further. If the morrow was fair all would be well; +if not, the main object of our trip would be defeated.</p> + +<p>By great good luck the clear weather held. There +was not a cloud hovering above the mountains at daybreak +the following morning, and we got away for +an early start to make the most of our opportunity. +Nixon himself had run and cut out the trail to the +Lake earlier in the summer, but horses had never been +taken over it. Though it was extremely steep in +pitches, our maiden passage was marked with few +difficulties. Much to Nixon’s surprise and satisfaction, +only one big dead-fall had been thrown down to +block the way, and our enforced halt here gave Roos +the opportunity for a very effective “trail shot.” He +also got some striking “back-lighting stuff” at spots +along the interminable cascade that was tumbling and +bounding beside the trail. The elevation of our camp +on the creek was something like six thousand feet, and<span class="pagenum">[Pg 64]</span> +that of the Lake of the Hanging Glaciers a bit under +eight thousand. The trail is between three and four +miles long, and we were rather over two hours in making +the climb. There were several halts out of this; +steady plugging would do it much quicker.</p> + +<p>Timber-line was passed half a mile below the lake, +the last of the trees being left behind in a wonderful +little mountain park studded with gnarled pines and +still bright with late wild flowers. The autumn +colouring here was a marvellous chromatic revel in +dull golds and soft, subdued browns—the shedding +tamaracks and the dying meadow grasses.</p> + +<p>Clambering on foot up a steep-sided hillock that +appeared to be an ancient glacial moraine augmented +by many slides, we suddenly found ourselves on the +edge of the high-water level of the lake. The transition +from the flower-strewn meadow to a region of +almost Arctic frigidity was practically instantaneous—the +matter of a half dozen steps. One moment we +were climbing in a cliff-walled valley, with rocky +buttresses and pinnacles soaring for thousands of feet +on either side, and with brown-black gravel and thinning +brown-grey bunch grass under foot and ahead; +the next, as we gained the crest of the old terminal +moraine, the landscape opened up with a blinding +flash and we were gazing at a sparkling emerald lake +clipped in the embrace of an amphitheatre of glaciers +and eternal snow, and floating full of icebergs and +marble-mottled shadows. The “Hanging Glacier”—perhaps +a mile wide across its face, and rearing a +solid wall of ice a couple of hundred feet in the sheer—closed +the further or southeastern end of the lake.<span class="pagenum">[Pg 65]</span> +Behind the glacier was a cliff of two thousand feet or +more in height. It appeared to be almost solid ice +and snow, but must have been heavily underlaid with +native rock to maintain its abruptness as it did. +Higher still a snow-cap, bright and smooth as polished +marble, extended to the crest of the range and +formed a glittering line against the cobalt of the sky. +Of all the scenic gems of the North American continent, +I recall none which is so well entitled to the +characterization of “unique” as this white-flaming +little jewel of the high Selkirks.</p> + +<p>The lake was now rapidly receding to its winter +low-water level, and to reach its brink we had to +press on across three hundred yards of black boulders +which were evidently covered in the time of the late +spring floods. Ordinarily one would have expected +the worst kind of rough and slippery walking here, +but, to my great surprise, the great rocks were set as +solid and as level as a pavement of mosaic. The reason +for this became plain when we approached the +water, where a flotilla of small icebergs, rising and +falling to the waves kicked up by the brisk breeze +drawing down the lake, were steadily thump-thumping +the bottom with dull heavy blows which could be +felt underfoot a hundred yards away. This natural +tamping, going on incessantly during the months of +high-water, was responsible for the surprising smoothness +of the rocky waste uncovered by the winter recession. +The great boulders had literally been hammered +flat.</p> + +<p>The icebergs, which were formed by the cracking +off of the face of the great glacier filled half of the<span class="pagenum">[Pg 66]</span> +lake. They varied in size from almost totally submerged +chunks a few feet in diameter to huge floating +islands of several hundred. They were of the most +fantastic shapes, especially those which had been +longest adrift and therefore most exposed to the capricious +action of the sun. By and large, the effect +was that of a Gargantuan bowl sprinkled with puffy +white popcorn. But if one took his time and searched +carefully enough there were very few things of heaven +or earth that were not represented in the amazing +collection. One berg, floating on another, had been +reduced by the sun to the seeming of a gigantic view +camera—box, bellows and lens. A number of famous +groups of statuary were there, but of course very +much in the rough. “The Thinker” was perhaps the +best of these, but even Rodin would have wanted to +do a bit more “finishing” on the glacial cave-man +humped up on his icy green pedestal. Roos, who had +never heard of Rodin, said it reminded him of me +drying out after my shower-bath in the ice-cave. His +facile imagination also discovered something else. He +had once seen a picture of “Lohengrin’s Farewell” +in a Victrola record price-list, and there was a much +sun-licked hunk of ice, very near the shore, which suggested +the barge to him, swans and all. I saw the +barge all right, but the Pegasus of my imagination +had to have some spurring before he would take the +“swan” hurdle.</p> + +<p><a id="page66" name="page66"></a></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> +<img src="images/illo_106.jpg" width="600" height="399" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">Courtesy of Byron Harmon, Banff<br /> +LOOKING ACROSS THE LAKE OF THE HANGING GLACIERS</span> +</div> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p><a id="page67" name="page67"></a></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> +<img src="images/illo_107.jpg" width="600" height="397" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">Courtesy of Byron Harmon, Banff<br /> +THE LAKE OF THE HANGING GLACIERS, TAKEN FROM THE ICE WALLS, LOOKING NORTH</span> +</div> + +<p>It was Roos’ idea that I should swim off, clamber +over the side of the barge, lassoo the “near” swan +with a piece of pack-rope to represent reins, and let +him shoot me as “Lohengrin.” It wouldn’t exactly +<span class="pagenum">[Pg 67]</span>run into the “continuity” of the “sportsman” picture, +he admitted; but he thought that Chester might use +it, with a lot of other odds and ends, under some such +title as “Queer People in Queer Places.” The idea +appealed to me strongly. “Lohengrin’s Farewell” had +always moved me strangely; and here was a chance +actually to appear in the classic rôle! “You bet I’ll +do it,” I assented readily. “What shall I wear?” +The “Shining Armour,” which we both seemed to +connect with “Lohengrin,” happened to be one of the +things not brought up in our saddle-bags that morning. +We were in a hot discussion as to the best manner +of improvising a helmet and cuirass out of condensed +milk and sardine tins, when Nixon, asking if we knew +that the sun only shone about three hours a day in +that “<i>geesly</i> crack in the hills,” dryly opined that we +should take our pictures of the lake while there was +plenty of light. That sounded sensible, and we +started feverishly to hurry through with the routine +grind so as to be free to do proper justice to “Lohengrin.” +As Fate would have it, however, that which +was presently revealed to me of the ways of fresh-water +icebergs quenched effectually my desire to swim +off and take liberties with the capricious things at +close quarters.</p> + +<p>After making a number of scenic shots, Roos announced +that he was ready to go ahead with the “falling +iceberg” stuff. As it was quite out of the question +making our way along the base of the cliffs on either +side of the lake to the face of the glacier in the limited +time at our disposal, and, moreover, as we had already +demonstrated the impossibility of making artificial<span class="pagenum">[Pg 68]</span> +icebergs with “sixty per” dynamite, it became necessary +to improvise something closer at hand. It was +Roos’ idea that a piece of cliff cracked off into the +lake might produce the effect desired, especially if +“cut” with discrimination. “Here’s the way it goes,” +he explained. “The cracked off rock plunks down +into the lake right into the middle of a bunch of floating +icebergs. I starts cranking at the splash, and +with the bergs all rolling about and bumping into +each other no one can tell but what it was one of them +that really started it. Then I’ll pick you up hopping +up and down on the bank and registering ‘surprise’ +and ‘consternation’; and then follow with a close-up +of you standing on that high rock, looking down on +the quieting waves with folded arms. Now you register +‘relief’ and finally a sort of ‘awed wonder.’ Then +you take a big breath and raise your eyes to the face +of the glacier. You keep right on registering ‘awed +wonder’ (only more intense) and as I fade you out you +shake your head slowly as if the mighty mysteries of +Nature were beyond your understanding. Get me? +They ought to colour the film for that dark blue in the +laboratory (I could tell ’em just the solution to make +that ice look cold), and the sub-title ought to be ‘The +Birth of an Iceberg,’ and....”</p> + +<p>“Jim’s the midwife, is he?” I cut in. “Yes, I get +you. Tell him to uncork some of that ‘sixty per’ ‘Twilight +Sleep’ of his and I’ll stand by for the christening.”</p> + +<p>After a careful technical examination of the terrain, +Jim, chief “Powder Monkey,” located what he +thought was a favourable spot for operations and<span class="pagenum">[Pg 69]</span> +started to enlarge a thin crack in the cliff to make it +take five sticks of dynamite. That was more than +half of our remaining stock; but Roos was insisting +on a big iceberg, and plenty of powder was the best +way to insure success. It must have been the tamping +that was at the bottom of the trouble, for moss and +damp earth are hardly solid enough to deflect the +kick of the dynamite in the desired direction. At any +rate, although there was a roaring detonation, the +mighty force released was expended outward rather +than inward. The face of the cliff hardly shivered, +and only an inconsiderable trickle of broken rocks +and sand slid down into the lake. Too sore to take +more than hostile notice of Nixon’s somewhat rough +and ready little <i>mot</i> about the “‘Birth o’ the Iceberg’ +turning out a <i>geesly</i> miscarriage,” Roos clapped the +cap over his lens, unscrewed the crank and began +taking his camera off its tripod. That rather hasty +action was responsible for his missing by a hair what +I am certain was the greatest opportunity ever presented +to a moving picture operator to film one of the +most stupendous of Nature’s manifestations.</p> + +<p>The roar of the detonating dynamite reverberated +for half a minute or more among the cliffs and peaks, +and it was just after the last roll had died out that +a renewed rumble caused me to direct a searching gaze +to the great wall of ice and snow that towered above +the farther end of the lake. For an instant I could +not believe my eyes. It could not be possible that the +whole mountainside was toppling over! And yet that +was decidedly the effect at a first glance. From the +rim of the snow-cap down to the back of the glacier<span class="pagenum">[Pg 70]</span>—a +mile wide and two thousand feet high—there was +one solid, unbroken Niagara of glittering, coruscant +ice and snow. Like a curtain strung with diamonds +and pearls and opals it streamed, while the shower of +flaming colours was reflected in the quivering waters +of the lake in fluttering scarves of sun-shot scarlet, in +tenuous ribbons of lavender, jade and primrose. It +was only when the last shreds of this marvellous +banner had ceased to stream (at the end of thirty or +forty seconds perhaps) that I saw what it was that had +caused it. The whole hair-poised brink of the great +snow-cap—sharply jolted, doubtless, by the explosion +of the dynamite—had cracked away and precipitated +itself to the glacier level, nearly half a mile below. +The shock to the latter appeared to have had the effect +of jarring it sufficiently to crack down great blocks +all along its face. The glacier had, in fact, been +shocked into giving birth to a whole litter of real icebergs +where, nearer at hand, we had failed dismally +in our efforts to incubate even an artificial one. As +glacial obstetricians it appeared that we still had +much to learn.</p> + +<p>Roos made a great effort to get his camera set up +again in time to make it record something of the wonderful +spectacle. He was just too late, however. +Only a few thin trickles of snow were streaking the +face of the cliff when he finally swung his powerful +tele-photo lens upon it, and even these had ceased before +he had found his focus. It was no end of a pity. +I saw several of the great <i>valangas</i> started by the +Austrian and Italian artillery in the Dolomites, and, +previous to that, what I had thought were very con<span class="pagenum">[Pg 71]</span>siderable +slides on Aconcagua and Chimborazi, in the +Andes, and on Kinchinjunga and among the hanging +ice-fields above the Zoji-la in the Himalayas. But +any half dozen of the greatest of these would have +been lost in that mighty avalanche of ice and snow +that we saw descend above the Lake of the Hanging +Glaciers. Nixon, with a lifetime spent in the Selkirks +and Rockies, said he had never seen anything to compare +with it.</p> + +<p>Jim, reporting that he still had three sticks of dynamite +in hand, said he reckoned there might be a better +chance of starting an “iceberg” on the southern side +of the lake than on the northern one, where we had +failed to accomplish anything. The southern slope +was even more precipitous than the northern, he +pointed out, and he had his eye on a rock which looked +as if a charge might turn it over and start it rolling. +“You never can tell what you may be startin’ among +a bunch o’ tiltin’ rocks like them ’uns,” he said hopefully. +Nixon’s muttered “That ain’t no <i>geesly</i> hooch +dream” might have meant several things; but I took +it that he intended to imply that there was too much +“unstable equilibrium” along that southern shore to +make it the sort of a place that a neurasthenic would +seek out for a rest cure. I felt the same way about it, +only more so; but Roos’ disappointment over what +he had already missed was so keen that neither of us +had the heart to interpose any objections when he told +Jim to go ahead and see what he could do. As two +sticks of dynamite were already promised to Harmon, +the trick, if it came off, would have to be pulled with +one. Spitting tobacco juice on the taffy-like cylinder<span class="pagenum">[Pg 72]</span> +for luck, Jim clambered off up the cliff and planted +it under his “likely rock,” Roos meantime setting up +in a favourable position below.</p> + +<p><a id="page72" name="page72"></a></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 417px;"> +<img src="images/illo_114.jpg" width="417" height="600" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">Courtesy of Byron Harmon, Banff<br /> +THE FACE OF THE HANGING GLACIER</span> +</div> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p><a id="page73" name="page73"></a></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> +<img src="images/illo_115.jpg" width="600" height="413" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">Courtesy of Byron Harmon, Banff<br /> +WHERE MY PARTY FOREGATHERED WITH HARMON’S ON THE SHORE OF THE LAKE OF +THE HANGING GLACIER</span> +</div> + +<p>Whether Jim’s “tobaccanalian libation” had anything +to do with it or not, this time luck was with us. +The sharp blast kicked Jim’s rock up on one ear, +where it teetered for a second or two indecisively before +rolling over sidewise and coming down kerplump +on a huge twenty-ton cube of basalt that no one would +have thought of moving with a barrel of giant. It +wasn’t so much what the little rock did as the way it +did it. The big block gave a sort of a quiver, much +as a man awakening from a doze would stretch his +arms and yawn, and when it quivered a lot of loose +stuff slipped away from beneath and just let it go. +It lumbered along at an easy roll for a bit, and then +increased its speed and started jumping. Its first +jump was no more than a nervous little hop that +served to hurdle it clear of a length of flat ledge that +reached out to stop its downward progress. A second +later it had hit its stride, so that when it struck the +water there had been nothing but rarefied air trying +to stop it for two hundred feet. Down it went, pushing +a column of compressed <i>aqua pura</i> ahead of it +and sucking a big black hole along in its wake. It +was when that column of compressed water spouted +up again and tried to chase its tail down the hole it +had come out of that things began to happen, for it +found something like a dozen fat icebergs crowding +in and trying to insinuate their translucent bulks into +the same opening. And of course they made a tremendous +fuss about it. When an iceberg found that +<span class="pagenum">[Pg 73]</span>it couldn’t get in standing up, it forthwith lay down +on its side, or even rolled over on its back; which didn’t +help it in the least after all, for the very good reason +that all the other icebergs were adopting the same +tactics. And so Roos, who was cranking steadily all +the time, got his “Birth of an Iceberg” picture after +all.</p> + +<p>When the bergs ceased butting their heads off +against each other Roos shot me in the scenes where I +registered “consternation,” “relief” and “awed wonder,” +and our hard-striven-for Lake of the Hanging +Glaciers picture was complete. There was just a bit +of a hitch at the “awed wonder” fade-out, though, but +that was Roos’ fault in trying to introduce a “human +touch” by trying to make Gordon’s dog perch up beside +me on the crest of a hatchet-edged rock. The +pup sat quietly wagging his tail until the moment +came for me to lift up mine eyes unto the hills and +increase the tenseness of my “awed wonder” registration. +Then the altitude began to affect his nerves and +he started doing figure “8’s” back and forth between +my precariously planted feet. As a natural consequence, +when Roos started in on his “fade-out” I was +seesawing my arms wildly to maintain my balance, +talking volubly, and registering—well, what would a +temperamental movie star be registering while in the +act of telling a dog and a man what he thought of +them for their joint responsibility in all but pitching +him off a twenty-foot-high rock into a vortex of tumbling +icebergs? Again (unless this part of the film +has been discreetly cut in the studio before exhibition) +I beg the indulgence of lip-readers.<span class="pagenum">[Pg 74]</span></p> + +<p>The lake was deeply shadowed before we were +finally at liberty to take up again the sartorics of +“Lohengrin”; but it was not that fact, nor yet the not +entirely prohibitive difficulty of making shining +armour out of tin cans, that nipped that classic conception +in the bud. Rather it was the astonishing +unstable-mindedness displayed by the bergs when impinged +upon from without. Of the hundred or more +hunks of floating ice within a five-hundred-yard radius +of the point where our artificial berg had hit the water, +only a half dozen or so of the broadest and flattest +continued to expose the same profiles they had presented +before the big splash. Most of the others had +turned over and over repeatedly, and one, which +seemed to “hang” in almost perfect balance, continued +slowly revolving like a patent churn. “Lohengrin’s +Barge,” half a mile distant from the heart of the +“birth splash” and lapped by but the lightest of expiring +waves, was rolling drunkenly to port and starboard +as though in the trough of the seas of a typhoon. +It looked ready to turn turtle at a touch, and there +were too many angular projections on it—especially +about the “swans”—to make even a man who aspired +to grand opera care to court lightly the experience of +tangling himself up in the wreck.</p> + +<p>Descending to the timber-line meadow where the +horses had been left, we found Harmon had brought +up his outfit and pitched his tent midway of an enchanting +vista framed in green-black pines and golden +tamaracks, and with a wonderful background for +“camp shots” both up and down the valley. There he +was going to make his base, he said, until he found<span class="pagenum">[Pg 75]</span> +just the light he wanted on the Lake of the Hanging +Glaciers. Then he hoped to get at least a negative +or two that would do something approaching justice +to so inspiring a subject. And there, working and +waiting patiently through an almost unbroken succession +of storms that raged in the high Selkirks for many +days, he held on until he got what he wanted. It was +in that quiet persistent way that he had been photographing +the mountains of the Canadian West for +many years, and it will be in that way that he will +continue until he shall have attained somewhere near +to the high goal he has set for his life’s work—a complete +photographic record of the Rockies and Selkirks. +It is a privilege to have met an artist who +works with so fine a spirit, who has set himself so +high an ideal. A number of Harmon’s scenic pictures +of the mountains where the Columbia takes its rise are +so much better than the best of my own of the same +subjects, that I am giving them place in a work which +it was my original intention to illustrate entirely myself.</p> + +<p>We returned to our camp at the head of Horse +Thief Creek that night, and set out on our return +to Windermere the following morning. Save for a +rather sloppy passage of the main ford, the journey +was without incident. With light packs, we pushed +right through to the head of the wagon-road—something +over thirty miles—the first day. The seventeen +miles to Invermere we covered in a leisurely fashion, +reaching the hotel at three in the afternoon of the following +day, Sunday, the twentieth of September. +Here I found a wire from Chester, stating that it had<span class="pagenum">[Pg 76]</span> +finally proved impossible for him to get away from +business, and asking me to go ahead and see the Big +Bend trip through without him. In the event I decided +to continue on down the river he would be glad +to have his cameraman accompany me as long as the +weather and light were favourable for his work. A +letter with full instructions covering the two pictures +he desired made had already been dispatched.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page77" name="page77">[Pg 77]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER V<br /> +<br /> +CANAL FLATS TO BEAVERMOUTH</h2> + +<p>Chester’s instructions respecting the two new pictures +he wanted us to work on came through to Roos +the day following our return to Windermere. One of +these was to be confined entirely to the Big Bend +voyage. Essaying again my role of “gentleman-cum-sportsman,” +I was to get off the train at Beavermouth, +meet my boatman, launch the boat and start off down +the river. The various things seen and done <i>en +voyage</i> were to make up the picture.</p> + +<p>In the other picture I was to play the part of a +young rancher who was farming his hard-won clearing +on the banks of the Columbia near its source. +With the last of his crops in, he is assailed one day +with a great longing to see the ocean. Suddenly it +occurs to him that the river flowing right by his door +runs all the way to the sea, and the sight of a prospector +friend, about to push off with a sack of samples +for the smelter many hundreds of miles below, suggests +a means of making the journey. And so the +two of them start off down the Columbia. What happened +to them on their way was to be told in the picture. +The introductory scenes of this picture were +to be made somewhere in the vicinity of Windermere, +but the thread of the story was to be picked up below +the Arrow Lakes after the Big Bend voyage was +over.</p> + +<p>Hunting “location” and rainy weather kept us four<span class="pagenum">[Pg 78]</span> +or five days in Windermere and vicinity, giving an +opportunity we otherwise would have missed to meet +and become acquainted with the always kindly and +hospitable and often highly distinguished people of +this beautiful and interesting community. From the +time of David Thompson, the great astronomer and +explorer of the Northwest Company who wintered +there in 1810, down to the present Windermere seems +always to have attracted the right sort of people. The +predominant class is what one might call the gentleman-farmer, +with the stress perhaps on “gentleman.” +I mean to say, that is, that while a number of them +have failed of outstanding achievement as farmers, +there was none that I met who would not have qualified +as a gentleman, and in the very best sense of the +word. Sportsmen and lovers of the out-of-doors, +there was this fine bond of fellowship between all of +them. Nowhere have I encountered a fresher, more +wholesome social atmosphere than that of this fine +community of the upper Columbia.</p> + +<p>That genial and big-hearted old Scot, Randolph +Bruce, I recall with especial affection, as must every +one of the many who has known the hospitality of +his great log lodge on a bay of the lake below Invermere. +An Edinburgh engineer, Bruce was one of +the builders of the Canadian Pacific, and as such an +associate and intimate of Van Horne, O’Shaughnessy +and the rest of those sturdy pioneers who pushed to +accomplishment the most notable piece of railway construction +the world has ever known. In love with the +West by the time the railway was finished, he built +him a home in the most beautiful spot he knew<span class="pagenum">[Pg 79]</span>—such +a spot as few even among the Scottish lochs could +rival—and associated himself with various projects for +the advancement of the country. At the present time +he is the owner of the Paradise mine, one of the richest +silver-lead properties in British Columbia, and the +head of an enterprise which purposes to bring the +Windermere region to its own among the grandest of +the playgrounds of North America.</p> + +<p>We made the preliminary scenes for the “farmer” +picture at a gem of a little mountain ranch in a clearing +to the west of Lake Windermere. Shooting +through one of his favourite “sylvan frames,” Roos +picked me up violently shocking hay at the end of a +long narrow field which the labour of a young Scotch +immigrant had reclaimed from the encompassing forest. +(As a matter of fact the hay was already in +shocks when we arrived, and I had to unshock a few +shocks so as to shock them up again before the camera +and thus give the impression that this was the last of +my season’s crop.) Then I threw up a couple of +shocks for him set up at closer range, with more attention +to “technique.” (This latter came easy for me, +as I had been pitching hay for a fortnight on my California +ranch earlier in the summer.) Finally I +stopped work, leaned on my fork and gazed into the +distance with visioning eyes. (I was supposed to be +thinking of the sea, Roos explained, and in the finished +picture there would be a “cut-in” of breakers at this +point.) Then I registered “impatience” and “restlessness,” +hardening to “firm resolve.” At this juncture +I threw down my fork and strode purposefully +out of the right side of the picture. (The cabin to<span class="pagenum">[Pg 80]</span> +which I was supposed to be striding was really on +my left, but Roos explained that some sort of a movie +Median law made it imperative always to exit to +right.) Then we went over to make the cabin shots.</p> + +<p><a id="page80" name="page80"></a></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 456px;"> +<img src="images/illo_124.jpg" width="456" height="600" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">OLD HUDSON BAY CART AT BEAVERMOUTH (<i>above</i>)<br /> +MY FIRST PUSH-OFF AT THE HEAD OF CANOE NAVIGATION ON +THE COLUMBIA (<i>below</i>)</span> +</div> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p><a id="page81" name="page81"></a></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> +<img src="images/illo_125.jpg" width="600" height="427" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">OPENING SCENE OF THE "FARMER" +PICTURE <i>(left)</i><br /> +OLD STERN WHEELERS AT +GOLDEN (<i>above</i>)<br /> +A QUIET STRETCH OF THE COLUMBIA +NEAR GOLDEN (<i>below</i>)</span> +</div> + +<p>The owner of the cabin was away at the moment, +but his young Scotch wife—a bonnie bit of a lass who +might have been the inspiration for “Annie Laurie”—was +on hand and mightily interested. She asked if I +was Bill Hart, and Roos made the tactical error of +guffawing, as though the idea was absurd. She was +a good deal disappointed at that, but still very ready +to help with anything calculated to immortalize her +wee home by emblazoning it on the imperishable celluloid. +First I strode into the cabin, but almost immediately +to emerge unfolding a map. Going over +to a convenient stump, I sat down and disposed of a +considerable footage of “intent study.” Then we +made a close-up of the map—the Pacific Northwest—with +my index finger starting at Windermere and +tracing the course of the Columbia on its long winding +way to the sea. That proved that there was water +transit all the way to that previous cut-in of breakers +which my visioning eyes had conjured up just before +I threw down my fork. I stood up and gazed at the +nearby river (which was really Lake Windermere, a +mile distant), and presently stiffened to my full +height, registering “discovery.” What I was supposed +to see was a prospector tinkering with his boat. +As this latter scene could not be made until we had +bought a boat and signed up a “prospector,” all that +was left to do here was to shoot me striding away from +the cabin on the way to discuss ways and means with +<span class="pagenum">[Pg 81]</span>my mythical companion, and then striding back, getting +my roll of blankets and exiting in a final fade-out. +As we had neglected to provide a roll of blankets +for this shot, we had to improvise one from such material +as was available. I forget all that went to make +up that fearful and wonderful package; but it is just +as well the precariously-roped bundle didn’t resolve +into its component parts until the fade-out was pretty +nearly complete.</p> + +<p>Roos tried hard to introduce “human interest” and +“heart appeal” by staging a farewell scene with “wife +and child,” both of which were ready to hand. I was +adamant, however, even when he agreed to compromise +by leaving out the child. He was rather stubborn +about it, refusing to admit the validity of my +argument to the effect that a would-be screen hero +who deserted so fair a wife would alienate the sympathies +of the crowd at the outset. Finally it was +decided for us. “It’s too late noo,” cooed a wee voice +in which I thought I detected both reproach and relief; +“while ye’re talkin’, yon cooms Jock.”</p> + +<p>It <i>was</i> too late all right; even Roos was ready to +grant that. Jock was about six-feet-three, and built +in proportion. Also a wee bitty dour, I thought. At +least he glowered redly under his bushy brows when +he discovered that I had wrapped up his own and +another <i>nicht-goon</i> in my hastily assembled blanket-roll. +If that bothered him, I hate to think what might +have happened had he surprised that farewell scene, +especially as Roos—with his Mack Sennett training +and D. W. Griffith ideals—would have tried to stage +it.<span class="pagenum">[Pg 82]</span></p> + +<p>Roos was young and inexperienced, and lacking in +both finesse and subtlety. I granted that this wouldn’t +have cramped his style much in doing “old home town +stuff;” but farther afield it was electric with dangerous +possibilities. Driving back to the hotel I quoted +to him what Kipling’s hero in “The Man Who Would +Be King” said on the subject, paraphrasing it slightly +so he would understand. “A man has no business +shooting farewell scenes with borrowed brides in foreign +parts be he three times a crowned movie director,” +was the way I put it.</p> + +<p>It was my original intention to start the boating +part of my Columbia trip from Golden, at the head +of the Big Bend, the point at which the calm open +reaches of the upper river give way to really swift +water. The decision to make the push-off from Beavermouth, +twenty-nine miles farther down, was come +to merely because it was much easier to get the boat +into the water at the latter point. There was little +swift-water boating worthy of the name above Beavermouth. +Donald Canyon was about the only rough +water, and even that, I was assured, was not to be +mentioned in the same breath with scores of rapids +farther down the Bend. In the ninety miles between +the foot of Lake Windermere and Golden there were +but twenty-five feet of fall, so that the winding river +was hardly more than a series of lagoon-like reaches, +with a current of from one to four miles an hour. Between +Columbia Lake—practically the head of the +main channel of the river—and Mud Lake, and between +the latter and the head of Lake Windermere, +there was a stream of fairly swift current, but at this<span class="pagenum">[Pg 83]</span> +time of year not carrying enough water to permit the +passage of even a canoe without much lining and +portaging.</p> + +<p>From the practical aspect, therefore, I was quite +content with the plan to start my voyage from Beavermouth. +For the sake of sentiment, however, I <i>did</i> +want to make some kind of a push-off from the very +highest point that offered sufficient water to float a +boat at the end of September. This, I was assured +in Invermere, would be Canal Flats, just above the +head of Columbia Lake and immediately below +the abandoned locks which at one time made navigation +possible between the Kootenay and the Columbia. +Although these crude log-built locks have never been +restored since they were damaged by a great freshet +in the nineties, and although the traffic they passed +in the few years of their operation was almost +negligible, it may be of interest to give a brief description +of the remarkable terrain that made their +construction possible by the simplest of engineering +work, and to tell how the removal of a few shovelfuls +of earth effected the practical insulation of the whole +great range of the Selkirks.</p> + +<p>As a consequence of recent geological study, it has +been definitely established that the divide between the +Columbia and Kootenay rivers, now at Canal Flats, +was originally a hundred and fifty miles farther north, +or approximately where Donald Canyon occurs. +That is to say, a great wall of rock at the latter point +backed up a long, narrow lake between the Rockies +on the east and the Selkirks on the west. This lake, +unable to find outlet to the north, had risen until its<span class="pagenum">[Pg 84]</span> +waters were sufficiently above the lower southern barriers +to give it drainage in that direction. At that +time it was doubtless the main source of the Kootenay +River, and its waters did not reach the Columbia until +after a long and devious southerly course into what is +now Montana, thence northward into Kootenay Lake, +and finally, by a dizzy westerly plunge, into a much-extended +Arrow Lake. An upheaval which carried +away the dyke at Donald provided a northward drainage +for the lake, and the divide was ultimately established +at what is now called Canal Flats. It was a +shifting and precarious division, however, for the +Kootenay—which rises some distance to the northward +in the Rockies and is here a sizable stream—discharged +a considerable overflow to the Columbia basin +at high water. It was this latter fact which called +attention to the comparative ease with which navigation +could be established between the two rivers by +means of a canal. For an account of how this canal +came to be built I am indebted to E. M. Sandilands, +Esq., Mining Recorder for the British Columbia Government +at Wilmer, who has the distinction of being, +to use his own language, “the person who made the +Selkirk Mts. an Island by connecting the Columbia +and Kootenay rivers.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Sandilands, in a recent letter, tells how an ex-big-game +hunter by the name of Baillie-Grohman obtained, +in 1886, a concession from the Provincial +Government of British Columbia for 35,000 acres of +land along the Kootenay River. In return for this +he was to construct at his own expense a canal connecting +the Columbia and Kootenay. This cut<span class="pagenum">[Pg 85]</span> +was for the ostensible purpose of opening up navigation +between the two streams, but as nothing was +stipulated in respect of dredging approaches the +obligation of the concessionaire was limited to the +construction of the canal and locks. “For this reason,” +writes Mr. Sandilands, who was working on the +job at the time, “our ‘Grand Canal’ was practically +useless. Nevertheless, in 1888, it was opened with +due form and pomp, engineer, contractor and concessionaire +paddling up to the lock in a canoe well +laden with the ‘good cheer’ demanded by such an +occasion. I was driving a team attached to a ‘slush-scraper,’ +and together with a jovial Irish spirit who +rejoiced in the name of Thomas Haggerty, was ordered +by the foreman to scrape out the false dam +holding the Kootenay back from the canal. This we +did as long as we dared. Then I was deputed, with +gum-boots and shovel, to dig a hole through what was +left of the false dam, and allow the Kootenay into +the canal and the Columbia. This being done, the +fact was wired to the Provincial Government at Victoria ... , +and the promised concession of land was +asked for and granted. I little thought at the time,” +Mr. Sandilands concludes, “how distinguished a part +I was playing, that I was making the Selkirk Mountains +an ‘Island,’ a fact which few people realize to +this day.”</p> + +<p>Later a little dredging was done, so that finally, by +dint of much “capstaning,” a shallow-draught stern-wheeler +was worked up to and through the lock and +canal, and on down the Kootenay to Jennings, Montana. +It was Captain F. P. Armstrong who per<span class="pagenum">[Pg 86]</span>formed +this remarkable feat, only to lose the historic +little craft later in one of the treacherous canyons of +the Kootenay. His also was the distinction, after +maintaining an intermittent service between the Columbia +and Kootenay for a number of years, of being +the captain and owner of the last boat to make that +amazing passage.</p> + +<p>We reached Canal Flats at the end of a forty-mile +auto-ride from Invermere. Traces of the old dredged +channel were still visible running up from the head of +Columbia Lake and coming to an abrupt end against +a caving wall of logs which must at one time have +been a gate of the inter-river lock. Out of the tangle +of maiden hair fern which draped the rotting logs +came a clear trickle of water, seeping through from +the other side of the divide. This was what was popularly +called the source of the Columbia. I could just +manage to scoop the river dry with a quick sweep of +my cupped palm.</p> + +<p>A hundred yards below the source the old channel +opened out into a quiet currentless pool, and here I +found a half-filled Peterboro belonging to a neighbouring +farmer, which I had engaged for the first leg +of my voyage down the Columbia. It leaked rather +faster than I could bail, but even at that it floated as +long as there was water to float it. Fifty yards farther +down a broad mudbank blocked the channel all +the way across, and in attempting to drag the old +canoe out for the portage, I pulled it in two amidships. +I had made my start from almost chock-a-block +against the source, however. Sentiment was +satisfied. I was now ready for the Bend. Groping<span class="pagenum">[Pg 87]</span> +my way back to the car through an almost impenetrable +pall of mosquitoes, I rejoined Roos and we returned +to Invermere.</p> + +<p>A wire from Blackmore stating that it would still +be several days before his boat was ready for the Bend +offered us a chance to make the journey to Golden by +river if we so desired. There was nothing in it on the +boating side, but Roos thought there might +be a chance for some effective scenic shots. I, +also, was rather inclined to favour the trip, for the +chance it would give of hardening up my hands and +pulling muscles before tackling the Bend. An unpropitious +coincidence in the matter of an Indian name +defeated the plan. Roos and I were trying out on +Lake Windermere a sweet little skiff which Randolph +Bruce had kindly volunteered to let us have for the +quiet run down to Golden. “By hard pulling,” I +said, “we ought just about to make Spillimacheen at +the end of the first day.” “Spill a what?” ejaculated +Roos anxiously; “you didn’t say ‘machine,’ did you?” +“Yes; Spillimacheen,” I replied. “It’s the name of a +river that flows down to the Columbia from the Selkirks.” +“Then that settles it for me,” he said decisively. +“I don’t want to spill my machine. It cost +fifteen hundred dollars. I’m not superstitious; but, +just the same, starting out for a place with a name +like that is too much like asking for trouble to suit +yours truly.” And so we went down to Golden by +train and put in the extra time outfitting for the Bend.</p> + +<p>Golden, superbly situated where the Kicking Horse +comes tumbling down to join the Columbia, is a typical +Western mining and lumbering town. Save for<span class="pagenum">[Pg 88]</span> +their penchant for dramatizing the perils of the Big +Bend, the people are delightful. It is true that the +hospitable spirit of one Goldenite <i>did</i> get me in rather +bad; but perhaps the fault was more mine than his. +Meeting him on the railway platform just as he was +about to leave for Vancouver, he spoke with great enthusiasm +of his garden, and said that he feared some of +his fine strawberries might be going to waste in his absence +for lack of some one to eat them. I gulped with +eagerness at that, and then told him bluntly—and +truthfully—that I would willingly steal to get strawberries +and cream, provided, of course, that they +couldn’t be acquired in some more conventional way. +He hastened to reassure me, saying that it wouldn’t +be necessary to go outside the law in this case. “The +first chance you get,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, +“just slip over and make love to my housekeeper, and +tell her I said to give you your fill of berries and +cream, and I have no doubt she’ll provide for you.”</p> + +<p>If his Vancouver-bound train had not started to +pull out just then, perhaps he would have explained +that that accursed “love stuff” formula was a figure +of speech. Or perhaps he felt sure that I would understand +it that way, if not at once, at least when the +time came. And I would have, ordinarily. But my +strawberry-and-cream appetite is so overpowering +that, like the lions at feeding time, my finer psychological +instincts are blunted where satiation is in sight. +That was why I blurted out my hospitable friend’s +directions almost verbatim when I saw that the door +of his home (to which I had rushed at my first opportunity) +had been opened by a female. It was only<span class="pagenum">[Pg 89]</span> +after I had spoken that I saw that she was lean, angular, +gimlet-eyed, and had hatred of all malekind +indelibly stamped upon her dour visage. She drew +in her breath whistlingly; then controlled herself with +an effort. “I suppose I must give you the berries and +cream,” she said slowly and deliberately, the clearly +enunciated words falling icily like the drip from the +glacial grottoes at the head of the Columbia; “but the—the +other matter you would find a little difficult.”</p> + +<p>“Ye-es, ma’am,” I quavered shiveringly, “I would. +If you’ll please send the strawberries and cream to +the hotel I am quite content to have it a cash transaction.”</p> + +<p>Considering the way that rapier-thrust punctured +me through and through, I felt that I deserved no +little credit for sticking to my guns in the matter of +the strawberries and cream. For the rest, I was +floored. The next time any one tries to send me into +the Hesperides after free fruit I am going to know +who is guarding the apples; and I am <i>not</i> going to +approach the delectable garden by the love-path.</p> + +<p>I had taken especial pains to warn Roos what he +would have to expect from Golden in the matter of +warnings about the Big Bend, but in spite of all, that +garrulous social centre, the town pool-room, did manage +to slip one rather good one over on him before we +got away. “How long does it take to go round the +Bend?” he had asked of a circle of trappers and +lumber-jacks who were busily engaged in their favourite +winter indoor-sport of decorating the pool-room +stove with a frieze of tobacco juice. “Figger it +fer yerself, sonny,” replied a corpulent woodsman<span class="pagenum">[Pg 90]</span> +with a bandaged jaw. “If yer gets inter yer boat an’ +lets it go in that ten-twent’-thirt’ mile current, it’s a +simpl’ problum of ’rithmatick. If yer ain’t dished in +a souse-hole, yer <i>has</i> ter make Revelstoke insider one +day. As yer has ter do sum linin’ to keep right side +up, it’s sum slower. Best time any of us makes it in +is two days. But we never rushes it even like that +’nless we’re hurryin’ the cor’ner down ter sit on sum +drownded body.”</p> + +<p>As the whole court had nodded solemn acquiescence +to this, and as none had cracked anything remotely +resembling a smile, Roos was considerably impressed—not +to say depressed. (So had I been the first time +I heard that coroner yarn.) Nor did he find great +comfort in the hotel proprietor’s really well-meant +attempt at reassurance. “Don’t let that story bother +you, my boy,” the genial McConnell had said; “they +<i>never</i> did take the coroner round the Big Bend. Fact +is, there <i>never</i> was a coroner here that had the guts to +tackle it!”</p> + +<p>We met Blackmore at Beavermouth the afternoon +of the twenty-eighth of September. He reported +that his boat had been shipped from Revelstoke by +that morning’s way freight, and should arrive the +following day. As I had been unable to engage a +boatman in Golden, and as Blackmore had found +only one in Revelstoke to suit him, it was decided to +give me an oar and a pike-pole and make out the best +we could without another man. I had brought provisions +for a fortnight with me from Golden, and +Blackmore had tents and canvases. Through the efforts +of influential friends in Golden I had also been<span class="pagenum">[Pg 91]</span> +able to secure two bottles of prime Demerara rum. +Knowing that I was going to pick up at least one +cask of Scotch on the way, and perhaps two or three, +I had not been very keen about bothering with the +rum. But on the assurance that it might well be two +or three days before any whisky was found, and that +getting wet in the Columbia without something to +restore the circulation was as good as suicide, I allowed +myself to be persuaded. It was wonderful +stuff—thirty per cent. over-proof; which means that +it could be diluted with four parts of water and still +retain enough potency to make an ordinary man blink +if he tried to bolt it. We did find one man—but he +was not ordinary by any means; far from it. I will +tell about “Wild Bill” in the proper place.</p> + +<p>There was a wonderful <i>aurora borealis</i> that night—quite +the finest display of the kind I recall ever having +seen in either the northern or southern hemispheres. +Blackmore—weather-wise from long experience—regarded +the marvellous display of lambently licking +light streamers with mixed feelings. “Yes, it’s a fine +show,” he said, following the opalescent glimmer of +the fluttering pennants with a dubious eye; “but I’m +afraid we’ll have to pay through the nose for it. It +means that in a couple of days more the rain will be +streaming down as fast as those lights are streaming +up. Just about the time we get well into Surprise +Rapids there will be about as much water in the air +as in the river. However, it won’t matter much,” he +concluded philosophically, “for we’ll be soaked anyway, +whether we’re running or lining, and rain water’s +ten degrees warmer than river water.”</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page92" name="page92">[Pg 92]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER VI<br /> +<br /> +I. RUNNING THE BEND</h2> + +<p class="title"><i>Through Surprise Rapids</i></p> + +<p>We pushed off from Beavermouth at three o’clock +of the afternoon of September twenty-ninth. We had +hoped for an early start, but the erratically running +local freight, six or eight hours behind time, did not +arrive with our boat until noon. The introductory +shots had already been made. Made up momentarily +as a gentleman—wearing an ankle length polished +waterproof and a clean cap, that is,—I jumped the +westbound Limited as it slowed down on entering the +yard, dropping off presently at the platform with a +“here-I-am” expression when Roos signalled that the +focus was right. Then I shook hands with the waiting +Blackmore, and together we strode to the door of +the station and met the previously-rehearsed agent. +(Roos had wanted me to shake hands with the agent +as well as with Blackmore, but I overruled him by +pointing out that I was a “gentleman-sportsman” not +a “gentleman-politician,” and served notice on him +that pump-handling must henceforth be reduced to a +minimum.) We tried to perfect the agent in a +sweeping gesture that would say as plainly as words +“The train with your boat is just around that next +bend, sir,” but somehow we couldn’t prevent his trying +to elevate his lowly part. His lips mumbled<span class="pagenum">[Pg 93]</span> +the words we had put on them all right, but the gesture +was a grandiose thing such as a Chesterfieldian +footman might have employed in announcing “My +Lord, the carriage waits.”</p> + +<p>Roos, in all innocence, narrowly missed provoking a +fight with a hot-tempered half-breed while he was setting +up to shoot the incoming freight. He had an ingenious +method of determining, without bending over +his finder, just what his lens was going to “pick-up.” +This consisted of holding his arms at full length, with +his thumbs placed tip to tip and the forefingers standing +straight up. The right-angling digits then +framed for his eye an approximation of his picture. +To one not used to it this esoteric performance looked +distinctly queer, especially if he chanced to be standing +somewhere near the arch priest’s line of vision. +And that, as it happened, was exactly the place from +which it was revealed to the choleric near-Shuswap +section hand. I didn’t need the breed’s subsequent +contrite explanation to know that, from where he had +been standing, those twiddling thumbs and fingers, +through the great fore-shortening of the arms, looked +to be right on the end of the nose of the grimacing +little man by the camera. Not even a self-respecting +white man would have stood for what that twiddling +connoted, let alone a man in whose veins flowed blood +that must have been something like fifteen-sixteenths +of the proudest of Canadian strains. Luckily, both +Blackmore and his burly boatman were men of action. +Even so, it was a near squeeze for both camera and +cameraman. Roos emerged unscarred in anything +but temperament. And, of course, as every one even<span class="pagenum">[Pg 94]</span> +on the fringes of the movies knows, the temperaments +of both stars and directors are things that require +frequent harrowing to keep them in good working +order.</p> + +<p>Roos’ filming of the unloading of the boat was the +best thing he did on the trip. Every available man in +Beavermouth was requisitioned. This must have been +something like twenty-five or thirty. A half dozen, +with skids and rollers, could have taken the boat off +without exerting themselves seriously, but could +hardly have “made it snappy.” And action was what +the scene demanded. There was no time for a rehearsal. +The agent simply told us where the car +would be shunted to, Blackmore figured out the best +line from there over the embankment and through the +woods to the river, and Roos undertook to keep up +with the procession with his camera. Blackmore was +to superintend the technical operation and I was ordered +to see that the men “acted natural.” And thus +we went to it. The big boat, which must have weighed +close to half a ton, came off its flat car like a paper +shallop, but the resounding thwack with which her +bows hit a switch-frog awakened Blackmore’s concern. +“Easy! Easy! Don’t bust her bottom,” he +began shouting; while I, on the other side, took up +my refrain of “Don’t look at the camera!—make it +snappy.” The consequence of these diametrically opposed +orders was that the dozen or more men on my +side did most of the work. But even so it was +“snappy”—very.</p> + +<p>Down the embankment we rushed like a speeding +centipede, straight at the fine hog-proof wire fence of<span class="pagenum">[Pg 95]</span> +the C. P. R. right-of-way. That fence may have been +hog-proof, but it was certainly not proof against the +charge of a thirty-foot boat coming down a fifty per +cent. grade pushed by twenty-five men. We had intended +lifting over it, but our momentum was too +great, especially after I had failed to desist from +shouting “Make it snappy!” soon enough. The barrier +gave way in two or three places, so that we were +shedding trailing lengths of wire all the way to the +river. On through the woods we juggernauted, Roos +following in full cry. His city “news stuff” training +was standing him in good stead, and he showed no +less cleverness than agility in making successive “set-ups” +without staying our progress. Only in the last +fifty yards, where the going over the moss and pine +needles was (comparatively speaking) lightning fast, +did we distance him. Here, as there was plenty of +time, he cut a hole in the trees and shot the launching +through one of his favourite “sylvan frames.” For +the push-off shot he provided his customary heart +throb by bringing down the station agent’s three-year-old +infant to wave farewell. That he didn’t try +to feature the mother prominently seemed to indicate +that what I had said at Windermere on the subject +had had some effect.</p> + +<p>After the “farewell” had been filmed, we landed at +the fire ranger’s cabin to pick up Roos and his camera. +The ranger told us that a couple of trappers who had +been for some weeks engaged in portaging their winter +supplies round Surprise Rapids would be waiting +for us at the head of the first fall in the expectation of +getting the job of packing our stuff down to the foot.<span class="pagenum">[Pg 96]</span> +“Nothing doing,” Blackmore replied decisively; +“going straight through.” The ranger grinned and +shook his grizzled head. “You’re the man to do it,” +he said; “but jest the same, I’m glad it’s you and not +me that has the job.”</p> + +<p>The station agent came down with Roos, evidently +with the cheering purpose of showing us the place +where his predecessor and a couple of other men had +been drowned in attempting to cross the river some +months previously. “Only man in the boat to be +picked up alive was a one-armed chap,” he concluded +impressively. “Too late now for operations on any of +this crew,” laughed Blackmore, pushing off with a +pike-pole. “Besides, every man jack of us is going +to have a two-arm job all the way.” To the parting +cheers of the mackinawed mob on the bank, he eased +out into the current and headed her down the Bend.</p> + +<p><a id="page96" name="page96"></a></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/illo_142.jpg" width="400" height="700" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">ARRIVAL OF OUR BOAT AT BEAVERMOUTH (<i>above</i>)<br /> +OUR FIRST CAMP AT BEAVERMOUTH (<i>centre</i>)<br /> +THE REMAINS OF A SUNKEN FOREST (<i>below</i>)</span> +</div> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p><a id="page97" name="page97"></a></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 408px;"> +<img src="images/illo_143.jpg" width="408" height="700" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">TRAPPER’S CABIN WHERE WE FOUND SHELTER FOR THE +NIGHT (<i>above</i>)<br /> +WHERE WE LANDED ABOVE SURPRISE RAPIDS (<i>centre</i>)<br /> +WHERE WE TIED UP AT “EIGHT MILE” (<i>below</i>)</span> +</div> + +<p>Roos stationed himself in the bow, with camera set +up on its shortened tripod, waiting to surprise any +scenery caught lurking along the way. Blackmore +steered from the stern with his seven-feet-long birch +paddle. Andy Kitson and I, pulling starboard and +port oars respectively, rubbed shoulders on the broad +’midship’s thwart. Our outfit—a comparatively light +load for so large a boat—was stowed pretty well aft. +I saw Blackmore lean out to “con ship” as we got +under way. “Good trim,” he pronounced finally, +with an approving nod. “Just load enough to steady +her, and yet leave plenty of freeboard for the sloppy +water. This ought to be a dryer run than some the +old girl’s had.” I chuckled to myself over that “dryer.” +I hadn’t told Blackmore yet what was hidden down +<span class="pagenum">[Pg 97]</span>Canoe River way. I had promised Captain Armstrong +not to do so until I had ascertained that we had +a teetotal crew—or one comparatively so.</p> + +<p>Andy Kitson was a big husky North-of-Irelander, +who had spent twenty years trapping, packing, hunting, +lumbering and boating in western Canada. Like +the best of his kind, he was deliberate and sparing of +speech most of the time, but with a fine reserve vocabulary +for emergency use. He was careful and +cautious, as all good river boatmen should be, but +decidedly “all there” in a pinch. He pulled a good +round-armed thumping stroke with his big oar, and +took to the water (as has to be done so frequently on +a bad stretch of “lining down”) like a beaver. Best +of all, he had a temper which nothing from a leak in +the tent dribbling down his neck to a half hour up to +his waist in ice-cold water seemed equal to ruffling. I +liked Andy the moment I set eyes on his shining red +gill, and I liked him better and better every day I +worked and camped with him.</p> + +<p>As it was three-thirty when we finally pushed off, +Blackmore announced that he would not try to make +farther than “Eight-Mile” that afternoon. With comparatively +good water all the way to the head of Surprise +Rapids, we could have run right on through, he +said; but that would force us to make camp after +dark, and he disliked doing that unless he had to. In +a current varying from three to eight miles an hour, +we slid along down stream between banks golden-gay +with the turning leaves of poplar, cottonwood and +birch, the bright colours of which were strikingly accentuated +by the sombre background of thick-growing<span class="pagenum">[Pg 98]</span> +spruce, hemlock, balsam and fir. Yellow, in a score +of shades, was the prevailing colour, but here and +there was a splash of glowing crimson from a patch of +<i>chin-chinick</i> or Indian tobacco, or a mass of dull maroon +where a wild rose clambered over the thicket. +Closely confined between the Rockies to the right and +the Selkirks to the west, the river held undeviatingly +to its general northwesterly course, with only the +patchiest of flats on either side. And this was the +openest part of the Bend, Blackmore volunteered; +from the head of Surprise Rapids to the foot of Priest +Rapids the Columbia was so steeply walled that we +would not find room for a clearing large enough to +support a single cow. “It’s a dismal hole, and no +mistake,” he said.</p> + +<p>We took about an hour to run to “Eight Mile,” +Andy and I pulling steadily all the way in the deep, +smoothly-running current. We tied up in a quiet +lagoon opening out to the west—evidently the mouth +of a high-water channel. There was a magnificent +stand of fir and spruce on a low bench running back +from the river, not of great size on account of growing +so thickly, but amazing lofty and straight. We +camped in the shelter of the timber without pitching +a tent, Andy and Blackmore sleeping in the open and +Roos and I in a tumble-down trapper’s cabin. Or +rather we spread our blankets in the infernal hole. +As the place was both damp and rat-infested, we did +not sleep. Roos spent the night chopping wood and +feeding the rust-eaten—and therefore smoky—sheet-iron +stove. I divided my time between growling at +Roos for enticing me into keeping him company in the<span class="pagenum">[Pg 99]</span> +cabin against Blackmore’s advice, and throwing things +at the prowling rodents. It did not make for increased +cheerfulness when I hit him on the ear with a hob-nailed +boot that I had intended for a pair of eyes +gleaming vitreously on a line about six inches back of +his gloomily bowed head. He argued—and with some +reason I must admit—that I had no call to draw so +fine a bead until I was surer of my aim. Largely as +a point of repartee, I told him not to be too certain I +was not sure of my aim. But I really had been trying +to hit the rat....</p> + +<p>I took the temperature of the air and the river +water in the morning, finding the former to register +thirty-eight degrees and the latter forty-one. There +was a heavy mist resting on the river for a couple of +hours after daybreak, but it was lifting by the time +we were ready to push off. In running swift water +good visibility is even more imperative than at sea, +but as there was nothing immediately ahead to bother +Blackmore did not wait for it to clear completely. +The sun was shining brightly by nine-thirty, and Roos +made several shots from the boat and one or two from +the bank. One of the most remarkable sights unfolded +to us was that of “Snag Town.” Just what +was responsible for this queer maze of upended trees +it would be hard to say. It seems probable, however, +that a series of heavy spring floods undermined a considerable +flat at the bend of the river, carrying away +the earth and leaving the trees still partially rooted. +The broadening of the channel must have slowed +down the current a good deal, and it appears never to +have been strong enough to scour out below the te<span class="pagenum">[Pg 100]</span>naciously +clinging roots. The former lords of the +forest are all dead, of course, but still they keep their +places, inclining down-stream perhaps twenty-degrees +from their former proud perpendicular, and firmly +anchored. It takes careful steering to thread the +maze even in a small boat, but the current is hardly +fast enough to make a collision of serious moment.</p> + +<p>The current quickened for a while beyond “Snag +Town” and then began slowing again, the river broadening +and deepening meanwhile. I thought I read the +signs aright and asked Blackmore. “Yes,” he replied +with a confirmatory nod; “it’s the river backing up for +its big jump. Stop pulling a minute and you can +probably hear the rapid growling even here.” Andy +and I lay on our oars and listened. There it was +surely enough, deep and distant but unmistakable—the +old familiar drum-roll of a big river beating for the +charge. It was tremendous music—heavy, air-quivering, +earth-shaking; more the diapason of a great +cataract than an ordinary rapid, it seemed to me. I +was right. Surprise is anything but an ordinary +rapid.</p> + +<p>We pulled for a half hour or more down a broad +stretch of slackening water that was more like a lake +than a river. Out of the looming shadows of the +banks for a space, mountain heights that had been cut +off leaped boldly into view, and to left and right lifted +a lofty sky-line notched with snowy peaks rising from +corrugated fields of bottle-green glacier ice. Mt. +Sanford, loftiest of the Selkirks, closed the end of the +bosky perspective of Gold Creek, and the coldly +chiselled pyramids of Lyell, Bryce and Columbia<span class="pagenum">[Pg 101]</span> +pricked out the high points on the Continental Divide +of the Rockies. We held the vivid double panorama—or +quadruple, really, for both ranges were +reflected in the quiet water—for as long as it took us +to pull to a beach at the narrowing lower end of the +long lake-like stretch above the rapids, finally to lose +it as suddenly as it had been opened to us behind the +imminently-rearing river walls.</p> + +<p>The two trappers of whom the fire-ranger at +Beavermouth had spoken were waiting for us on the +bank. They had permits for trapping on a couple of +the creeks below Kinbasket Lake, and were getting +down early in order to lay out their lines by the time +the season opened a month or so hence. They had +been packing their stuff over the three-mile portage +to the foot of the rapids during the last three weeks, +and now, with nothing left to go but their canoes, +were free to give us a hand if we wanted them. Blackmore +replied that he could save time and labour by +running and lining the rapids. “Besides,” he added +with a grin, “I take it these movie people have come +out to get pictures of a river trip, not an overland +journey.” The trappers took the dig in good part, +but one of them riposted neatly. Since he was out for +furs, he said, and was not taking pictures or boot-legging, +time was not much of an object. The main +thing with him was to reach his destination with his +winter’s outfit. If all the river was like Surprise +Rapids he would be quite content to go overland all +the way. Neither of them made any comments on the +stage of the water or offered any suggestions in connection +with the job we had ahead. That was one<span class="pagenum">[Pg 102]</span> +comfort of travelling with Blackmore. In all matters +pertaining to river work his judgment appeared to be +beyond criticism. If he was tackling a stunt with a +considerable element of risk in it, that was his own +business. No one else knew the dangers, and how to +avoid them, so well as he.</p> + +<p>Blackmore looked to the trim of the boat carefully +before shoving off, putting her down a bit more by the +stern it seemed to me. He cautioned me on only one +point as we pulled across the quarter of mile to where +the banks ran close together and the quiet water +ended. “Don’t never dip deep in the white water, and +’specially in the swirls,” he said, stressing each word. +“If you do, a whirlpool is more’n likely to carry your +oar-blade under the boat and tear out half the side +’fore you can clear your oar-lock. That’s the way +that patched gunnel next you came to get smashed.” +As we were about at the point where it is well to confine +all the talking done in the boat to one man, I +refrained from replying that I had been told the +same thing in a dozen or so languages, on four different +continents, and by “skippers” with black, yellow +and copper as well as white skins, at fairly frequent +intervals during the last fifteen years. There were +enough slips I might make, but that of dipping deep +in rough water was hardly likely to be one of them.</p> + +<p>The rumble of the rapid grew heavier as we proceeded, +but only a single flickering white “eyelash” +revealed the imminent ambush lurking beyond the +black rocks. The current accelerated rapidly as the +walls closed in, but ran easily, effortlessly, unripplingly, +and with an almost uncanny absence of swirls<span class="pagenum">[Pg 103]</span> +and eddies. “Have plenty way on her ’fore she +hits the suds,” cautioned Blackmore, and Andy and I +grunted in unison as we leaned a few more pounds of +beef onto our bending spruces. That started our inside +elbows to bumping, but without a word each of +us sidled along an inch or two toward his gunwale to +get well set while yet there was time.</p> + +<p>With an easy bob—quick like a rowboat rides the +bow wave of a steamer, but smoother, easier in its lift—we +ran into the head of the rapid. There was a +swift V-shaped chute of smooth jade-green water; +then we slapped right into the “suds.” High-headed +waves slammed against the bows and threw spray all +over the boat and far astern of it. But they lacked +jolt. They had too much froth and not enough +green water to make them really formidable. We +were in rough but not really bad water. I tried to +grin at Blackmore to show him I understood the situation +and was enjoying it highly; but his eyes, pin-points +of concentration under bent brows, were directed +over my head and far in advance. Plainly, he +was thinking as well as looking well ahead.</p> + +<p>Reassured by the smart way we were slashing +through that first riffle, I ventured to steal a look over +my shoulder. In the immediate foreground Roos, +with his waterproof buttoned close around his neck, +was shaking the spray out of his hair and watching +for a chance to snap with his kodak. Ahead there was +perhaps another hundred yards of about the same sort +of water as that in which we were running; then a +yeasty welter of white where the river disappeared +round a black cliff into what seemed a narrow gorge.<span class="pagenum">[Pg 104]</span> +Opposite the cliff the river wall sloped slightly and +was thickly covered with a dense growth of evergreen. +The heavy roar we had been hearing for hours was +still muffled. Evidently the main disturbance was +somewhere beyond the bend at the cliff.</p> + +<p>The thunder of falling water grew louder as we +headed down toward the white smother in the embrasure +of the bend, and it was from Blackmore’s lips +rather than from any words I heard that I gathered +that he was calling for “More way!” Still keeping +fairly good stroke, Andy and I quickly had her going +enough faster than the current to give the big paddle +all the steerage “grip” Blackmore could ask for. +Swinging her sharply to the right, he headed her past +the out-reaching rock claws at the foot of the cliff, +and, with a sudden blaze of light and an ear-shattering +rush of sound we were into the first and worst fall +of Surprise Rapids.</p> + +<p>That dual onslaught of light and sound had something +of the paralyzing suddenness of that which occurs +when a furnace door is thrown wide and eye and +ear are assailed at the same instant with the glare and +the roar from within. One moment we were running +in a shadowed gorge with a heavy but deadened and +apparently distant rumble sounding somewhere +ahead; the next we were in the heart of a roar that +fairly scoured our ear-drums, and blinking in a fluttering +white light that seemed to sear the eyeballs. +The one hurried glance that I threw behind me as I +began floundering on the end of my kicking oar +photographed an intensely vivid picture on my memory.<span class="pagenum">[Pg 105]</span></p> + +<p>What had been merely a swiftly-flowing river with +a streak of silver riffles down the middle had changed +to a tumultuous tumble of cascades that gleamed in +solid white from bank to bank like the churned snow +of a freshly descended avalanche. There was no green +water whatever; not even a streak that was tinged +with green. All that relieved the coruscating, sun-silvered +tumble of whiteness were the black tips of +jutting bedrock, sticking up through the foam +they had churned. The deeply shadowed western +wall, hanging above the river like a dusky pall, served +only to accentuate by contrast the intense white light +that danced above the cascade. It was as though the +golden yellow had been filtered out of the sunlight in +the depths, and only the pure blue-white of calcium +reflected back into the atmosphere.</p> + +<p>Heavy as was the fall of the river over the stretch +we had now entered, I could just make out a point +perhaps a half mile farther down where it dropped +out of sight entirely. That, I told myself, must be +the place where there was an unbroken reef of bedrock +all the way across the stream, and where there +was an abrupt drop of eight or ten feet. A great +throbbing rumble cutting into the slightly higher-keyed +roar that already engulfed us also seemed to +indicate that the steepest pitch had not yet been +reached. I had, of course, seen worse water than this, +but certainly had never (as appeared to be the case +now) been irretrievably committed to running it. I +had heard that it was quite unrunnable in any kind +of a boat, it certainly looked unrunnable, and I seemed +to have the impression that Blackmore had said he<span class="pagenum">[Pg 106]</span> +was not intending to run it. Yet here we were into +it, and without (so far as I could see) anything to do +but drive ahead. However, that was Blackmore’s +affair....</p> + +<p>The rather smart team-work which Andy and I had +maintained for a while dissolved like the morning +mists as we banged in among the walloping rollers at +the head of the real cascade. Both of us were in difficulties, +but his round-armed thumping stroke +seemed rather more true to form than the shattered +remnants of my fine straight-armed slide-and-recover, +with its dainty surface-skimming “feather.” Nothing +but the sharpest of dabs with the tip of an oar can +get any hold in a current of fifteen to twenty miles an +hour, and the short, wristy pull (which is all there is +time for) doesn’t impart a lot of impulse to a thirty-foot +boat. That, and the staggering buffets on the +bows, for it was solid, lumpy water that was coming +over us now, quickly reduced our headway. (Headway +<i>through</i> the current, I mean; our headway floating +<i>in</i> the current was terrific.) This was, of course, a +serious handicap to Blackmore, as it deprived him of +much of the steerage-way upon which he was dependent +for quick handling of the boat. The difficulty of +maintaining steerage-way in rough water with oars +makes a bow as well as a stern paddle very desirable in +running bad rapids. The bow paddler can keep a +very sharp lookout for rocks immediately ahead, and, +in a pinch, can jerk the boat bodily to one side or the +other, where oarsmen have to <i>swing</i> it. However, +Blackmore knew just what he was going up against,<span class="pagenum">[Pg 107]</span> +and had made the best disposition possible of his +available crew.</p> + +<p>I was too busy keeping myself from being bucked +off the thwart by my floundering oar to steal more +than that first hurried look over my shoulder. It was +not my concern what was ahead anyway. All I had +to do was to take a slap at the top of a wave every time +I saw a chance, and be ready to back, or throw my +weight into a heavy stroke, when Blackmore needed +help to turn her this way or that. My signal—a jerk +of the steersman’s head to the left—came sooner than +I expected. It looked a sheer impossibility to drive +through the maze of rocks to the bank, yet that—after +a long, anxious look ahead—was evidently what +he had decided to attempt. As it was my oar he called +on, I knew it was the right or east bank, a sharply +sloping reach of black bedrock littered with water-scoured +boulders.</p> + +<p>By the way Blackmore was leaning onto his paddle +I knew that he needed all the pull I could give him +to bring her round. Swinging back hard, I threw +every pound I had onto my oar. For an instant the +lack of resistance as the blade tore through foam +nearly sent me reeling backwards; then it bit into +solid water, and, under impulse of oar and paddle, the +boat pivoted through more than half a quadrant and +shot straight for the bank. Right in where the black +rock tips were scattered like the raisins in a pudding +he headed her. There was no room to use the oars +now, but she still carried more than enough way to +send her to the bank. Or rather, it would have carried<span class="pagenum">[Pg 108]</span> +her through if the course had been clear. Missing two +or three rocks by inches, she rasped half her length +along another, and onto a fourth—lurking submerged +by a foot—she jammed full tilt. It was her port bow +that struck, and from the crash it seemed impossible +that she could have escaped holing. Andy went over +the side so suddenly that, until I saw him balancing on +a rock and trying to keep the boat from backing off +into the current, I thought he had been thrown overboard +by the impact. Thumping her bow with his +boot, he reported her leaking slightly but not much +damaged. Then, swinging her round into an eddy, +he jumped off into the waist-deep water and led her +unresistingly up against the bank. It was astonishing +to see so wild a creature so suddenly become tame.</p> + +<p>We would have to “line down” from here to the +foot of the first fall, Blackmore said. While Roos was +setting up his camera the veteran explained that he +could have run four or five hundred yards farther +down, right to the brink of the “tip off,” but that he +preferred getting in out of the wet where he had a +good landing. I agreed with him heartily—without +putting it in words. But if that was his idea of a +“good landing place,” I hoped he would continue to +avoid bad ones.</p> + +<p>The basic principles of “lining down” are the same +on all rivers. Where water is too rough to run, it is +the last resort before portaging. As generally practised, +one man, walking along the bank, lets the boat +down with a line, while another—or as many others +as are available—keeps it off the rocks with poles. +“Lining” can be effected more rapidly and with much<span class="pagenum">[Pg 109]</span> +less effort if one man remains in the boat and fends off +with his pole from there. This is much the better +method where the fall is not too great and the water +comparatively warm. On the upper Columbia, where +the breaking away of a boat from a line means its +almost inevitable loss with all on board, it is resorted +to only when absolutely necessary, and when a man +of great experience is handling the line. It takes a +natural aptitude and years of experience for a man to +master all the intricacies of “lining.” I shall not endeavour +to enumerate even the few that I am familiar +with; but the one thing beyond all others to avoid is +letting the bow of the boat swing outwards when the +stern is held up by a rock. This brings the full current +of the river against its up-stream side, exerting a +force that a dozen men could not hold against, let +alone one or two. As Blackmore was noted for his +mastery of the “lining” game, however, we had no +apprehension of trouble in this department.</p> + +<p>Nothing of the outfit save the moving picture camera +was removed from the boat at this juncture. Coiling +his line—something over a hundred feet of half-inch +Manila hemp—over his left arm, Blackmore +signalled Andy to shove off. Paying out the line +through his right hand, he let the eddy carry the boat +out into the drag of the current. Armed with long +pike-poles, Andy and I ran on ahead to keep it clear +of the banks as it swung in. This was easy enough +as long as we had only the bank to contend with. +But almost immediately the trouble which makes +Surprise Rapids one of the nastiest stretches on any +river in the world to line began to develop. This<span class="pagenum">[Pg 110]</span> +came from the submerged rocks which crop up all +along between the banks and the deeper water of +mid-channel.</p> + +<p>Pulling her up and releasing her with a hand that +reminded me of that of a consummate natural horseman, +Blackmore nursed the boat along and managed +to avoid most of these obstructions. But every now +and then she would wedge between a close-set pair +of boulders and resist the force of the current to drive +her on. At such times it was up to Andy and me to +wade in and try to dislodge her with our poles. Failing +this, we had to wade out still farther and lift +her through. Andy always took the lead in this lifting +business, claiming that it required a lot of experience +to know just the instant to stop shoving at the +boat as she began to move, and start bracing against +the current to keep from getting carried away. I +have no doubt he was right. In any event he would +never let me come out until he had tugged and hauled +for several minutes trying to budge her alone, and +even then—notwithstanding his four or five inches +less of height—he always took his station in the deepest +hole. Two or three times, shaking himself like a +Newfoundland, he came out wet to the armpits with +the icy water. As the sun was beating hotly upon +the rocks, however, neither of us felt the cold much +that afternoon. A few days later it was another story.</p> + +<p>We made something like eight or nine hundred +yards before we stopped—right to the head of the +roaring chute that ran down to the sheer drop-off. +Roos—always at his best when there was plenty of +unpremeditated action going on, so that “directorial”<span class="pagenum">[Pg 111]</span> +worries sat lightly on him—followed us closely all the +way. It was hard enough keeping one’s footing on +those ice-slippery boulders at all; how he managed it +with something like a hundred pounds of camera and +tripod over his shoulder and a bulky case in one hand +is more than I can figure. But he did it, keeping +close enough so that he got just about everything +without having to ask us to do it over again. This +latter was a good deal of a comfort, especially in +those waist-deep-in-the-Columbia lifting stunts. I +had always hated “lining down,” even in the tropics, +and I already saw that what we had ahead wasn’t +going to modify my feelings for the better.</p> + +<p>At the head of that rough-and-tumble cascade leading +to the fall, Blackmore decided that we would have +to unload the boat completely before trying to let her +down. It was always bad business there at the best, he +said, and the present stage of water made the rocks +quite a bit worse than when either higher or lower. +If we hustled, there ought to be time to get through +before dark, and then a half mile run would take us +to a good camping place near the head of the second +fall. Here Roos intervened to point out that the sun +was already behind the western wall, and asking if it +wouldn’t be possible to camp where we were. He +wanted to keep the “continuity” of this particular +piece of “lining” unbroken, and would need good +light to finish it in. Blackmore said he could manage +the camp if we thought our ear-drums would stand the +roar.</p> + +<p>So we unloaded the boat, and Blackmore leading +her into the quietest pool he could find, moored her<span class="pagenum">[Pg 112]</span> +for the night. As there was a couple of feet of “lop” +even there, this was rather a nice operation. With +lines to stern and bow, and held off from the rocks on +either side by lashed pike-poles, she looked for all the +world like some fractious horse that had been secured +to prevent its banging itself up against the sides of +its stall. It was a beastly job, carrying the fifteen or +twenty heavy parcels of the outfit a hundred yards +over those huge polished boulders to the bit of sand-<span class="pagenum">[Pg 113]</span>bar +where camp was to be pitched. My old ankles—endlessly +sprained during my football days—protested +every step of my several round trips, and I +congratulated myself that I had had the foresight to +bring leather braces to stiffen them. Reeking with +perspiration after I had thrown down my last load, I +decided to use the river for a bath that I would have +to take anyway on shifting from my wet clothes. The +half-glacial water was not a lot above freezing, of +course; but that is of small moment when one has +plenty of animal heat stored up to react against it. +My worst difficulty was from the bumpiness of my +rocky bathing pool, which also had a rather troublesome +undercurrent pulling out toward the racing +chute of the main channel. Blackmore, pop-eyed with +astonishment, came down to watch the show. It was +the first time he had ever seen a man take a voluntary +bath in Surprise Rapids, he said. And all the others—the +involuntary bathers—they had picked up later +in Kinbasket Lake.</p> + +<p>That was about the most restricted space I can +recall ever having camped in. The great boulders +of the high-water channel extended right up to the +foot of the mountain wall and neither the one nor the +other afforded enough level space to set a doll’s house. +A four-by-six patch of sand was the most extensive +area that seemed to offer, and, doubling this in size +by cutting away a rotting spruce stump and a section +of fallen birch, there was just enough room for the +little shed-tent. It was a snug and comfortable camp, +though, and highly picturesque, perched as it was almost +in the spray of the cascade. The noise was the +worst thing, and we would have had to stay there +even longer than we did to become quite used to it. +All of us were shouting in each other’s ears for days +afterwards, and even trying to converse in signs in the +idyllic quietude of Kinbasket Lake.</p> + +<p>The storm which Blackmore’s seer-like vision had +descried in the blue-green auroral flutters of a couple +of nights previously arrived quite on schedule. Although +the western sky had glowed for half an hour +after sunset with that supposedly optimistic tinge of +primrose and terra-cotta, it was pouring before midnight, +and the next morning there was truly almost +as much water in the air as in the river. Pictures were +out of the question, so there was nothing to do but +hang on until the weather cleared. Leaving Roos +whittling and Andy struggling to divert a swelling +young river that was trying to sluice away the sand +on which the tent was pitched, Blackmore and I pulled +on our waterproofs and clambered a mile through the +woods to a camp of C. P. R. engineers. Blackmore +wanted to get an extra axe; I to get some further +data on the fall of the river. We found a crude cable-ferry +thrown across just below the foot of the big<span class="pagenum">[Pg 114]</span> +fall, and a rough, boggy path from the eastern end of +it took us to the camp of three or four comfortable +cabins.</p> + +<p>The Canadian Pacific, I learned—both on account +of the high and increasing cost of its oil fuel and because +of the trouble experienced in clearing their tunnels +from smoke—was contemplating the electrification +of all of its mountain divisions. There were +numerous high falls along the line where power could +be economically developed, but it was not considered +desirable that the scenic beauty of these should be +marred by diversion. Besides the Columbia, in a +hundred miles of the Big Bend, offered the opportunity +for developing more hydro-electric energy than +all the west of Canada could use in the next twenty +years. The Surprise Rapids project alone would +provide far more power than the Canadian Pacific +could use for traction, and it was expected that there +would be a large surplus for municipal and industrial +uses along the line. “All this, of course,” the engineer +at the camp explained, “in the event the company +decides to go ahead with the development. +Raising the money will probably be the greatest difficulty, +and in the present state of the financial market +it is hard to see how much can be done for two +or three years. In the meantime we are measuring +the flow of the river every day, and will have accurate +data to go by when the time for construction comes.”</p> + +<p>I learned that the total length of Surprise Rapids +was three and a third miles, in which distance there +was a fall of nearly one hundred feet. The greatest +drop was in that stretch which we were waiting to<span class="pagenum">[Pg 115]</span> +“line,” where there was a fall of twenty-one feet in +seven hundred and fifty. At the second cascade +there was a fall of fifteen feet in twelve hundred, +and at the third, twenty-five feet in twenty-five hundred. +It was planned to build the dam across the +very narrow canyon near the foot of the lower fall, +making it of such a height that a lake would be backed +up as far as Beavermouth, incidentally, of course, +wiping out the whole of Surprise Rapids. “They +can’t wipe it out any too soon to suit me,” Blackmore +commented on hearing this. “It’d have saved +me a lot of work and many a wetting if they’d wiped +it out twenty year ago. And that’s saying nothing +of the men drownded there. It was that big whirlpool +down through the trees there that did for Walter +Steinhoff.”</p> + +<p>We had left the camp now and were picking our +way down the narrow trail to the foot of the second +fall. I had been waiting to hear Blackmore speak of +Steinhoff for two reasons: first, because I was curious +to know how much truth there was in those dramatic +versions of his death I had heard in Golden, and also +because the subject would lead up naturally to that +of the buried whisky. This latter was rather too +delicate a matter to broach offhand, and I had therefore +been carefully watching for a favourable opening. +Now that it had come, I was quick to take advantage +of it.</p> + +<p>“Tell me about Steinhoff,” I said. “He was on +some kind of a boot-legging stunt, wasn’t he?” I +was just a bit diffident about bringing up that drink-running +business, for although I had been told that<span class="pagenum">[Pg 116]</span> +Blackmore was a smooth hand at the game himself, +I had a sort of sneaking idea that it was the kind of +a thing a man ought to be sensitive about, like having +had smallpox or a sister in the movies. I need not have +worried, however. “You bet he was boot-legging,” +Blackmore replied; “and so was I. Both outfits +heading for <i>Tete Jaune Cache</i> on the Grand Trunk, +and racing to get there first. That was what got him +into trouble—trying to catch up with me after I had +passed him by running and lining the first fall (the +one we are doing the same way now) while he had +portaged. I reckon it was his first intention to portage +all the way to the foot of the second fall, but +when he saw me slip by in the water he put in his +canoes at the foot of the first fall and came after me.”</p> + +<p>We had come out above the river now, and I saw +a savage stretch of foam-white water falling in a roaring +cascade to a mighty whirlpool that filled all of +the bottom of the steeply-walled amphitheatre formed +by a right-angling bend of the Columbia. Thirty +feet or more above the present level of the whirlpool +were the marks of its swirling scour at mid-summer +high-water. Awesome enough now (and it was not +any the less so to me since we still had to take the +boat through it), I could see at once that, with the +power of the floods driving it round and round at +turbine speed, it must indeed be a veritable thing of +terror. It was into this whirlpool, as well as others +at Revelstoke Canyon and Death Rapids, that whole +uprooted pines were said to be sucked in flood-time, +to reappear only as battered logs many miles below. +There seemed hardly enough water there at the pres<span class="pagenum">[Pg 117]</span>ent +to make this possible; but the story was at least +credible to me now, which was more than it had been +previously.</p> + +<p>“So this is your ‘All Day Sucker,’” I remarked +carelessly, in a studied attempt to keep Blackmore +from noting how greatly the savage maelstrom had +impressed me. Seeing through the bluff, he grinned +indulgently and resumed his story of Steinhoff as +soon as we had moved far enough round the whirlpool +to make his voice comfortably heard above the roar +of the cascade. A line had parted—sawed through +in working round a rocky point a few hundred yards +above—and Steinhoff’s big Peterboro was swept out +into the current. Striking a rock, it turned over and +threw him into the water. He made a brave effort +to swim out, keeping his head above water most of +the way down the cascade. The whirlpool had been +too much for him, however. He was fighting hard +to keep up when he was carried into the vortex and +sucked under. Blackmore took no stock in the story +of the dramatic gesture of farewell. “A man don’t +pull that grand opry stuff with the cold of the Columbia +biting into his spine,” was the way he put it.</p> + +<p>Then I told him about the whisky—spoke to him +as a son to his father. And he, meeting me point for +point in all seriousness of spirit, answered as father to +son. He thought there was little chance of finding +anything along the river. He had not done so himself +for a number of years—and he hadn’t been overlooking +any bets, either. There was, of course, still +much good stuff buried in the drift below Middle +River, but it would be like looking for a needle in a<span class="pagenum">[Pg 118]</span> +haystack trying to find it. But the cache above +Canoe River—ah, that was another matter! Captain +Armstrong could be absolutely depended upon in a +matter of that kind, and the directions sounded right +as rain. Yes, he quite understood that I should want +to take it all to California with me. He would want +to do the same thing if he were in my place. It would +be easy as picking pippins getting it over the line. +He could tell me three different ways, all of them +dead sure. He would not think of taking any of it +for himself. The rum we had would be ample for the +trip, except in extreme emergency. That “thirty +over-proof” went a long way. And I need not worry +in the least about Andy. He wasn’t a teetotaler +exactly, but he never took too much under any provocation. +Yes, I could depend upon the both of them +to nose out that stuff at the old ferry. Put it there! +We looked each other square in the eye, and shook +hands solemnly there above the big whirlpool which +was originally responsible for the good fortune that +had come to us—or rather to me. Men have clasped +hands and sworn to stand by each other in lesser +things. At least that was the way it seemed to me +at the moment. I could have embraced the fine old +woodsman for his loyalty and generosity of spirit. +I always called him Bob after that.</p> + +<p>The rain thinned down and became a light Scotch +mist as we picked our way back to camp. That struck +me as being a good omen—it’s being “Scotch,” I +mean. Later it cleared up entirely, and there was a +glorious fairweather sunset of glowing saffron and +flaming poppy red. To the northwest—Canoe<span class="pagenum">[Pg 119]</span> +River-ward—there poured a wonderful light of pale +liquescent amber. I had never seen such a light on +land or sea, I told myself; or anywhere else, for that +matter—except when holding a glass of Scotch up +against the sun. That was another good omen. +Funny thing, but I can still recall the date offhand, +so indelibly had the promise of that day impressed +itself on my mind. It was the first of October.</p> + +<p>Although it snowed an inch or two during the night, +the following morning fulfilled the promise of the +sunset by breaking bright and cloudless. We were +to line the boat down empty for a couple of hundred +yards, and then load up again and line about an +equal distance of slightly better water. This would +take us to the brink of the abrupt fall, where both +outfit and boat had to be portaged over the rocks for +a short distance. That would leave us clear for the +short, swift run to the head of the second fall.</p> + +<p>Cutting himself a “sylvan frame” through the +pines on a point a hundred yards below the camp, +Roos set up to shoot the first piece of lining. It was +a mean looking job, for the river was tumbling in a +half-cataract all the way, turning and squirming like +a wounded dragon. I could see Blackmore was a bit +worried over it, and, as the sequel proved, with good +reason. I never quite understood his explanation of +the cause of what happened, but I believe he claimed +it was due to his obeying (against his better judgment) +Roos’ signal to keep the boat in fairly close +to the bank so that she would not pass “out of the +picture”—beyond the range of his lens, that is. At +any rate, the boat had hardly started before she swung<span class="pagenum">[Pg 120]</span> +broadside to the current and, clapping like a limpet +upon a big round boulder, hung there immovable. +Heeled till her starboard side showed like the belly +of a sharply sheering shark, her port gunwale dipped +deep into the swirling current. In a wink she had +taken all the water she would hold with the half-heel +that was on her—enough, perhaps, to fill her half full +when on an even keel.</p> + +<p>It was a case for instant action—a case where the +nearest available man had to follow his first hunch +without thinking it over or counting the cost. A few +seconds more on that rock, and one of two things +must happen to the boat: either she would settle a +few inches farther, fill completely and sink, or else +the force of the current would tear her to pieces where +she was. Blackmore was tugging at his line and +shouting directions, but the roar stopped the words +at his lips. Andy did not need to be told what was +needed, however. For myself, I was not quite sure of +what to do, and less so of how to do it. Also, I +doubted my ability to keep my footing in the current. +In short, I found myself thinking and weighing +chances in one of those emergencies where a man to +be worth his salt has no business to do either.</p> + +<p>There was only one place where a man could get +at the boat, and Andy beat me to it by a mile. (I +would have seen to that even had he moved a lot +slower than he did.) He was rather more than waist +deep, but quite safe as long as the boat stuck where +she was. Unfortunately, getting her off was the very +thing he was there for. It was a good deal like a +man’s having to saw off the branch on which he sat.<span class="pagenum">[Pg 121]</span> +But Andy never hesitated—probably because there +was not time to think and reckon the consequences. +Setting his heavy shoulders under her bilge, he gave +a mighty upward heave. She shuddered through her +long red length, and then, as the kick of the current +got under her submerged gunwale, shot up and off as +though discharged from a catapult. The job had +been well done, too, for she came off with her stern +down stream, which made it comparatively easy for +Blackmore to check her way with his line, even half-filled +as she was.</p> + +<p>Whether he failed to recover as the boat was swept +away, or whether he lost his balance in avoiding entanglement +in the line, Andy was not quite sure. His +first recollection after releasing the boat, he said, was +of floundering in the water and of finding that his +first kick or two did not strike bottom. The thing +that is always possible when a man has lifted off a +boat in a swift current had happened: he had lost his +footing, and in just about the one worst place in the +whole Columbia.</p> + +<p>Blackmore, dragged down the bank after his floundering +boat, was not in a position where he could +throw the end of his line to any purpose. I waded +in and reached out my pike-pole, but Andy’s back +was to it the only time he came within grabbing distance. +The only thing that saved him was luck—the +fact that the current at the point he lost his footing +did not swirl directly into the main chute, but did a +little double-shuffle of its own along the side of an +eddy before taking the big leap. Hooking into the +solid green water of that eddy, Andy found himself<span class="pagenum">[Pg 122]</span> +a toehold, and presently clambered out. He had not +swallowed any water, and did not seem much chilled +or winded. A violent sickness of the stomach, where +the cold had arrested digestive operations, was about +the only ill effect. What seemed to annoy him most +was the fact that all of his pockets were turned wrong-side-out, +with all of their contents—save only his +watch, which had been secured by a thong—missing. +Blackmore nodded grimly to me as he came up after +securing the boat. “<i>Now</i> perhaps you’ll believe what +I told you about the old Columbia picking pockets,” +he said dryly.</p> + +<p>Roos came down complaining that he had been too +far away to pick up any details of the show even with +his “six-inch” lens and cursing his luck for not having +been set up closer at hand. Considering what he had +missed, I thought he showed unwonted delicacy in +not asking Blackmore and Andy to stage it over +again for him.</p> + +<p>Bailing out the boat, we found one oar missing, but +this we subsequently recovered from an eddy below. +That left our net loss for the mishap only the contents +of Andy’s pockets and the picture Roos did not +get. Some might have figured in the extra ration of +rum Andy drew to straighten out the kinks of his +outraged stomach; but that seemed hardly the sporting +way to look at it, especially with our prospects in +the drink line being what they were.</p> + +<p><a id="page122" name="page122"></a></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 404px;"> +<img src="images/illo_170.jpg" width="404" height="700" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“SHOOTING” THE FIRST BIT OF LINING AT SURPRISE +RAPIDS (<i>above</i>)<br /> +THE CAMP WHERE THE ROAR OF THE RAPIDS DEAFENED US (<i>centre</i>)<br /> +WHERE STEINHOF WAS DROWNED (<i>below</i>)</span> +</div> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p><a id="page123" name="page123"></a></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 335px;"> +<img src="images/illo_171.jpg" width="335" height="600" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">WHERE ANDY JUST MISSED DROWNING IN SURPRISE +RAPIDS (<i>above</i>)<br /> +LOOKING THROUGH THE PINES AT SURPRISE RAPIDS (<i>centre</i>)<br /> +HEAD OF SECOND FALL OF SURPRISE RAPIDS (<i>below</i>)</span> +</div> + +<p>The portage at the fall proved a mighty stiff bit of +hard labour. It was one thing to skid the boat along +on the pine needles at Beavermouth with a couple of +dozen men pushing it, and quite another for three +<span class="pagenum">[Pg 123]</span>men to take it out of the water, lift it over forty or +fifty feet of boulders, and put it back into the river +again. By the free use of rollers—cut from young +firs—we managed, however, Roos cranking his camera +through all of the operation and telling us to “Make +it snappy!” and not to be “foot-hogs.” Almost worse +than portaging the boat was the unspeakably toil-some +task of packing the outfit over the boulders for +a couple of hundred yards to where there was a quiet +spot to load again. Every step had to be balanced +for, and even then one was down on his knees half the +time. With my numerous bad joints—there are but +three from shoulder to heel that had not been sprained +or dislocated from two to a dozen times—this boulder +clambering work was the only thing in connection +with the whole voyage that I failed to enjoy.</p> + +<p>A half mile run with an eight-mile current took us +to the head of the second fall, all but the first hundred +yards of which had to be lined. Landing this time on +the west bank, we worked the boat down without much +difficulty past the jutting point where the line of +Steinhoff’s boat had parted. Blackmore had hoped to +line her all the way down without unloading, but the +last fifty yards before the cascade tumbled into the +big whirlpool were so thickly studded with rocks along +the bank that he finally decided not to risk it. As +there were thirty or forty feet of deep pools and +eddies between the rocks on which she was stuck and +the nearest stretch of unsubmerged boulders, unloading +was a particularly awkward piece of work. +Finally everything was shifted out onto a flat-topped +rock, and Roos and I were left to get this ashore<span class="pagenum">[Pg 124]</span> +while Andy and Blackmore completed lining down. +It was an especially nice job, taking the boat down +that last steep pitch into the big whirlpool and then +working her round a huge square-faced rock to a +quiet eddy, and I should greatly like to have seen it. +Unluckily, what with stumbling over hidden boulders +and being down with my nose in the water half of the +time, and the thin blue mist that hovered round me +the rest of the time from what I said as a consequence +of stumbling, I could only guess at the finesse and +highly technical skill with which the difficult operation +was accomplished. The worst part appeared to +be getting her down the fall. Once clear of the submerged +rocks, Blackmore seemed to make the whirlpool +do his work for him. Poised on a projecting log +of the jam packed on top of the jutting rock, he paid +out a hundred feet of line and let the racing swirl of +the spinning pool carry the boat far out beyond all +obstructions. Then, gently and delicately as if playing +a salmon on a trout rod, he nursed her into an +eddy and simply coiled his line and let the back-setting +current carry her in to the bit of sandy beach +where he wanted to tie her up for the night. It takes +a lifetime of swift-water experience to master the +intricacies of an operation like that.</p> + +<p>It was still early in the afternoon, but with a thick +mist falling Blackmore thought best to stop where we +were. The next available camping place was below +the half-mile-long third cascade, and no old river man +likes to go into a rapid when the visibility is poor. +We pitched the tent in a hole cut out of the thick-growing +woods on a low bench at the inner angle of<span class="pagenum">[Pg 125]</span> +the bend. Everything was soaking wet, but it was +well back from the falls, and for the first time in two +days we were able to talk to each other without shouting. +Not that we did so, however; from sheer force +of habit we continued roaring into each other’s ears +for a week or more yet.</p> + +<p>The great pile of logs on top of the flat-topped +rock above the whirlpool had fascinated me from the +first. Over a hundred feet square, forty feet high, +and packed as though by a titanic hydraulic press, it +must have contained thousands and thousands of +cords of wood. On Blackmore’s positive assurance +as a timberman that there was nothing in the pile of +any value for lumber, even in the improbable contingency +that a flood would ever carry it beyond the +big drifts of Kinbasket Lake, I decided to make a +bonfire of it. Never had I had such an opportunity, +both on the score of the sheer quantity of combustible +and the spectacular setting for illumination.</p> + +<p>The whirlpool was <i>whouf-whoufing</i> greedily as it +wolfed the whole cascade when I clambered up just +before dark to touch off my beacon. It was fairly +dry at the base, and a pile of crisp shavings off a slab +from some distant up-river sawmill caught quickly. +From a spark of red flickering dimly through the +mist when we sat down to supper, this had grown to a +roaring furnace by the time we had relaxed to pipes +and cigarettes. An hour later the flames had eaten a +clear chimney up through the jam and the red light +from their leaping tips was beginning to drive back +the encompassing darkness. Roos, who had read +about India, thought it would have been fine if we<span class="pagenum">[Pg 126]</span> +only had a few widows to cast themselves on the flaming +pyre and commit <i>suttee</i>. Andy and Blackmore, +both sentimental bachelors, were a unit in maintaining +that it would be a shame to waste good widows +that way, especially on the practically widowless Big +Bend. All three were arguing the point rather heatedly +when they crawled into their blankets. For +myself, with a vision of the wonder about to unroll +impinging on my brain, I could not think of turning +in for hours yet.</p> + +<p>By ten o’clock the pile was well alight underneath, +but it was not until nearly midnight, when the mist +had turned to snow and a strong wind had sprung +up, that it was blazing full strength. I hardly know +what would have been the direction of the wind in +the upper air, but, cupped in the embrasure of the +bend, it was sucking round and round, like the big +whirlpool, only more fitfully and with an upward +rather than a downward pull. Now it would drag +the leaping flame-column a hundred feet in the air, +twisting it into lambent coils and fining the tip down +to a sharp point, like that of the Avenging Angel’s +Sword of Fire in the old Biblical prints, now sweep it +out in a shivering sheet above the whirlpool, now +swing it evenly round and round as though the flame, +arrow-pointed and attenuated, were the radium-coated +hand of a Gargantuan clock being swiftly revolved +in the dark.</p> + +<p>But the wonder of wonders was less the fire itself +than the marvellous transformations wrought by the +light it threw. And the staggering contrasts! The +illuminated snow clouds drifting along the frosted-<span class="pagenum">[Pg 127]</span>pink +curtain of the tree-clad mountain walls made a +roseate fairyland; even the foam covered sweep of +the cascade, its roar drowned in the sharp crackle of +the flames, was softened and smoothened until it +seemed to billow like the sunset-flushed canvas of a +ship becalmed: but the whirlpool, its sinister character +only accentuated by the conflict of cross-shadows and +reflections, was a veritable Pit of Damnation, choking +and coughing as it swirled and rolled in streaky coils +of ox-blood, in fire-stabbed welters of fluid coal-tar.</p> + +<p>Wrapped in my hooded duffle coat, I paced the +snow-covered moss and exulted in the awesome spectacle +until long after midnight. I have never envied +Nero very poignantly since. Given a fiddle and a +few Christians, I would have had all that was his on +the greatest night of his life—and then some. Father +Tiber never had a whirlpool like mine, even on the day +Horatius swam it “heavy with his armour and spent +with changing blows.”</p> + +<p>The next morning, though too heavily overcast for +pictures, was still clear enough to travel. The head +riffles of the third fall of Surprise Rapids began a +little below our camp, so that we started lining almost +immediately. Three or four times we pulled across the +river, running short stretches and lining now down +one side and now the other. There was not so great +a rate of drop as at the first and second falls, but the +whole stream was choked with barely submerged rocks +and lining was difficult on account of the frequent +cliffs.</p> + +<p>It was about half way down that I all but messed +things up by failing to get into action quickly enough<span class="pagenum">[Pg 128]</span> +at a crossing. The fault, in a way, was Blackmore’s, +because of his failure to tell me in advance what was +expected, and then—when the order had to be passed +instantly—for standing rather too much on ceremony +in the manner of passing it. We were about to pull +to the opposite side to line down past a riffle which +Blackmore reckoned too rough to risk running. +There was about a ten-mile current, and it would +have required the smartest kind of a get-away and +the hardest kind of pulling to make the other bank +without being carried down onto the riffle. The boat +was headed up-stream, and, as Blackmore had not +told me he intended to cross, I took it for granted he +was going to run. So, when Roos shoved off and +jumped in, I rested on my oar in order that Andy +could bring the boat sharply round and head it down +stream. Blackmore’s excited yell was the first intimation +I had that anything was wrong. “Pull like +hell! You!... Mister Freeman!”</p> + +<p>That “Mister,” and his momentary pause before +uttering it, defeated the purpose of the order. I +pulled all right, and so hard that my oar-blade picked +up a very sizable hunk of river and flung it in Blackmore’s +face. That upset my balance, and I could not +recover quickly enough to keep the boat’s head to the +current. With characteristic presence of mind, +Blackmore changed tactics instantly. “Got to chance +it now!” he shouted, and threw such a pull onto his +steering paddle that the handle bent to more than +half a right angle where he laid it over the gunwale. +There was one jutting rock at the head of the riffle +that <i>had</i> to be missed; the rest was all a matter of<span class="pagenum">[Pg 129]</span> +whether or not the next couple of hundred yards of +submerged boulders were deeply enough covered to +let us pass <i>over</i> them. There was no way of avoiding +them, no chance to lay a course <i>between</i> them.</p> + +<p>Blackmore was a bit wilder about the eyes than I +had seen him before; but he had stopped swearing +and his mouth was set in a hard, determined line. +Andy, with chesty grunts, was fairly flailing the +water with swift, short-arm strokes. I did not need +to be told to refrain from pulling in order that the +others could swing her head as far toward the west +bank as possible before the rock was reached. Instead, +I held ready for the one quick backing stroke +that would be called for in the event a collision seemed +imminent at the last moment. It was the wave thrown +off by the rock itself that helped us most when the +showdown came. Shooting by the jagged barrier so +close that Andy could have fended with his hand, the +boat plunged over a short, sharp pitch and hit the +white water with a bang.</p> + +<p>That was by long odds the roughest stuff we had +been into so far. The waves were curling up well +above our heads, and every one we hit left a foot or +two of its top with us—solid green water, most of it, +that began accumulating rather alarmingly in the +bottom of the boat. There was no regularity in the +way they ran, either. One would come mushrooming +fairly over the bows, another would flop aboard over +the beam, and every now and then a wild side-winder, +missing its spring at the forward part of the boat, +would dash a shower of spray over the quarter. From +the bank she must have been pretty well out of sight<span class="pagenum">[Pg 130]</span> +most of the time, for I often saw spray thrown ten +or fifteen feet to either side and twice as far astern. +All hands were drenched from the moment we struck +the first comber, of course, which was doubtless why +a wail from Roos that the water was going down his +neck seemed to strike Blackmore as a bit superfluous. +“Inside or outside your neck?” he roared back, adding +that if it was the former the flow could be checked by +the simple and natural expedient of keeping the +mouth shut. Very properly, our “skipper” had the +feeling that, in a really tight place, all the talking +necessary for navigation should be done from the +“bridge,” and that “extraneous” comment should be +held over to smooth water.</p> + +<p>Before we had run a hundred yards the anxious look +on Blackmore’s face had given way to one of relief +and exultation. “There’s more water over the rocks +than I reckoned,” he shouted. “Going to run right +through.” And run we did, all of the last mile or +more of Surprise Rapids and right on through the +still swift but comparatively quiet water below. Here +we drifted with the current for a ways, while all hands +turned to and bailed. I took this, the first occasion +that had offered, to assure Blackmore that he needn’t +go to the length of calling me “Mister” in the future +when he had urgent orders to give, and incidentally +apologized for getting off on the wrong foot at the +head of the first rapid. “Since that worked out to +save us half a mile of darn dirty lining and two or +three hours of time,” he replied with a grin, “I guess +we won’t worry about it this crack, Mister—I +mean, Freeman. Mebbe I better get used to saying<span class="pagenum">[Pg 131]</span> +it that way ’gainst when I’ll need to spit it out +quick.”</p> + +<p>It was a pleasant run from the foot of Surprise +Rapids down to Kinbasket Lake, or at least it was +pleasant until the rain set in again. There is a fall +of sixty-four feet in the sixteen miles—most of it in +the first ten. It was a fine swift current, with a +number of riffles but no bad water at any point. It +was good to be free for a while from the tension which +is never absent when working in really rough water, +and I have no doubt that Blackmore felt better about +it than any of the rest of us. Surprise was his especial +<i>bete noir</i>, and he assured me that he had never +come safely through it without swearing never to +tackle it again. Roos, drying out in the bow like a +tabby licking her wet coat smooth after being rained +on, sang “Green River” all the way, and I tried to +train Andy to pull in time to the rhythm and join in +the chorus. As the chorus had much about drink in +it, it seemed only fitting—considering what was waiting +for us at Canoe River—that we <i>should</i> sing it. +And we did. “Floating Down the Old Green River” +became the “official song” of that particular part of +the voyage. Later ... but why anticipate?</p> + +<p>We landed for lunch about where the water began +to slacken above the lake. The water of the little +stream at the mouth of which we tied up the boat was +of a bright transparent amber in colour. Andy, +sapient of the woods, thought it must flow from a lake +impounded behind a beaver-dam in the high mountains, +and that the stain was that of rotting wood. +Beaver signs were certainly much in evidence all over<span class="pagenum">[Pg 132]</span> +the little bench where we lunched. Several large cottonwood +trunks—one of them all of two feet in diameter—had +been felled by the tireless little engineers, +and we found a pile of tooth-torn chips large enough +to kindle our fire with. While tea was boiling Blackmore +pulled a couple of three-pound Dolly Varden +out of the mouth of the creek, only to lose his hooks +and line when a still larger one connected up with +them. Roos, who was under orders to get an effective +fishing picture, was unable to go into action with his +camera on account of the poor light.</p> + +<p>It had begun to rain hard by the time we had +shoved back into the river after lunch. There were +still five miles to go to reach the camping ground +Blackmore had decided upon, half way down the east +side of Kinbasket Lake, just below Middle River—slack +water all the way. Andy and I pulled it in a +slushy half-snow-half-rain that was a lot wetter and +unpleasanter than the straight article of either variety. +Of a lake which is one of the loveliest in all the +world in the sunlight, nothing was to be seen save a +stretch of grey-white, wind-whipped waters beating +upon grey-brown rocky shores. That the wind and +waves headed us did not make the pulling any lighter, +for the boat’s considerable freeboard gave both a lot +of surface to play upon. The exertion of rowing kept +Andy and me warm, however, which gave us at least +that advantage over Roos and Blackmore. The latter +had to face it out at his paddle, but Roos, a bedraggled +lump of sodden despair, finally gave up and +crawled under the tarpaulin with the bags of beans +and bacon, remaining there until we reached port.<span class="pagenum">[Pg 133]</span></p> + +<p>All in all, I think that was the most miserable camp +I ever helped to pitch. The snow, refusing persistently +either to harden or to soften, adhered clingingly +to everything it touched. We were two hours clearing +a space for the tent, setting it up and collecting +enough boughs to cushion the floor. By that time +pretty nearly everything not hermetically sealed was +wet, including the blankets and the “dry” clothes. No +one but Andy could have started a camp-fire under +such conditions, and no one but Blackmore could have +cooked a piping hot dinner on it. I forget whether +it was Roos or myself who contributed further to save +the day. Anyhow, it was one of the two of us that +suggested cooking a can of plum-pudding in about its +own bulk of “thirty per over-proof” rum. That lent +the saving touch. In spite of a leaking tent and wet +blankets, the whole four of us turned in singing “End +of a Perfect Day” and “Old Green River.” The +latter was prophetic. A miniature one—coming +through the roof of the tent—had the range of the +back of my neck for most of the night.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page134" name="page134">[Pg 134]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER VII<br /> +<br /> +II. RUNNING THE BEND</h2> + +<p class="title"><i>Kinbasket Lake and Rapids</i></p> + +<p>It continued slushing all night and most of the next +day, keeping us pretty close to camp. Andy, like the +good housewife he was, kept snugging up every time +he got a chance, so that things assumed a homelier +and cheerier aspect as the day wore on. I clambered +for a couple of miles down the rocky eastern bank of +the lake in the forenoon. The low-hanging clouds +still obscured the mountains, but underfoot I found +unending interest in the astonishing variety of drift +corralled by this remarkable catch-all of the upper +Columbia. The main accumulation of flotsam and +jetsam was above our camp, but even among the rocks +I chanced onto almost everything one can imagine, +from a steel rail—with the ties that had served to +float it down still spiked to it—to a fragment of a +vacuum-cleaner. What Roos called “the human +touch” was furnished by an enormous uprooted +spruce, on which some amorous lumber-jack had +been pouring out his love through the blade of his +axe. This had taken the form of a two-feet-in-diameter +“bleeding heart” pierced by an arrow. Inside +the roughly hewn “pericardium” were the initials “K. +N.” and “P. R.,” with the date “July 4, 1910.” One +couldn’t be quite sure whether the arrow stood for<span class="pagenum">[Pg 135]</span> +a heart quake or a heart break. Andy, who was sentimental +and inclined to put woman in the abstract on +a pedestal, thought it was merely a heart quake; but +Blackmore, who had been something of a gallant in +his day, and therefore inclined to cynicism as he +neared the sear and yellow leaf, was sure it was heart +break—that the honest lumber-jack had hacked in the +arrow and the drops of blood after he had been jilted +by some jade. Roos wanted to make a movie of this +simple fragment of rustic art, with me standing by +and registering “pensive memories,” or something of +the kind; but I managed to discourage him by the +highly technical argument that it would impair the +“continuity” of the “sportsmanship” which was the +prime <i>motif</i> of the present picture.</p> + +<p>Blackmore piloted me up to the main area of drift +in the afternoon. It occupied a hundred acres or more +of sand and mud flats which constituted the lower part +of the extensive delta deposited on the edge of the +lake by the waters of the good-sized stream of Middle +River. At a first glance it seemed nothing more than +a great wilderness of tree trunks—prostrate, upended, +woven and packed together—extending for +hundreds of yards below high-water-mark. It was between +these logs that the smaller things had lodged. +There were a number of boats, not greatly damaged, +and fragments enough to have reconstructed a dozen +more. I am convinced that a half day’s search would +have discovered the material for building and furnishing +a house, though carpets and wall paper would +hardly have been all one could desire. I even found +a curling iron—closely clasped by the bent nail upon<span class="pagenum">[Pg 136]</span> +which it had been hung on the log of a cabin—and +a corset. The latter seemed hardly worth salving, as +it appeared—according to Blackmore—to be a “military +model” of a decade or so back, and the steel-work +was badly rusted.</p> + +<p>However, it was not gewgaws or house-furnishing +we were after. One could hardly be expected to +slither about in soft slush for second-hand things of +that kind. I gave a great glad whoop at my first +sight of a silt-submerged cask, only to find the head +missing and nothing but mud in it. So, too, my second +and third. Then it was Blackmore who gave the +“View Halloo,” and my heart gave a mighty leap. +<i>His</i> treasure trove had the head intact, and even the +bung <i>in situ</i>. But alas! the latter had become slightly +started, and although the contents had both smell and +colour they were so heavily impregnated with river +mud that they would hardly have been deemed fit for +consumption except in New York and California, and +not worth the risk of smuggling even there. That +cask was the high-water-mark of our luck. Several +others had the old familiar smell, and that was all. +But there is no doubt in the world that there is whisky +in that drift pile—hundreds of gallons of it, and some +very old. Blackmore swears to that, and I never +knew him to lie—about serious matters, I mean. In +hunting and trapping yarns a man is expected to draw +a long bead. I pass on this undeniably valuable information +to any one that cares to profit by it. There +are no strings attached. But of course ... in the +event of success ... Pasadena always finds +me!...<span class="pagenum">[Pg 137]</span></p> + +<p>We did have one find, though, that was so remarkable +as to be worth all the trouble and disappointment +of our otherwise futile search. This was a road-bridge, +with <i>instinct</i>. The manner in which this had +been displayed was so astonishing as to be almost +beyond belief; indeed, I would hesitate about setting +down the facts had I not a photograph to prove them. +This bridge was perhaps sixty feet in length, and had +doubtless been carried away by a freshet from some +tributary of the upper river which it had spanned. +This was probably somewhere between Golden and +Windermere, so that it had run a hundred miles or +more of swift water, including the falls of Surprise +Rapids, without losing more than a few planks. This +in itself was remarkable enough, but nothing at all +to the fact that, when it finally decided it had come +far enough, the sagacious structure had gone and +planked itself down squarely across another stream. +It was still a bridge in fact as well as in form. It had +actually saved my feet from getting wet when I +rushed to Blackmore’s aid in up-ending the cask of +mud-diluted whisky. My photograph plainly shows +Blackmore standing on the bridge, with the water +flowing directly beneath him. It would have been a +more comprehensive and convincing picture if there +had been light enough for a snapshot. As it was, I +had to set up on a stump, and in a position which +showed less of both stream and bridge than I might +have had from a better place. I swear (and so does +Blackmore) that we didn’t place the bridge where it +was. It was much too large for that. Roos wanted +to shoot the whole three of us standing on it and<span class="pagenum">[Pg 138]</span> +registering “unbounded wonderment,” but the light +was never right for it up to the morning of our departure, +and then there wasn’t time.</p> + +<p>It rained and snowed all that night and most of the +following day. During the afternoon of the latter the +clouds broke up twice or thrice, and through rifts in +the drifting wracks we had transient glimpses of the +peaks and glaciers of the Selkirks gleaming above +the precipitous western walls of the lake. The most +conspicuous feature of the sky-line was the three-peaked +“Trident,” rising almost perpendicularly +from a glittering field of glacial ice and impaling +great masses of pendant <i>cumulo-nimbi</i> on its splintered +prongs. Strings of lofty glacier-set summits +marked the line of the back-bone of the Selkirks to +southeast and northwest, each of them sending down +rain-swollen torrents to tumble into the lake in +cataracts and cascades. Behind, or east of us, we +knew the Rockies reared a similar barrier of snow +and ice, but this was cut off from our vision by the +more imminent lake-wall under which we were +camped. If Kinbasket Lake is ever made accessible +to the tourist its fame will reach to the end of the +earth. This is a consummation which may be effected +in the event the Canadian Pacific wipes out Surprise +Rapids with its hydro-electric project dam and backs +up a lake to Beavermouth. The journey to this spot +of incomparable beauty could then be made soft +enough to suit all but the most effete.</p> + +<p>A torrential rain, following a warm southerly +breeze which sprang up in the middle of the afternoon, +lowered the dense cloud-curtain again, and shortly,<span class="pagenum">[Pg 139]</span> +from somewhere behind the scenes, came the raucous +rumble and roar of a great avalanche. Blackmore’s +practised ear led him to pronounce it a slide of both +earth and snow, and to locate it somewhere on Trident +Creek, straight across the lake from our camp. He +proved to be right on both counts. When the clouds +lifted again at sunset, a long yellow scar gashed the +shoulder of the mountain half way up Trident Creek +to the glacier, and the clear stream from the latter +had completely disappeared. Blackmore said it had +been dammed up by the slide, and that there would +be all hell popping when it broke through.</p> + +<p>Scouting around for more boughs to soften his bed, +Roos, just before supper, chanced upon Steinhoff’s +grave. It was under a small pine, not fifty feet from +our tent, but so hidden by the dense undergrowth +that it had escaped our notice for two days. It was +marked only by a fragment split from the stern of +a white-painted boat nailed horizontally on the pine +trunk and with the single word “<span class="smcap">Steinhoff</span>” carved +in rude capitals. At one corner, in pencil, was an +inscription stating that the board had been put up +in May, 1920, by Joe French and Leo Tennis. With +the golden sunset light streaming through the trees, +Roos, always strong for “pathetic human touches” to +serve as a sombre background for his Mack Sennett +stuff, could not resist the opportunity for a picture. +Andy and Blackmore and I were to come climbing +up to the grave from the lake, read the inscription, +and then look at each other and shake our heads +ominously, as though it was simply a matter of time +until we, too, should fall prey to the implacable river.<span class="pagenum">[Pg 140]</span> +I refused straightaway, on the ground that I had +signed up to act the part of a light comedy sportsman +and not a heavy mourner. Blackmore and Andy +were more amenable. In rehearsal, however, the expressions +on their honest faces were so wooden and +embarrassed that Roos finally called me up to stand +out of range and “say something to make ’em look +natural.” I refrain from recording what I said; but +I still maintain that shot was an interruption of the +“continuity” of my “gentleman-sportsman” picture. +I have not yet heard if it survived the studio surgery.</p> + +<p>Shortly before dark, Andy, going down to look at +his set-line, found a three-foot ling or fresh-water cod +floundering on the end of it. Roos persuaded him to +keep it over night so that the elusive “fishing picture” +might be made the following morning in case the light +was good. As there were five or six inches of water +in the bottom of the boat, Andy threw the ling in there +for the night in preference to picketing him out on a +line. There was plenty of water to have given the +husky shovel-nose ample room to circulate with comfort +if only he had been content to take it easy and +not wax temperamental. Doubtless it was his imminent +movie engagement that brought on his attack of +flightiness. At any rate, he tried to burrow under a +collapsible sheet-iron stove (which, preferring to do +with a camp-fire, we had left in the boat) and got +stuck. The forward five pounds of him had water +enough to keep alive in, but in the night—when it +cleared off and turned cold—his tail, which was bent +up sharply under a thwart, froze stiff at almost right +angles. But I am getting ahead of my story.<span class="pagenum">[Pg 141]</span></p> + +<p>The next morning, the sixth of October, broke brilliantly +clear, with the sun gilding the prongs of the +“Trident” and throwing the whole snowy line of the +Selkirks in dazzling relief against a deep turquoise +sky. Blackmore, keen for an early start, so as not +to be rushed in working down through the dreaded +“Twenty-One-Mile” Rapids to Canoe River, rooted +us out at daybreak and began breaking camp before +breakfast. He had reckoned without the “fishing picture,” +however. Roos wanted bright sunlight for it, +claiming he was under special instructions to make +something sparkling and snappy. All through breakfast +he coached me on the intricate details of the action. +“Make him put up a stiff fight,” he admonished +through a mouthful of flapjack. “Of course he won’t +fight, ’cause he ain’t that kind; but if you jerk and +wiggle your pole just right it’ll make it look like he +was. That’s what a real actor’s for—making things +look like they is when they ain’t. Got me?” Then +we went down and discovered that poor half-frozen +fish with the eight-point alteration of the continuity +of his back-bone.</p> + +<p>The ling or fresh-water cod has an underhung, +somewhat shark-like mouth, not unsuggestive of the +new moon with its points turned downward. Roos’ +mouth took on a similarly dejected droop when he +found the condition the principal animal actor in his +fish picture was in. But it was too late to give up +now. Never might we have so husky a fighting fish +ready to hand, and with a bright sun shining on it. +Roos tried osteopathy, applied chiropractics and +Christian Science without much effect. Our “lead”<span class="pagenum">[Pg 142]</span> +continued as rigid and unrelaxing as the bushman’s +boomerang, whose shape he so nearly approximated. +Then Andy wrought the miracle with a simple “laying +on of hands.” What he really did was to thaw +out the frozen rear end of the fish by holding it +between his big, warm red Celtic paws; but the effect +was as magical as a cure at Lourdes. The big ling +was shortly flopping vigorously, and when Andy +dropped him into a bit of a boulder-locked pool he +went charging back and forth at the rocky barriers +like a bull at a gate. Roos almost wept in his thankfulness, +and forthwith promised the restorer an extra +rum ration that night. Andy grinned his thanks, but +reminded him that we ought to be at the old ferry by +night, where something even better than “thirty per +over-proof” rum would be on tap. It was indeed the +morning of our great day. Stimulated by that inspiring +thought, I prepared to outdo myself in the “fish +picture,” the “set” for which was now ready.</p> + +<p><a id="page142" name="page142"></a></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> +<img src="images/illo_192.jpg" width="600" height="459" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">BLACKMORE AND THE LING THAT +REFUSED TO “REGISTER” (<i>left</i>)<br /> +THE WRITER, WITH PIKE-POLE JUST +BEFORE LINING DEATH RAPIDS (<i>right</i>)</span> +</div> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p><a id="page143" name="page143"></a></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 399px;"> +<img src="images/illo_193.jpg" width="399" height="600" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">ANDY AND I PULLING DOWN KINBASKET LAKE</span> +</div> + +<p>Standing on the stern of the beached boat, I made +a long cast, registering “concentrated eagerness.” +Then Roos stopped cranking, and Andy brought the +ling out and fastened it to the end of my line with a +snug but comfortable hitch through the gills. (We +were careful not to hurt him, for Chester’s directions +had admonished especially against “showing brutality”.) +When I had nursed him out to about where +my opening cast had landed, Roos called “Action!” +and started cranking again. Back and forth in wide +sweeps he dashed, while I registered blended “eagerness” +and “determination,” with frequent interpolations +of “consternation” as carefully timed tugs (by +<span class="pagenum">[Pg 143]</span>myself) bent my shivering pole down to the water. +When Roos had enough footage of “fighting,” I +brought my catch in close to the boat and leered down +at him, registering “near triumph.” Then I towed +him ashore and Andy and Blackmore rushed in to +help me land him. After much struggling (by ourselves) +we brought him out on the beach. At this +juncture I was supposed to grab the ling by the gills +and hold him proudly aloft, registering “full triumph” +the while. Andy and Blackmore were to crowd in, +pat me on the back and beam congratulations. Blackmore +was then to assume an expression intended to +convey the impression that this was the hardest fighting +ling he had ever seen caught. All three of us +were action perfect in our parts; but that miserable +turn-tail of a ling—who had nothing to do but flop +and register “indignant protest”—spoiled it all at +the last. As I flung my prize on high, a shrill scream +of “Rotten!” from Roos froze the action where it was. +Then I noticed that what was supposed to be a gamy +denizen of the swift-flowing Columbia was hanging +from my hand as rigid as a coupling-pin—a bent +coupling-pin at that, for he had resumed his former +cold-storage curl.</p> + +<p>“Rotten!” shrieked Roos in a frenzy; “do it again!” +But that was not to be. For the “chief actor” the curtain +had rung down for good. “You must have +played him too fierce,” said Andy sympathetically. +Blackmore was inclined to be frivolous. “P’raps he +was trying to register ‘Big Bend,’” said he.</p> + +<p>Just after we had pushed off there came a heavy +and increasing roar from across the lake. Presently<span class="pagenum">[Pg 144]</span> +the cascade of Trident Creek sprang into life again, +but now a squirt of yellow ochre where before it was a +flutter of white satin. Rapidly augmenting, it spread +from wall to wall of the rocky gorge, discharging to +the bosky depths of the delta with a prodigious rumbling +that reverberated up and down the lake like +heavy thunder. A moment later the flood had reached +the shore, and out across the lucent green waters of +the lake spread a broadening fan of yellow-brown. +“I told you hell would be popping after that big +slide,” said Blackmore, resting on his paddle. “That’s +the backed-up stream breaking through.”</p> + +<p>Kinbasket Lake is a broadening and slackening of +the Columbia, backed up behind the obstructions +which cause the long series of rapids between its outlet +and the mouth of Canoe River. It is six or seven +miles long, according to the stage of water, and from +one to two miles wide. Its downward set of current +is slight but perceptible. The outlet, as we approached +it after a three-mile pull from our camp at +Middle River, appeared strikingly similar to the +head of Surprise Rapids. Here, however, the transition +from quiet to swift water was even more abrupt.</p> + +<p>The surface of the lake was a-dance with the ripples +kicked up by the crisp morning breeze, and blindingly +bright where the facets of the tiny wavelets +reflected the sunlight like shaken diamonds. The +shadowed depths of the narrow gorge ahead was +Stygian by contrast. Blackmore called my attention +to the way the crests of the pines rimming the river a +few hundred yards inside the gorge appeared just +about on the level with the surface of the lake. “When<span class="pagenum">[Pg 145]</span> +you see the tree-tops fall away like that,” he said, +standing up to take his final bearings for the opening +run, “look out. It means there’s water running down +hill right ahead faster’n any boat wants to put its nose +in.” The roar rolling up to us was not quite so deep-toned +or thunderous as the challenging bellow of the +first fall of Surprise; but it was more “permeative,” +as though the sources from which it came ran on without +end. And that was just about the situation. We +were sliding down to the intake of Kinbasket or “The +Twenty-One-Mile” Rapids, one of the longest, if not +<i>the</i> longest, succession of practically unbroken riffles +on any of the great rivers of the world.</p> + +<p>From the outlet of Kinbasket Lake to the mouth of +Canoe River is twenty-one miles. For the sixteen +miles the tail of one rapid generally runs right into +the head of the next, and there is a fall of two hundred +and sixty feet, or more than sixteen feet to the mile. +For the last five miles there is less white water, but +the current runs from eight to twelve miles an hour, +with many swirls and whirlpools. The river is closely +canyoned all the way. This compels one to make the +whole run through in a single day, as there is no camping +place at any point. Cliffs and sharply-sloping +boulder banks greatly complicate lining down and +compel frequent crossings at points where a failure to +land just right is pretty likely to leave things in a +good deal of a mess.</p> + +<p>Blackmore ran us down through a couple of hundred +yards of slap-banging white water, before coming +to bank above a steep pitch where the river tore +itself to rags and tatters across a patch of rocks that<span class="pagenum">[Pg 146]</span> +seemed to block the whole channel. From Captain +Armstrong’s description, this was the exact point +where the trouble with his tipsy bow-paddler had +occurred, the little difficulty which had been the cause +of his leaving the salvaged cask of Scotch at his next +camp. Like pious pilgrims approaching the gateway +of some long-laboured-toward shrine, therefore, +we looked at the place with much interest, not to say +reverence. Blackmore was perhaps the least sentimental +of us. “I wouldn’t try to run that next fall +for all the whisky ever lost in the old Columbia,” he +said decisively, beginning to re-coil his long line. +Then we turned to on lining down the most accursed +stretch of river boulders I ever had to do with.</p> + +<p>Barely submerged rocks crowding the bank compelled +us to wade in and lift the boat ahead even +oftener than in Surprise Rapids. Andy always took +the lead in this, but time after time my help was necessary +to throw her clear. For the first time since I +had boated in Alaska a good many years previously, +I began to know the numbing effects of icy water. +The heavy exertion did a lot to keep the blood moving, +but three or four minutes standing with the water +up to mid-thigh sent the chill right in to the marrow +of the bones, even when sweat was running off the +face in streams. That started a sort of dull ache in +the leg bones that kept creeping higher and higher +the longer one remained in the water. That ache was +the worst part of it; the flesh became dead to sensation +very quickly, but that penetrating inward pain +had more hurt in it every minute it was prolonged. +It was bad enough in the legs, but when, submerged<span class="pagenum">[Pg 147]</span> +to the waist, as happened every now and then, the chill +began to penetrate to the back-bone and stab the +digestive organs, it became pretty trying. One realized +then what really short shrift a man would have +trying to swim for more than four or five minutes +even in calm water of this temperature. That was +about the limit for heart action to continue with the +cold striking in and numbing the veins and arteries, a +doctor had told Blackmore, and this seemed reasonable. +Andy was repeatedly sick at the stomach after +he had been wet for long above the waist. My own +qualms were rather less severe (doubtless because I +was exposed rather less), but I found myself very +weak and unsteady after every immersion. A liberal +use of rum would undoubtedly have been of some help +for a while, but Blackmore was adamant against starting +in on it as long as there was any bad water ahead. +And as there was nothing but bad water ahead, +this meant that—in one sense at least—we were a “dry +ship.”</p> + +<p>I shall not endeavour to trace in detail our painful +progress down “Twenty-One-Mile.” Indeed, I could +not do so even if I wanted, for the very good reason +that my hands were so full helping with the boat all +the way that I had no time to make notes, and even +my mental record—usually fairly dependable—is +hopelessly jumbled. Even Blackmore became considerably +mixed at times. At the first four or five +riffles below the lake he called the turn correctly, +landing, lining, crossing and running just where he +should have done so. Then his mind-map became +less clear. Twice he lined riffles which it presently<span class="pagenum">[Pg 148]</span> +became plain we could have run, and then he all but +failed to land above one where a well-masked “souse-hole” +would have gulped the boat in one mouthful.</p> + +<p>It was at this juncture that I asked him why he had +never taken the trouble of making a rough chart of +this portion of the river, so that he could be quite +sure what was ahead. He said that the idea was a +good one, and that it had often occurred to him. +There were several reasons why he had never carried +it out. One was, that he was always so mad when he +was going down “Twenty-One-Mile” that he couldn’t +see straight, let alone write and draw straight. This +meant that the chart would be of no use to him, even +if some one else made it—unless, of course, he brought +the maker along to interpret it. The main deterrent, +however, had been the fact that he had always sworn +each passage should be his last, so that (according to +his frame of mind of the moment) there would be no +use for the chart even if he could have seen straight +enough to make it, and to read it after it had been +made.</p> + +<p>The scenery—so far as I recall it—was grand beyond +words to describe. Cliff fronted cliff, with a +jagged ribbon of violet-purple sky between. Every +few hundred yards creeks broke through the mountain +walls and came cascading into the river over their +spreading boulder “fans.” Framed in the narrow +notches from which they sprang appeared transient +visions of sun-dazzled peaks and glaciers towering +above wedge-shaped valleys swimming full of lilac +mist. I saw these things, floating by like double +strips of movie film, only when we were running in<span class="pagenum">[Pg 149]</span> +the current; when lining I was aware of little beyond +the red line of the gunwale which I grasped, the imminent +loom of Andy’s grey-shirted shoulder next +me, and the foam-flecked swirl of liquefied glacier +enfolding my legs and swiftly converting them to +stumpy icicles.</p> + +<p>There was one comfort, though. The farther down +river we worked away from the lake, the shorter became +the stretches of lining and the longer the rapids +that were runnable. That accelerated our progress +materially, but even so Blackmore did not reckon that +there was time to stop for pictures, or even for lunch. +We were still well up to schedule, but he was anxious +to work on a good margin in the event of the always-to-be-expected +“unexpected.” It was along toward +three in the afternoon that, after completing a particularly +nasty bit of lining a mile or two above the +mouth of Yellow Creek, he came over and slapped +me on the back. “That finishes it for the day, young +man,” he cried gaily. “We can turn loose and run the +rest of it now, and we’ll do it hell sizzling fast. It may +also rejoice you to know that all the lining left for +the whole trip is a couple of hundred yards at ‘Rock +Slide’ and Death Rapids. All aboard for the Ferry!”</p> + +<p>All of a sudden life had become a blessed thing +again. For the first time I became aware that there +were birds singing in the trees, flowers blooming in +the protected shelves above high-water-mark, and +maiden-hair ferns festooning the dripping grottoes of +the cliffs. Dumping the water from our boots, Andy +and I resumed our oars and swung the boat right out +into the middle of the current. The first rapid we hit<span class="pagenum">[Pg 150]</span> +was a vicious side-winder, shaped like a letter “S,” +with overhanging cliffs playing battledore-and-shuttlecock +with the river at the bends. Blackmore said +he would have lined it if the water had been two feet +lower; as it was now we would get wetter trying to +worry a boat round the cliffs than in slashing through. +We got quite wet enough as it was. The rocks were +not hard to avoid, but banging almost side-on into the +great back-curving combers thrown off by the cliffs +was just a bit terrifying. Slammed back and forth +at express-train speed, with nothing but those roaring +open-faced waves buffeting against the cliffs, was +somewhat suggestive of the sensation you get from a +quick double-bank in a big biplane. Only it was +wetter—much wetter. It took Blackmore ten minutes +of hard bailing to get rid of the splashage.</p> + +<p>The succeeding rapids, though no less swift, were +straighter, and easier—and dryer. Roos, perched up +in the bow, announced that all was over but the digging, +and started to sing “Old Green River.” Andy +and I joined in lustily, and even Blackmore (though +a lip-reader would have sworn he was mumbling over +a rosary) claimed to be singing. Exultant as we all +were over the prize so nearly within our grasp, we +must have put a world of feeling into that heart-stirring +chorus.</p> + +<div class="poem" style="width: 28em;"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">“I was drifting down the old Green River</span> +<span class="i2">On the good ship <i>Rock-and-Rye</i>—</span> +<span class="i1">I drifted too far;</span> +<span class="i1">I got stuck on the bar;</span> +<span class="i1">I was out there alone,</span> +<span class="i1">Wishing that I were home—</span> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="pagenum">[Pg 151]</span>The Captain was lost, with all of the crew,</span> +<span class="i0">So that there was nothing left to do;</span> +<span class="i1">And I had to drink the whole Green River dry-igh</span> +<span class="i1">To get back ho-ohm to you-oo-ou!”</span> +</div></div> + +<p>Smoother and smoother became the going, and +then—rather unexpectedly, it seemed to me—the +water began to slacken its dizzy speed. Blackmore +appeared considerably puzzled over it, I thought. +Roos, turning sentimental, had started singing a song +that he had learned from a phonograph, and in which, +therefore, appeared numerous hiati.</p> + +<div class="poem" style="width: 28em;"> +<span class="i0">“Now I know da-da-da-da-da—</span> +<span class="i1">Now I know the reason why—</span> +<span class="i0">Da-da-da-da——da-da-da-daah—</span> +<span class="i1">Now I know, yes, now I know!</span> +<span class="i0">Da-da-da, my heart....”</span> +</div> + +<p>Blackmore frowned more deeply as the treble wail +floated back to him, and then broke into the next +“da-da” with a sudden growl. “I say, young feller,” +he roared, slapping sharply into the quieting water +with his paddle blade; “if you know so <i>geesly</i> much, +I’m wondering if you’d mind loosening up on one or +two things that have got <i>me</i> buffaloed. First place, +do I look like a man that had took a shot of hop?” +“Not at all, sir,” quavered Roos, who seemed rather +fearful of an impending call-down. “I don’t, huh?” +went on the growl. “Then please tell me why what +I knows is a ten-mile-an-hour current looks to me like +slack water, and why I think I hear a roar coming +round the next bend.” “But the water <i>is</i> slack,” pro<span class="pagenum">[Pg 152]</span>tested +Roos, “and I’ve heard that roar for five minutes +<i>myself</i>. Just another rapid, isn’t it? The water +always....”</p> + +<p>“Rot!” roared the veteran. “There ain’t no fall +with a rip-raring thunder like that ’tween Yellow +Creek and Death Rapids. Rot, I tell you! I must ha’ +been doped after all.”</p> + +<p>Nevertheless, when that ground-shaking rumble +assailed us in a raw, rough wave of savage sound as +we pulled round the bend, Blackmore was not sufficiently +confident of his “dope theory” to care to get +any nearer to it without a preliminary reconnaissance. +Landing a hundred yards above where a white “eyelash” +of up-flipped water showed above a line of big +rocks, we clambered down along the right bank on +foot. Presently all that had occurred was written +clear for one who knew the way of a slide with a +river, and the way of a river with a slide, to read as +on the page of a book.</p> + +<p>“A new rapid, and a whale at that!” gasped Blackmore +in astonishment; “the first one that’s ever formed +on the Columbia in my time!”</p> + +<p>The amazing thing that had happened was this: +Sometime in the spring, a landslide of enormous size, +doubtless started by an avalanche of snow far up in +the Selkirks, had ripped the whole side of a mountain +out and come down all the way across the river. As +the pines were hurled <i>backward</i> for a couple of hundred +feet above the river on the right or Rocky Mountain +bank, it seemed reasonable to believe that the dam +formed had averaged considerably more than that in +height. As this would have backed up the river for<span class="pagenum">[Pg 153]</span> +at least ten or twelve miles, it is probable that the lake +formed must have been rising for a number of days +before it flowed over the top of the barrier and began +to sluice it away. On an incalculably larger scale, it +was just the sort of thing we had heard and seen happening +on Trident Creek, opposite our Kinbasket +Lake camp. Not the least remarkable thing in connection +with the stupendous convulsion was the fact +that a large creek was flowing directly down the great +gash torn out by the slide and emptying right into the +rapid which was left when the dam had been washed +away. Blackmore was quite positive that there had +been no creek at this point the last time he was there. +It seemed reasonable to suppose, therefore, that the +slide, in removing a considerable section of mountain +wall, had opened a new line of drainage for some little +valley in the high Selkirks.</p> + +<p>It was the great, rough fragments of cliff and native +rock left after the earth had been sluiced out of the +dam that remained to form the unexpected rapid +which now confronted us. They had not yet been +worn smooth like the rest of the river boulders, and +it was this fact, doubtless, that gave the cascade tumbling +through and over them such a raw, raucous +roar.</p> + +<p>The solution of the mystery of the appearance of +the rapid was only an incident compared with the +problem of how to pass it. There was a comparatively +straight channel, but there was no possibility +that the boat could live in the huge rollers that billowed +down the middle of it. Just to the right of the +middle there was a smoother chute which looked bet<span class="pagenum">[Pg 154]</span>ter—provided +the boat could be kept to it. Blackmore +said that it looked like too much of a risk, and +decided to try to line down the right bank—the one +on which we had landed. As the river walls were too +steep and broken to allow any of the outfit to be portaged, +the boat would have to go through loaded.</p> + +<p>A big uprooted pine tree, extending out fifty feet +over the river and with its under limbs swept by the +water, seemed likely to prove our worst difficulty, and +I am inclined to believe it would have held us up in +the end, even after we reached it. As things turned +out, however, it troubled us not a whit, for the boat +never got down that far. Right at the head of the +rapid her bows jammed between two submerged +boulders about ten feet from the bank, and there she +stuck. As it was quickly evident that it was out of the +question to lift her on through, it now became a problem +of working her back up-stream out of the jaws +that held her. But with the full force of the current +driving her tighter between the rocks, she now refused +to budge even in the direction from which she had +come.</p> + +<p>As I look back on it now, the fifteen minutes Andy +and I, mid-waist deep in the icy water, spent trying to +work that hulking red boat loose so that Blackmore +could haul her back into quiet water for a fresh start +takes pride of place as the most miserable interval of +the whole trip. After Andy’s experience in Surprise +Rapids, neither of us was inclined to throw his whole +weight into a lift that might leave him overbalanced +when the boat was swept out of his reach. And so we +pulled and hauled and cursed (I should hate to have<span class="pagenum">[Pg 155]</span> +to record all we said about the ancestry of the +river, the boat, and the two rocks that held the boat), +while the tentacles of the cold clutched deeper with +every passing minute. Roos, sitting on a pine stump +and whittling, furnished no help but some slight diversion. +When he started singing “Old Green River” +just after I had slipped and soused my head in the +current, I stopped tugging at the boat for long +enough to wade out and shy a stone at him. “Green +River”<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> was all right in its place, but its place was +swirling against the <i>inside</i> of the ribs, not the <i>outside</i>. +Roos had the cheek to pick the rock up out of his lap +and heave it back at me—but with an aim less certain +than my own. A few minutes later he called out to +Blackmore to ask if this new rapid had a name, adding +that if it had not, he would like to do his employer, +Mr. Chester, the honour of naming it after +him. Blackmore relaxed his strain on the line for a +moment to roar back that no rapid was ever named +after a man unless he had been “drownded” in it. +“We’ll name this one after you if you’ll do the needful,” +he growled as an afterthought, throwing his +weight again onto his line. That tickled Andy and +me so mightily that we gave a prodigious heave in +all recklessness of consequences, and off she came. +Gaining the bank with little trouble, we joined Blackmore +and helped him haul her up by line into slower +water.</p> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> For the benefit of those who have forgotten, or may never have +known, I will state that “Green River” was the name of a brand +of whisky consumed by ancient Americans with considerable gusto. +L. R. F.</p></div> + +<p>“No good lining,” the “Skipper” announced decid<span class="pagenum">[Pg 156]</span>edly, +as we sat down to rest for a spell; “I’m going to +drive her straight through.” Chilled, weary and +dead-beat generally, I was in a state of mind that +would have welcomed jumping into the rapid with a +stone tied to my neck rather than go back to the half-submerged +wading and lifting. Roos said he hated +to risk his camera, and so would try to crawl with it +over the cliff and rejoin us below the rapid. Andy +said he was quite game to pull his oar for a run if we +had to, but that he would first like to try lining down +the opposite bank. He thought we could make it +<i>there</i>, and he had just a bit of a doubt about what +might happen in mid-river. That was reasonable +enough, and Blackmore readily consented to try the +other side.</p> + +<p><a id="page156" name="page156"></a></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 462px;"> +<img src="images/illo_208.jpg" width="462" height="600" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">OUR WETTEST CAMP AT KINBASKET LAKE (<i>above</i>)<br /> +THE OLD FERRY TOWER ABOVE CANOE RIVER (<i>below</i>)</span> +</div> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p><a id="page157" name="page157"></a></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 406px;"> +<img src="images/illo_209.jpg" width="406" height="700" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">WHERE WE TIED UP AT KINBASKET LAKE (<i>above</i>)<br /> +THE BRIDGE WHICH THE COLUMBIA CARRIED A HUNDRED MILES +AND PLACED ACROSS ANOTHER STREAM (<i>center</i>)<br /> +LINING DOWN TO THE HEAD OF DEATH RAPIDS (<i>below</i>)</span> +</div> + +<p>Almost at once it appeared that we had landed in +the same trouble as on the right bank. Directly off +the mouth of the stream that came down from the +slide the bow of the boat was caught and held between +two submerged rocks, defying our every attempt to +lift it over. Blackmore was becoming impatient +again, and was just ready to give up and run, when +Andy, with the aid of a young tree-trunk used as a +lever, rolled one of the boulders aside and cleared the +way. Five minutes later we had completed lining +down and were pushing off for the final run to the +Ferry. No more “mystery rapids” cropped up to +disturb our voyage, and, pulling in deep, swift water, +we made the next five miles in twenty-five minutes. +A part of the distance was through the rocky-walled +Red Canyon, one of the grandest scenic bits of the +Bend. At one point Blackmore showed us a sheer<span class="pagenum">[Pg 157]</span>-sided +rock island, on which he said he had once found +the graves of two white men, with an inscription so +worn as to be indecipherable. He thought they were +probably those of miners lost during the Cariboo +gold-field excitement of the middle of the last century, +or perhaps even those of Hudson Bay <i>voyageurs</i> of a +century or more back. There were many unidentified +graves all the way round the Bend, he said.</p> + +<p>The river walls fell back a bit on both sides as we +neared our destination, and the low-hanging western +sun had found a gap in the Selkirks through which it +was pouring its level rays to flood with a rich amber +light the low wooded benches at the abandoned crossing. +The old Ferry-tower reared itself upward like +the Statue of Liberty, bathing its head in the golden +light of the expiring day. Steering for it as to a beacon, +Blackmore beached the boat on a gravel bar +flanking an eddy almost directly under the rusting +cable. We would cross later to spend the night in a +trapper’s cabin on the opposite bank, he said; as there +was sure to be a shovel or two in the old ferry shacks, +he had come there at once so as to get down to business +without delay.</p> + +<p>Right then and there, before we left the boat, I did +a thing which I have been greatly gratified that I did +do—right then and there. I drew my companions +close to me and assured them that I had made up my +mind to divide the spoils with them. Blackmore and +Andy should have a gallon apiece, and Roos a quart. +(I scaled down the latter’s share sharply, partly because +he had thrown that stone back at me, and the +nerve of it rankled, and partly—I must confess—out<span class="pagenum">[Pg 158]</span> +of “professional jealousy.” “Stars” and “Directors” +never do hit off.) The rest I would retain and divide +with Captain Armstrong as agreed. I did not tell +them that I had high hopes that Armstrong would +soften in the end and let me keep it all to take home. +After all of them (including Roos) had wrung my +hand with gratitude, we set to work, each in his own +way.</p> + +<p>The spot was readily located the moment we took +the compass bearing. Pacing off was quite unnecessary. +It was in the angle of a V-shaped outcrop of +bedrock, where a man who knew about what was +there could feel his way and claw up the treasure in +the dark. It was an “inevitable” hiding place, just as +Gibraltar is an inevitable fortress and Manhattan an +inevitable metropolis. Yes, we each went to work in +our own way. Blackmore and Andy found a couple +of rusty shovels and went to digging; Roos climbed +up into the old ferry basket to take a picture of them +digging; I climbed up on the old shack to take a picture +of Roos taking a picture of them digging. Nothing +was omitted calculated to preserve historical +accuracy. I had been in Baalbek just before the war +when a German archæological mission had inaugurated +excavation for Phœnician antiquities, and so +was sapient in all that an occasion of the kind required.</p> + +<p>The picture cycle complete, I strolled over to where +Andy and Blackmore were making the dirt fly like a +pair of Airedales digging out a badger. The ground +was soft, they said, leaning on their shovels; it ought +to be only the matter of minutes now. The “showings” +were good. They had already unearthed a<span class="pagenum">[Pg 159]</span> +glove, a tin cup and a fragment of barrel iron. “Gorgeous +stroke of luck for us that chap, K——, hit the +stuff so hard up at Kinbasket,” I murmured ecstatically. +Blackmore started and straightened up like a +man hit with a steel bullet. “What was that name +again?” he gasped. “K——,” I replied wonderingly; +“some kind of a Swede, I believe Armstrong said. +But what difference does his name make as long +as....”</p> + +<p>Blackmore tossed his shovel out of the hole and +climbed stiffly up after it before he replied. When he +spoke it was in a voice thin and trailing, as though +draggled by the Weariness of the Ages. “Difference, +boy! All the difference between hell and happiness. +About two years ago K—— dropped out of sight +from Revelstoke, and it was only known he had gone +somewhere on the Bend. A week after he returned he +died in the hospital of the ‘D. T’s.’”</p> + +<p>Roos (perhaps because he had the least to lose by +the disaster) was the only one who had the strength +to speak. It seemed that he had studied Latin in the +high school. “<i>Sic transit gloria spiritum frumenti</i>,” +was what he said. Never in all the voyage did he +speak so much to the point.</p> + +<p>Blackmore frowned at him gloomily as the mystic +words were solemnly pronounced. “Young feller,” +he growled, “I don’t savvy what the last part of that +drug-store lingo you’re spitting means; but you’re +dead right about the first part. <i>Sick</i> is sure the word.”</p> + +<p>We spent the night in an empty trapper’s cabin +across the river. Charity forbids that I lift the curtain +of the house of mourning.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page160" name="page160">[Pg 160]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER VIII<br /> +<br /> +III. RUNNING THE BEND</h2> + +<p class="title"><i>Boat Encampment to Revelstoke</i></p> + +<p>We were now close to the historic Boat Encampment, +where at last our course would join with that +followed by the early <i>voyageurs</i> and explorers. No +point in the whole length of the Columbia, not even +Astoria, has associations more calculated to stir the +imagination than this tiny patch of silt-covered overflow +flat which has been formed by the erosive action +of three torrential rivers tearing at the hearts of three +great mountain ranges. Sand and soil of the Rockies, +Selkirks and the Gold Range, carried by the Columbia, +Canoe and Wood rivers, meet and mingle to form +the remarkable halting place, where the east and westbound +pioneering traffic of a century stopped to +gather breath for the next stage of its journey.</p> + +<p>Before pushing off from the Ferry on the morning +of October seventh I dug out from my luggage a copy +of a report written in 1881 by Lieutenant Thomas W. +Symons, U. S. A., on the navigation of the Upper +Columbia. This was chiefly concerned with that part +of the river between the International Boundary and +the mouth of the Snake, but Lieutenant Symons had +made a long and exhaustive study of the whole Columbia +Basin, and his geographical description of the +three rivers which unite at Boat Encampment is so<span class="pagenum">[Pg 161]</span> +succinct and yet so comprehensive that I am impelled +to make a liberal quotation from it here. Of the great +assistance I had from Lieutenant Symons’ invaluable +report when I came to the passage of that part of the +river covered by his remarkable voyage of forty years +ago I shall write later.</p> + +<blockquote><p>“Amid the universal gloom and midnight silence of the +north, a little above the fifty-second parallel of latitude, +seemingly surrounded on all sides by cloud-piercing snow-clad +mountains, and nestled down among the lower and +nearer cedar-mantled hills, there lies a narrow valley where +three streams meet and blend their waters, one coming from +the southeast, one from the northwest, and one from the +east. The principal one of these streams is the one from the +southeast ... and is the headwater stream, and bears the +name of the Columbia.</p> + +<p>“The northwestern stream is the extreme northern branch +of the Columbia, rising beyond the fifty-third parallel of +latitude, and is known among the traders and <i>voyageurs</i> as +Canoe River, from the excellence of the barks obtained on +its banks for canoe building. This is a small river, forty +yards wide at its mouth, flowing through a densely timbered +valley in which the trees overhang the stream to such an +extent as almost to shut it out from the light of heaven....</p> + +<p>“Portage River, the third of the trio of streams, the +smallest and the most remarkable of them, is the one which +enters from the east. It has its source in the very heart of +the Rocky Mountains and flows through a tremendous cleft +in the main range between two of its loftiest peaks, Mounts +Brown and Hooker. Just underneath these giant mountains, +on the divide known as ‘The Height of Land,’ lie two small +lakes, each about thirty yards in diameter, and which are +only a few yards from each other. One has its outlet to the +<span class="pagenum">[Pg 162]</span>west, Portage River, flowing to the Columbia; the other has +its outlet to the east, Whirlpool River, a branch of the +Athabaska, which joins the Mackenzie and flows to the +Arctic Ocean.</p> + +<p>“The elevated valley in which these lakes are situated is +called ‘The Committee’s Punchbowl,’ and the nabobs of the +fur trade always treated their companions to a bucket of +punch when this point was reached, if they had the ingredients +from which to make it, and they usually had.</p> + +<p>“The pass across the mountains by the Portage River, +‘The Committee’s Punchbowl’ and Whirlpool River, known +as the Athabaska Pass, was for many years the route of the +British fur traders in going from one side of the Rocky +Mountains to the other. This route is far from being an +easy one, and a description of the difficulties, dangers and +discomforts of a trip over it will certainly deter any one from +making the journey for pleasure. A great part of the way +the traveller has to wade up to his middle in the icy waters +of Portage River. The journey had to be made in the spring +before the summer thaws and rains set in, or in the autumn +after severe cold weather had locked up the mountain drainage. +During the summer the stream becomes an impetuous +impassable mountain torrent.”</p></blockquote> + +<p>Considering that Lieutenant Symons had never +traversed the Big Bend nor the Athabaska Pass, this +description (which must have been written from his +careful readings of the diaries of the old <i>voyageurs</i>) +is a remarkable one. It is not only accurate topographically +and geographically, but it has an “atmosphere” +which one who <i>does</i> know this region at first +hand will be quick to appreciate. How and when the +stream which he and the men before him called Por<span class="pagenum">[Pg 163]</span>tage +River came to have its name changed to Wood, +I have not been able to learn.</p> + +<p>A mile below the Ferry Blackmore called my attention +to a sharp wedge of brown-black mountain which +appeared to form the left wall of the river a short way +ahead. That lofty out-thrust of rock, he said, was the +extreme northern end of the Selkirk Range. The +Columbia, after receiving the waters of Wood and +Canoe rivers, looped right round this cape and started +flowing south, but with the <i>massif</i> of the Selkirks still +forming its left bank. But the Rockies, which had +formed its right bank all the way from its source, +were now left behind, and their place was taken by +the almost equally lofty Gold Range, which drained +east to the Columbia and west to the Thompson.</p> + +<p>The Columbia doubles back from north to south at +an astonishingly sharp angle,—as river bends go, that +is. Picture mentally Madison Square, New York. +Now suppose the Columbia to flow north on Broadway, +bend round the Flatiron Building (which represents +the Selkirks), and then flow south down Fifth +Avenue. Then East Twenty-Third Street would +represent Wood River, and North Broadway, Canoe +River. Now forget all the other streets and imagine +the buildings of Madison Square as ten to twelve +thousand-feet-high mountains. And there you have +a model of the apex of the Big Bend of the Columbia.</p> + +<p>A milky grey-green flood—straight glacier water if +there ever was such—staining the clear stream of the +Columbia marked the mouth of Wood River, and we +pulled in for a brief glimpse in passing of what had +once been Boat Encampment. I had broken my ther<span class="pagenum">[Pg 164]</span>mometer +at Kinbasket Lake, so I could not take the +temperatures here; but Wood River was beyond all +doubt the coldest stream I had ever dabbled a finger-tip +in. What the ascent to Athabaska Pass must +have been may be judged from this description by +Alexander Ross—one of the original Astoria party—written +over a hundred years ago.</p> + +<blockquote><p>“Picture in the mind a dark, narrow defile, skirted on one +side by a chain of inaccessible mountains rising to a great +height, covered with snow, and slippery with ice from their +tops down to the water’s edge; and on the other a beach +comparatively low, but studded in an irregular manner with +standing and fallen trees, rocks and ice, and full of driftwood, +over which the torrent everywhere rushes with such +irresistible impetuosity that very few would dare to adventure +themselves in the stream. Let him again imagine a +rapid river descending from some great height, filling up the +whole channel between the rocky precipices on the south, and +the no less dangerous barrier on the north; and, lastly, let +him suppose that we were obliged to make our way on foot +against such a torrent, by crossing and recrossing it in all +its turns and windings, from morning till night, up to the +middle in water, and he will understand the difficulties to be +overcome in crossing the Rocky Mountains.”</p></blockquote> + +<p>I have been able to learn nothing of records which +would indicate that any of the early explorers or <i>voyageurs</i> +traversed that portion of the Columbia down +which we had just come. David Thompson, who is +credited with being the first man to travel the Columbia +to the sea, although he spent one winter at the foot +of Lake Windermere, appears to have made his down-<span class="pagenum">[Pg 165]</span>river +push-off from Boat Encampment. Mr. Basil +G. Hamilton, of Invermere, sends me an authoritative +note on this point, based on Thompson’s own journal. +From this it appears that the great astronomer-explorer +crossed the Rockies by Athabaska Pass and +came down to what has since been known by the name +of Boat Encampment in March, 1811. Having built +himself a hut, he made preparation for a trip down the +Columbia, by which he hoped to reach the mouth in +advance of either of the Astor parties, and thus be able +to lay claim to the whole region traversed in the name +of the Northwest Company. He writes: “We first +tried to get birch rind wherewith to make our trip to +the Pacific Ocean, but without finding any even thick +enough to make a dish. So we split out thin boards +of cedar wood, about six inches in breadth, and built +a canoe twenty-five feet in length and fifty inches in +breadth, of the same form as a common canoe. As +we had no nails we sewed the boards to each other +round the timbers, making use of the fine roots of the +pine which we split.”</p> + +<p>This ingeniously constructed but precarious craft +was finished on the sixteenth of April, and Thompson’s +party embarked in it on the seventeenth. Mr. +Hamilton doubts if this was the same craft in which +they finally reached Astoria. From my own knowledge +of what lies between I am very much inclined to +agree with him. Certainly no boat of the construction +described could have lasted even to the Arrow +Lakes without much patching, and if a boat seeming +on the lines of the original really reached the Pacific, +it must have been many times renewed in the course of<span class="pagenum">[Pg 166]</span> +the voyage. I shall hardly need to add that Thompson’s +remarkable journey, so far as its original object +was concerned, was a failure. He reached the mouth +of the Columbia well in advance of Astor’s land party, +but only to find the New Yorker fur-trader’s expedition +by way of Cape Horn and Hawaii already in +occupation.</p> + +<p>Boat Encampment of to-day is neither picturesque +nor interesting; indeed, there are several camp-sites +at the Bend that one would choose in preference to +that rather damp patch of brush-covered, treeless +clearing. All that I found in the way of relics of the +past were some huge cedar stumps, almost covered +with silt, and the remains of a demolished <i>batteau</i>. I +salved a crude oar-lock from the latter to carry as a +mascot for my down-river trip. As a mascot it served +me very well, everything considered; though it <i>did</i> +get me in rather bad once when I tried to use it for an +oar-lock.</p> + +<p>Before the sparkling jade-green stream of the +Columbia had entirely quenched the milky flow of +Wood River, the chocolate-brown torrent of Canoe +River came pouring in to mess things up anew. The +swift northern affluent, greatly swelled by the recent +rains, was in flood, and at the moment appeared to be +discharging a flow almost if not quite equal to that +of the main river. For a considerable distance the +waters of the right side of the augmented river retained +their rich cinnamon tint, and it was not until +a brisk stretch of rapid a mile below the Bend got in +its cocktail-shaker action that the two streams +became thoroughly blended. Then the former crys<span class="pagenum">[Pg 167]</span>talline +clearness of the Columbia was a thing of the +past. It was still far from being a muddy river. +There was still more of green than of brown in its +waters, but they were dully translucent where they +had been brilliantly transparent. Not until the hundred-mile-long +settling-basin of the Arrow Lakes +allowed the sediment to deposit did the old emerald-bright +sparkle come back again.</p> + +<p>A couple of quick rifle shots from the left bank set +the echoes ringing just after we had passed Canoe +River, and Blackmore turned in to where a man and +dog were standing in front of an extremely picturesquely +located log cabin. It proved to be a French-Canadian +half-breed trapper called Alphonse Edmunds. +His interest in us was purely social, and +after a five minutes’ yarn we pulled on. Blackmore +said the chap lived in Golden, and that to avoid the +dreaded run down through Surprise and Kinbasket +rapids, he was in the habit of going a couple of hundred +miles by the C. P. R. to Kamloops, thence north +for a hundred miles or more by the Canadian Northern, +thence by packtrain a considerable distance over +the divide to the head of Canoe River, and finally +down the latter by boat to the Bend, where he did his +winter trapping. This was about four times the distance +as by the direct route down the Columbia, and +probably at least quadrupled time and expense. It +threw an illuminative side-light on the way some of the +natives regarded the upper half of the Big Bend.</p> + +<p>The river was deeper now, but still plugged along +at near to the ten-miles-an-hour it had averaged from +the foot of Kinbasket Rapids. As the western slopes<span class="pagenum">[Pg 168]</span> +of the Selkirks were considerably more extensive than +the eastern, the drainage to the Columbia from that +side was proportionately greater. Cascades and cataracts +came tumbling in every few hundred yards, and +every mile or two, from one side or the other, a considerable +creek would pour down over its spreading +boulder “fan.” We landed at twelve-thirty and +cooked our lunch on the stove of a perfect beauty of a +trapper’s cabin near the mouth of Mica Creek. The +trapper had already begun getting in his winter grub, +but was away at the moment. The whole place was as +clean as a Dutch kitchen. A recent shift of channel +by the fickle-minded Mica Creek had undermined +almost to the door of this snug little home, and Andy +reckoned it would go down river on the next spring +rise.</p> + +<p><a id="page168" name="page168"></a></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> +<img src="images/illo_222.jpg" width="600" height="453" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">TRAPPER’S CABIN BEING UNDERMINED BY STREAM (<i>left</i>)<br /> +THE CAMP ABOVE TWELVE-MILE (<i>right</i>)</span> +</div> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p><a id="page169" name="page169"></a></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 320px;"> +<img src="images/illo_223.jpg" width="320" height="600" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">LANDING AT SUNSET ABOVE CANOE RIVER (<i>above</i>)<br /> +ANDY AND BLACKMORE SWINGING THE BOAT INTO THE HEAD OF +ROCK SLIDE RAPIDS (<i>centre</i>)<br /> +THE BIG ROLLERS, FROM 15 TO 20 FEET FROM HOLLOW TO CREST, +AT HEAD OF DEATH RAPIDS (<i>below</i>)</span> +</div> + +<p>We ran the next eighteen miles in less than two +hours, tying up for the night at a well-built Government +cabin three miles below Big Mouth Creek. It +was occupied for the winter by a Swede trapper +named Johnston. He was out running his trap-lines +when we arrived, but came back in time to be our +guest for dinner. He made one rather important contribution +to the menu—a “mulligan,” the <i>pièce de +résistance</i> of which, so he claimed, was a mud-hen he +had winged with his revolver that morning. There +were six or seven ingredients in that confounded Irish +stew already, and—much to the disgust of Roos and +myself, who didn’t fancy eating mud-hen—Andy +dumped into it just about everything he had been +cooking except the prunes. That’s the proper caper +with “mulligans,” and they are very good, too, unless +<span class="pagenum">[Pg 169]</span>some one of the makings chances to be out of your +line. And such most decidedly was mud-hen—fish-eating +mud-hen! As we were sort of company, Roos +and I put on the best faces we could and filled up on +prunes and marmalade. It was only after the other +three had cleaned out the “mulligan” can that Andy +chanced to mention that “mud-hen” was the popularly +accepted euphemism for grouse shot out of season!</p> + +<p>Andy and Blackmore and Johnston talked “trapper +stuff” all evening—tricks for tempting marten, +how to prevent the pesky wolverine from robbing +traps, “stink-baits,” prices, and the prospects for +beaver when it again became lawful to take them. +Johnston was a typical Swede, with little apparent +regard for his physical strength if money could be +made by drawing upon it. The previous season he +had had to sleep out in his blankets many nights while +covering his lines, and he counted himself lucky that +this year he had two or three rough cabins for shelter. +He was a terrific worker and ate sparingly of the +grub that cost him twenty cents a pound to bring in. +He was already looking a bit drawn, and Blackmore +said the next morning that he would be more or less +of a physical wreck by spring, just as he had been the +previous season. The hardships these trappers endure +is something quite beyond the comprehension +of any one who has not been with them. A city man, +a farmer, even a sailor, knows nothing to compare +with it.</p> + +<p>We were a mile down stream the next morning +before Blackmore discovered that his rifle had been +left in Johnston’s cabin, and it took him an hour of<span class="pagenum">[Pg 170]</span> +hard breaking through the wet underbrush to recover +it. The river was still rising from the rains, and the +current swift with occasional rapids. Blackmore +approached the head of Gordon Rapids (named, of +course, from a man of that name who had lost his life +there) with considerable caution. He intended to +run them, he said, but the convergence of currents +threw a nasty cross-riffle that was not to be taken +liberties with. He appeared considerably relieved +when he found that the high water made it +possible to avoid the main rapid by a swift but comparatively +clear back-channel. We had a good view +of the riffle from below when we swung back into the +main channel. It was certainly a vicious tumble of +wild white water, and even with our considerable freeboard +it would have been a sloppy run. I should +have been very reluctant to go into it all with a smaller +boat.</p> + +<p>Still deeply canyoned between lofty mountains, the +scenery in this part of the Bend was quite equal to +the finest through which we had passed above Canoe +River. The steady drizzle which had now set in, +however, made pictures out of the question. This did +not deter Roos from looking for “location.” He was +under special instructions to make some effective +camp shots, and had been on the lookout for a suitable +place ever since we started. This day he found +what he wanted. Shooting down a swift, rough rapid +shortly after noon, we rounded a sharp bend and shot +past the mouth of a deep black gorge with the white +shimmer of a big waterfall just discernible in its +dusky depths. Almost immediately opposite a rocky<span class="pagenum">[Pg 171]</span> +point jutted out into the eddy. It was thickly carpeted +with moss and grass, and bright with the reds +and yellows of patches of late flowers. At its base +was an almost perfect circle of towering cedars and +sugar pines, their dark green foliage standing out in +fret-work against the pale purple mists filling the +depths of a wedge-shaped bit of mountain valley behind. +There were glaciers and peaks hanging giddily +above, but these were obscured by the rain clouds.</p> + +<p>In response to Roos’ glad “Eureka!” Blackmore +threw the boat’s head sharply toward the left bank, +and hard pulling just won us the edge of the eddy. +Missing that, we would have run on into the rough-and-tumble +of Twelve-Mile Rapids, where (as we +found the next day) there was no landing for another +half mile. The place looked even lovelier at close +range than from the river, and Roos announced decisively +that we were not going to stir from there until +the sun came to give him light for his camp shots. +Fortunately, this befell the next morning. After +that, to the best of my recollection, we did not see the +sun again until we crossed over to the U. S. A. many +days later.</p> + +<p>Roos took a lot of trouble with his camp picture, +and I have since heard that it was most favourably +reported upon from the studio. Setting up on the +end of the point, he made his opening shot as the boat +ran down the rapid (we had had to line back above +for this, of course) and floundered through the swirls +and whirlpools past the mouth of the gloomy gorge +and its half-guessed waterfall. After landing and +packing our outfit up the bank, trees were felled,<span class="pagenum">[Pg 172]</span> +boughs cut and spread and the tent set up. Finally, +we fried bacon, tossed flapjacks and baked bannocks. +I could tell by his expression that Roos dearly wanted +to lend a Mack Sennett “custard-pie” touch by having +some one smear some one else in the face with a +mushy half-baked bannock, but discretion prevailed. +Qualified “smearers” there were in plenty—Andy and +Blackmore were wood-choppers and I was an ex-pitcher +and shot-putter,—but the designation of a +“smear-ee” was quite another matter. Roos did well +to stop where he did.</p> + +<p>Pushing off about noon, we dropped down to near +the head of “Twelve-Mile,” and put Roos ashore on +the right bank for a shot as we ran through. We had +expected to land to pick him up at the foot of the +rapid, but Blackmore, in order to make the picture as +spectacular as possible, threw the boat right into the +midst of the white stuff. There was a good deal of +soft fluff flying in the air, but nothing with much +weight in it. We ran through easily, but got so far +over toward the left bank that it was impossible to +pull into the eddy we had hoped to make. Andy and +I pulled our heads off for five minutes before we +could reach slack water near the left bank, and by +then we were a quarter of a mile below the foot of the +rapid. Andy had to go back to help Roos down over +the boulders with his machine and tripod. Another +mile in fast water brought us to the head of Rock +Slide Rapids, and we landed on the right bank for +our last stretch of lining on the Big Bend.</p> + +<p>The Rock Slide is the narrowest point on the whole +Columbia between Lake Windermere and the Pacific.<span class="pagenum">[Pg 173]</span> +An almost perpendicular mountainside has been encroaching +on the river here for many years, possibly +damming it all the way across at times. From the +Slide to the precipitous left bank there is an average +channel seventy feet in width, through which the +river rushes with tremendous velocity over and between +enormous sharp-edged boulders. This pours +into a cauldron-like eddy at a right-angled bend, and +over the lower end of that swirling maelstrom the +river spills into another narrow chute to form the +<i>Dalles des Morts</i> of accursed memory. I know of no +place on the upper half of the Bend where the river +is less than a hundred feet wide. The Little Dalles, +just below the American line, are about a hundred +and forty feet across in their narrowest part, and the +Great Dalles below Celilo Falls are slightly wider. +Kettle Falls, Hell-Gate and Rock Island Rapids +have side channels of less than a hundred feet, but the +main channels are much broader. Save only the +<i>Dalles des Morts</i> (which are really its continuation) +the Rock Slide has no near rival anywhere on the +river.</p> + +<p>It has struck me as quite probable that the Rock +Slide, and the consequent constriction of the river at +that point, are of comparatively recent occurrence, +almost certainly of the last hundred years. In the +diaries of Ross, Cox and Franchiere, on which most +of the earlier Columbian history is based, I can find +no mention of anything of the kind at this point, a +location readily identifiable because of its proximity +to the <i>Dalles des Morts</i>, which they all mention. But +in Ross’ record I <i>do</i> find this significant passage:<span class="pagenum">[Pg 174]</span></p> + +<blockquote><p>“A little after starting (<i>from the Dalles des Morts</i>) we +backed our paddles and stood still for some minutes admiring +a striking curiosity. The water of a cataract creek, after +shooting over the brink of a bold precipice, falls in a white +sheet onto a broad, flat rock, smooth as glass, which forms +the first step; then upon a second, some ten feet lower down, +and lastly, on a third, somewhat lower. It then enters a +subterranean vault, formed at the mouth like a funnel, and +after passing through this funnel it again issues forth with +a noise like distant thunder. After falling over another step +it meets the front of a bold rock, which repulses back the +water with such violence as to keep it whirling around in +a large basin. Opposite to this rises the wing of a shelving +cliff, which overhangs the basin and forces back the rising +spray, refracting in the sunshine all the colours of the rainbow. +The creek then enters the Columbia.”</p></blockquote> + +<p>On the left bank, immediately above the <i>Dalles des +Morts</i>, an extremely beautiful little waterfall leaps +into the river from the cliffs, but neither this (as will +readily be seen from my photograph of it) nor any +other similar fall I saw in the whole length of the +Columbia, bears the least suggestion of a resemblance +to the remarkable cataract Ross so strikingly +describes. But I <i>did</i> see a very sizable stream of +water cascading right down the middle of the great +rock slide, and at a point which might very well coincide +with that at which Ross saw his “stairway-and-tunnel” +phenomenon. Does it not seem quite possible +that the latter should have undermined the cliff +over and through which it was tumbling, precipitating +it into the river and forming the Rock Slide of the +present day?<span class="pagenum">[Pg 175]</span></p> + +<p>The middle of the channel at Rock Slide was a +rough, smashing cascade that looked quite capable +of grinding a boat to kindling wood in a hundred +feet; but to the right of it the water was considerably +better. Blackmore said the chances would be all in +favour of running it safely, <i>but</i>, if anything at all +went wrong (such as the unshipping of an oar, for +instance), it might make it hard to get into the eddy +at the bend; and if we missed the eddy—Death Rapids! +He didn’t seem to think any further elucidation +was necessary. It would be best to line the whole way +down, he said.</p> + +<p>On account of the considerable depth of water +right up to the banks, the boat struck on the rocks +rather less than usual; but the clamber over the +jagged, fresh-fallen granite was the worst thing of +the kind we encountered. I <i>did</i> get a bit of a duck +here, though, but it was not near to being anything +serious, and the sequel was rather amusing. Losing +my footing for a moment on the only occasion I had +to give Andy a lift with the boat, I floundered for a +few strokes, kicked into an eddy and climbed out.</p> + +<p>Ever since Andy had his souse and came out with +empty pockets, I had taken the precaution of buttoning +mine securely down before starting in to line. +The buttons had resisted the best efforts of the kleptomaniacal +river current, and I came out with the +contents of my pocket wet but intact. But there was +a trifling casualty even thus. A leg of my riding +breeches was missing from the knee down. It was an +ancient pair of East Indian <i>jodpurs</i> I was wearing +(without leggings, of course), and age and rough<span class="pagenum">[Pg 176]</span> +usage had opened a slit at the knee. Possibly I +caught this somewhere on the boat without noting it +in my excitement; or it is even possible the current +<i>did</i> tear it off. There was nothing especially remarkable +about it in any case. All the same, Blackmore +and Andy always solemnly declared that the <i>geesly</i> +river, baulked by my buttons of its designs on the +contents of my pockets, had tried to get away with +my whole pair of pants! If that was so, it had its way +in the end. Before I set out on the second leg of my +voyage from the foot of the Arrow Lakes, I threw +the river god all that was left of that bedraggled pair +of <i>jodpurs</i> as a propitiatory offering.</p> + +<p>The deeper rumble of Death Rapids became audible +above the higher-keyed grind of Rock Slide as +we worked down toward the head of the intervening +eddy. Of all the cataracts and cascades with sinister +records on the Columbia this Dalles of the Dead has +undoubtedly been the one to draw to itself the +greatest share of execration. The terrific toll of lives +they have claimed is unquestionably traceable to the +fact that this swift, narrow chute of round-topped +rollers is many times worse than it looks, especially to +a comparatively inexperienced river man, and there +have been many such numbered among its victims. +There are two or three places in Surprise Rapids, and +one or two even in Kinbasket, that the veriest greenhorn +would know better than to try to run; Death +Rapids it is conceivable that a novice might try, just +as many of them have, and to their cost. However, it +is probable that the greatest number that have died +here were comparatively experienced men who were<span class="pagenum">[Pg 177]</span> +sucked into the death-chute in spite of themselves. +Of such was made up the party whose tragic fate +gave the rapid its sinister name. Ross Cox, of the +original Astorians, tells the story, and the account of +it I am setting down here is slightly abridged from his +original narrative.</p> + +<blockquote><p>On the sixteenth of April, 1817, Ross Cox’s party of +twenty-three left Fort George (originally and subsequently +Astoria) to ascend the Columbia and cross the Rockies by +the Athabaska Pass, en route Montreal. On the twenty-seventh +of May they arrived at Boat Encampment after the +most severe labours in dragging their boats up the rapids and +making their way along the rocky shores. Seven men of the +party were so weak, sick and worn out that they were unable +to proceed across the mountains, so they were given the +best of the canoes and provisions, and were to attempt to +return down river to Spokane House, a Hudson Bay post +near the mouth of the river of that name. They reached +the place which has since borne the name of <i>Dalles des Morts</i> +without trouble. There, in passing their canoe down over the +rapids with a light cod line, it was caught in a whirlpool. +The line snapped, and the canoe, with all the provisions and +blankets, was lost.</p> + +<p>The men found themselves utterly destitute, and at a +time of year when it was impossible to procure any wild +fruit or roots. The continual rising of the water completely +inundated the beach, which compelled them to force their +way through a dense forest, rendered almost impervious by a +thick growth of prickly underbrush. Their only nourishment +was water. On the third day a man named Macon died, and +his surviving comrades, though unconscious of how soon they +might be called on to follow him, divided his remains into equal +parts, on which they subsisted for several days. From the +<span class="pagenum">[Pg 178]</span>sore and swollen state of their feet, their daily progress did +not exceed two or three miles. A tailor named Holmes was +the next to die, and the others subsisted for some days on his +emaciated remains. In a little while, of the seven men, only +two remained alive—Dubois and La Pierre. La Pierre was +subsequently found on the upper Arrow Lake by two Indians +who were coasting it in a canoe. They took him to Kettle +Falls, from where he was carried to Spokane House.</p> + +<p>He stated that after the death of the fifth man of the +party, Dubois and he remained for some days at the spot, +living on the remains. When they felt strong enough to +continue, they loaded themselves with as much of the flesh +as they could carry; that with this they succeeded in reaching +the Upper Lake, around the shores of which they wandered +for some time in search of Indians; that their food at +length became exhausted, and they were again reduced to the +prospects of starvation. On the second night after their last +meal La Pierre observed something suspicious in the conduct +of Dubois, which induced him to be on his guard; and that +shortly after they had lain down for the night, and while +he feigned sleep, he observed Dubois cautiously opening his +clasp-knife, with which he sprang at La Pierre, inflicting on +the hand the blow evidently intended for the neck. A silent +and desperate conflict followed, in which, after severe struggling, +La Pierre succeeded in wresting the knife from his +antagonist, and, having no other resource left, was finally +obliged to cut Dubois’ throat. It was several days after +this that he was discovered by the Indians.</p></blockquote> + +<p>This was one of the earliest, and certainly the most +terrible, of all the tragedies originating at the <i>Dalles +des Morts</i>. There are a number of graves in the +vicinity, but more numerous still are the inscriptions<span class="pagenum">[Pg 179]</span> +on the cliffs in memory of the victims whose bodies +were never recovered for burial.</p> + +<p>Compared to what we had been having, lining down +Death Rapids was comparatively simple. It was only +when one got right down beside them that the terrible +power of the great rolling waves became evident. +From crest to trough they must have been from twelve +to fifteen feet high, with the water—on account of the +steep declivity and the lack of resistance from rocks—running +at race-horse speed. We had become so used +to expecting big boulders to underlie heavy waves that +it was difficult to realize that there was all of a hundred +feet of green water between these giant rollers +and the great reefs of bedrock which were responsible +for them.</p> + +<p>For a quarter of a mile below where the rolling +waves ceased to comb there was a green-white chaos +of whirlpools and the great geyser-like up-boils where +the sucked-down water was ejected again to the surface. +This was another of the places where the river +was said to “eat up” whole pine trees at high water, +and it was not hard to believe. Even now the voracious +vortices were wolfing very considerable pieces +of driftwood, and one had to keep a very sharp +lookout to see the spewed-forth fragments reappear +at all. This was no water for a small boat or canoe. +It would, for instance, have engulfed the sixteen-foot +skiff which I used on the lower river as an +elephant gulps a tossed peanut. But our big double-ended +thirty-footer was more of a mouthful. Blackmore +pushed off without hesitation as soon as we had<span class="pagenum">[Pg 180]</span> +lined below the rollers, but <i>not</i> without reiterating the +old warning about not dipping too deep, and being +quick about throwing the oar free from its oar-lock +if a whirlpool started to drag down the blade. We +had a lively five minutes of it, what with the whirlpools +trying to suck her stern under and the geysers +trying to toss her bow on high; but they never had us +in serious trouble. They did spin her all the way +round, though, in spite of all the three of us could do +to hold her, and as for our course—a chart of it would +make the track of an earthquake on a seismograph +look as if drawn with a straight-edge!</p> + +<p>Another mile took us to the head of Priest Rapids, +so named because two French-Canadian priests had +been drowned there. This was to be our great rapid-running +picture. Bad light had prevented our getting +anything of the kind in Surprise and Kinbasket +rapids, and “Twelve-Mile,” though white and fast, +was hardly the real thing. But Priest Rapids was +reputed the fastest on the whole river—certainly over +twenty miles an hour, Blackmore reckoned. It had +almost as much of a pitch as the upper part of the +first drop of Surprise Rapids down to the abrupt +fall. But, being straight as a city street and with +plenty of water over the rocks, running it was simply +a matter of having a large enough boat and being +willing to take the soaking. Blackmore had the boat, +and, for the sake of a real rip-snorting picture, he +said he was willing to take the soaking. So were +Andy and I.</p> + +<p><a id="page180" name="page180"></a></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 448px;"> +<img src="images/illo_236.jpg" width="448" height="600" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">LOOKING ACROSS TO BOAT ENCAMPMENT (<i>above</i>)<br /> +“WOOD SMOKE AT TWILIGHT” ABOVE TWELVE-MILE (<i>below</i>)</span> +</div> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p><a id="page181" name="page181"></a></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 464px;"> +<img src="images/illo_237.jpg" width="464" height="600" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">LINING DOWN ROCK SLIDE RAPIDS (<i>above</i>)<br /> +WHEN THE COLUMBIA TOOK HALF OF MY RIDING +BREECHES (<i>below</i>)</span> +</div> + +<p>We dropped Roos at the head of the rumbling +“intake,” and while Andy went down to help him set +<span class="pagenum">[Pg 181]</span>up in a favourable position, Blackmore and I lined +back up-stream a hundred yards so as to have a good +jump on when we started. Andy joined us presently, +to report that Roos appraised the “back-lighting” +effect across the white caps as “cheap at a million +dollars.” He was going to make the shot of his life. +Pushing off we laid on our oars, floating down until +we caught Roos’ signal to come on. Then Andy and +I swung into it with all of the something like four +hundred and fifty pounds of beef we scaled between +us. Blackmore headed her straight down the “V” +into the swiftest and roughest part of the rapid. It +was a bit less tempestuous toward the right bank, but +a quiet passage was not what he was looking for this +trip.</p> + +<p>The boat must have had half her length out of +water when she hurdled off the top of that first wave. +I couldn’t see, of course, but I judged it must have +been that way from the manner in which she slapped +down and buried her nose under the next comber. +That brought over the water in a solid green flood. +Andy and I only caught it on our hunched backs, but +Blackmore, on his feet and facing forward, had to +withstand a full frontal attack. My one recollection +of him during that mad run is that of a freshly +emerged Neptune shaking his grizzly locks and trying +to blink the water out of his eyes.</p> + +<p>Our team-work, as usual, went to sixes-and-sevens +the moment we hit the rough water, but neither Andy +nor I stopped pulling on that account. Yelling like +a couple of <i>locoed</i> Apaches, we kept slapping out with +our oar-blades into every hump of water within reach,<span class="pagenum">[Pg 182]</span> +and I have an idea that we managed to keep a considerable +way even over the speeding current right +to the finish. It was quite the wettest river run I +ever made. A number of times during the war I was +in a destroyer when something turned up to send it +driving with all the speed it had—or all its plates +would stand, rather—into a head sea. That meant +that it made most of the run tunnelling under water. +And that was the way it seemed going down Priest +Rapids, only not so bad, of course. We were only +about a quarter full of water when we finally pulled +up to the bank in an eddy to wait for the movie +man.</p> + +<p>I could see that something had upset Roos by the +droop of his shoulders, even when he was a long way +off; the droop of his mouth confirmed the first impression +on closer view. “You couldn’t do that again, +could you?” he asked Blackmore, with a furtive look +in his eyes. The “Skipper” stopped bailing with a +snort. “Sure I’ll do it again,” he growled sarcastically. +“Just line the boat back where she was and +I’ll bring her down again—only not to-night. I’ll +want to get dried out first. But what’s the matter +anyhow? Didn’t we run fast enough to suit you?”</p> + +<p>“Guess <i>you</i> ran fast enough,” was the reply; “but +the film didn’t. Buckled in camera. Oil-can! Washout! +Out of luck!” Engulfed in a deep purple aura +of gloom, Roos climbed back into the boat and asked +how far it was to camp and dinner.</p> + +<p>For a couple of miles we had a fast current with +us, but by the time we reached the mouth of Downie +Creek—the centre of a great gold rush half a century<span class="pagenum">[Pg 183]</span> +ago—the river was broadening and deepening and +slowing down. A half hour more of sharp pulling +brought us to Keystone Creek and Boyd’s Ranch, +where we tied up for the night. This place had the +distinction of being the only ranch on the Big Bend, +but it was really little more than a clearing with a +house and barn. Boyd had given his name to a rapid +at the head of Revelstoke Canyon—drowned while +trying to line by at high water, Blackmore said—and +the present owner was an American Civil War Pensioner +named Wilcox. He was wintering in California +for his health, but Andy, being a friend of his, +knew where to look for the key. Hardly had the +frying bacon started its sizzling prelude than there +came a joyous yowl at the door, and as it was opened +an enormous tiger-striped tomcat bounded into the +kitchen. Straight for Andy’s shoulder he leaped, and +the trapper’s happy howl of recognition must have +met him somewhere in the air. Andy hugged the +ecstatically purring bundle to his breast as if it were +a long-lost child, telling us between nuzzles into the +arched furry back that this was “Tommy” (that was +his name, of course), with whom he had spent two +winters alone in his trapper’s cabin. It was hard to +tell which was the more delighted over this unexpected +reunion, man or cat.</p> + +<p>He had little difficulty in accounting for “Tommy’s” +presence at Boyd’s. He had given the cat to +Wilcox a season or two back, and Wilcox, when he +left for California, had given him to “Wild Bill,” +who had a cabin ten miles farther down the river. +“Bill” already had a brother of “Tommy,” but a cat<span class="pagenum">[Pg 184]</span> +of much less character. As “Bill” was much given +to periodic sprees, Andy was satisfied that “Tommy,” +who was a great sizer-up of personality, had left him +in disgust and returned to his former deserted home to +shift for himself. As he would pull down rabbits as +readily as an ordinary cat caught mice, this was an +easy matter as long as the snow did not get too deep. +Of what might happen after that Andy did not like to +think. He would have to make some provision for his +pet before full winter set in.</p> + +<p>That evening we sat around the kitchen fire, telling +all the cat stories we knew and quarrelling over whose +turn it was to hold “Tommy” and put him through +his tricks. The latter were of considerable variety. +There was all the usual “sit-up,” “jump-through” +and “roll-over” stuff, but with such “variations” as +only a trapper, snow-bound for days with nothing +else to do, would have the time to conceive and perfect. +For instance, if you only waved your hand in +an airy spiral, “Tommy” would respond with no more +than the conventional “once-over;” but a gentle tweak +of the tail following the spiral, brought a roll to the +left, while two tweaks directed him to the right. +Similarly with his “front” and “back” somersaults, +which took their inspiration from a slightly modified +form of aerial spiral. Of course only Andy could get +the fine work out of him, but the ordinary “jump-through” +stuff he would do for any of us.</p> + +<p>I am afraid the cat stories we told awakened, temporarily +at least, a good deal of mutual distrust. Roos +didn’t figure greatly, but Andy and Blackmore and +I were glowering back and forth at each other with<span class="pagenum">[Pg 185]</span> +“I-suppose-you-don’t-believe-<i>that</i>” expressions all +evening. The two woodsmen, “hunting in couples” +for the occasion, displayed considerable team-work. +One of their best was of a trapper of their acquaintance—name +and present address mentioned with +scrupulous particularity—who had broken his leg one +winter on Maloney Creek, just as he was at the end +of his provisions. Dragging himself to his cabin, he +lay down to die of starvation. The next morning his +cat jumped in through the window with a rabbit in his +mouth. Then the trapper had his great idea. Leaving +the cat just enough to keep him alive, he took +the rest for himself. That made the cat go on hunting, +and each morning he came back with a rabbit. +And so it went on until springtime brought in his +partner and relief. I asked them why, if the cat was +so hungry, he didn’t eat the rabbit up in the woods; +but they said that wasn’t the way of a cat, or at least +of this particular cat.</p> + +<p>Then I told them of a night, not long before the +war, that I spent with the German archæologists excavating +at Babylon. Hearing a scratching on my +door, I got up and found a tabby cat there. Entering +the room, she nosed about under my mosquito netting +for a few moments with ingratiating mewings +and purrings, finally to trot out through the open +door with an “I’ll-see-you-again-in-a-moment” air. +Presently she returned with a new-born kitten in her +mouth. Nuzzling under the net and coverlets, she +deposited the mewing atom in my bed, and then trotted +off after another. When the whole litter of five +was there, she crawled in herself and started nursing<span class="pagenum">[Pg 186]</span> +them. I spent the night on the couch, and without +a net.</p> + +<p>According to the best of my judgment, that story +of mine was the only true one told that night. And +yet—confound them—they wouldn’t believe it—any +more than I would theirs!</p> + +<p>Considerable feeling arose along toward bed-time +as to who was going to have “Tommy” to sleep with. +Roos—who hadn’t cut much ice in the story-telling—came +strong at this juncture by adopting cave-man +tactics and simply picking “Tommy” up and walking +off with him. Waiting until Roos was asleep, I crept +over and, gently extricating the furry pillow from +under his downy cheek, carried it off to snuggle +against my own ear. Whether Andy adopted the +same Sabine methods himself, I never quite made +sure. Anyhow, it was out of his blankets that +“Tommy” came crawling in the morning.</p> + +<p>As we made ready to pack off, Andy was in considerable +doubt as to whether it would be best to +leave his pet where he was or to take him down to +“Wild Bill” again. “Tommy” cut the Gordian Knot +himself by following us down to the boat like a dog +and leaping aboard. He was horribly upset for a +while when he saw the bank slide away from him and +felt the motion of the boat, but Roos, muffling the dismal +yowls under his coat, kept him fairly quiet until +“Wild Bill’s” landing was reached. Here he became +his old self again, following us with his quick little +canine trot up to the cabin. Outside the door he met +his twin brother, and the two, after a swift sniff of<span class="pagenum">[Pg 187]</span> +identification, slipped away across the clearing to +stalk rabbits.</p> + +<p>“Wild Bill,” as Andy had anticipated, was still in +bed, but got up and welcomed us warmly as soon as +he found who it was. He was a small man—much +to my surprise, and looked more like a French-Canadian +gentleman in reduced circumstances than the +most tumultuous booze-fighter on the upper Columbia. +I had heard scores of stories of his escapades in +the days when Golden and Revelstoke were wide-open +frontier towns and life was really worth living. +But most of them just miss being “drawing-room,” +however, and I refrain from setting them down. +There was one comparatively polite one, though, of +the time he started the biggest free-for-all fight Revelstoke +ever knew by using the white, woolly, cheek-cuddling +poodle of a dance-hall girl to wipe the mud +off his boots with. And another—but no, that one +wouldn’t quite pass censor.</p> + +<p>“Bill” had shot a number of bear in the spring, +and now asked Andy to take the unusually fine skins +to Revelstoke and sell them for him. He also asked +if we could let him have any spare provisions, as he +was running very short. He was jubilant when I +told him he could take everything we had left for +what it had cost in Golden. That was like finding +money, he said, for packing in his stuff cost him close +to ten cents a pound. But it wasn’t the few dollars +he saved on the grub that etched a silver—nay, a roseate—lining +on the sodden rain clouds for “Wild +Bill” that day; rather it was the sequel to the conse<span class="pagenum">[Pg 188]</span>quences +of a kindly thought I had when he came down +to the boat to see us off.</p> + +<p>“‘Bill,’” I said, as he started to wring our hands +in parting, “they tell me you’ve become a comparative +teetotaler these last few years. But we have a little +‘thirty per over-proof’ left—just a swallow. Perhaps—for +the sake of the old days....”</p> + +<p>That quick, chesty cough, rumbling right from the +diaphragm, was the one deepest sound of emotion I +ever heard—and I’ve heard a fair amount of “emoting,” +too. “Don’t mind—if I do,” he mumbled +brokenly, with a long intake of breath that was almost +a sob. I handed him a mug—a hulking big +half-pint coffee mug, it was—and uncorked the bottle. +“Say when....”</p> + +<p>“Thanks—won’t trouble you,” he muttered, +snatching the bottle from me with a hand whose fingers +crooked like claws. Then he inhaled another +deep breath, took out his handkerchief, brushed off a +place on one of the thwarts, sat down, and, pouring +very deliberately, emptied the contents of the bottle +to the last drop into the big mug. The bottle—a +British Imperial quart—had been a little less than a +quarter full; the mug was just short of brimming. +“Earzow!” he mumbled, with a sweepingly comprehensive +gesture with the mug. Then, crooking his +elbow, he dumped the whole half pint down his throat. +Diluted four-to-one, that liquid fire would have made +an ordinary man wince; and “Wild Bill” downed it +without a blink. Then he wiped his lips with his +sleeve, set mug and bottle carefully down on the +thwart, bowed low to each of us, and stepped ashore<span class="pagenum">[Pg 189]</span> +with dignified tread. Blackmore, checking Roos’ +hysterical giggle with a prod of his paddle handle, +pushed off into the current. “Wait!” he admonished, +eyeing the still figure on the bank with the fascinated +glance of a man watching a short length of fuse sputter +down toward the end of a stick of dynamite.</p> + +<p>We had not long to wait. The detonation of the +dynamite was almost instantaneous. The mounting +fumes of that “thirty per” fired the slumbering volcano +of the old trapper as a dash of kerosene fires a +bed of dormant coals. And so “Wild Bill” went wild. +Dancing and whooping like an Indian, he shouted +for us to come back—that he would give us his furs, +his cabin, the Columbia, the Selkirks, Canada.... +What he was going to offer next we never learned, +for just then a very sobering thing occurred—“Tommy” +and his twin brother, attracted by the +noise, came trotting down the path from the cabin to +learn what it was all about.</p> + +<p>Andy swore that he had told “Bill” that we had +brought “Tommy” back, and that “Bill” had heard +him, and replied that he hoped the cat would stay this +time. But even if this was true, it no longer signified. +“Bill” had forgotten all about it, and <i>knew</i> that there +ought to be only one tiger-striped tomcat about the +place, whereas his eyes told him there were two. So +he kept counting them, and stopping every now and +then to hold up two fingers at us in pathetic puzzlement. +Finally he began to chase them—or rather +“it”—now one of “it” and now the other. The last +we saw of him, as the current swept the boat round +a point, he had caught “Tommy’s” twin brother and<span class="pagenum">[Pg 190]</span> +was still trying to enumerate “Tommy.” Very likely +by that time there were two of him in fancy as well +as in fact—possibly mauve and pink ones.</p> + +<p>Blackmore took a last whiff at the neck of the rum +bottle and then tossed it gloomily into the river. +“The next time you ask a man to take a ‘swallow,’” he +said, “probably you’ll know enough to find out how +big his ‘swallow’ is in advance.”</p> + +<p>We pulled hard against a head wind all morning, +and with not much help from the current. The latter +began to speed up at Rocky Point Rapids, and from +there the going was lively right on through Revelstoke +Canyon. Sand Slide Rapid, a fast-rolling serpentine +cascade near the head of the Canyon, gave us +a good wetting as Blackmore slashed down the middle +of it, and he was still bailing when we ran in between +the sides of the great red-and-black-walled gorge. +Between cliffs not over a hundred feet apart for a +considerable distance, the river rushes with great velocity, +throwing itself in a roaring wave now against +one side, now against the other. As the depth is very +great (Blackmore said he had failed to get bottom +with a hundred-and-fifty-foot line), the only things to +watch out for were the cliffs and the whirlpools. +Neither was a serious menace to a boat of our size +at that stage of water, but the swirls would have made +the run very dangerous for a skiff or canoe at any +time. Unfortunately, the drizzling rain and lowering +clouds made pictures of what is one of the very finest +scenic stretches of the Big Bend quite out of the question. +If it had been the matter of a day or two, we +would gladly have gone into camp and waited for the<span class="pagenum">[Pg 191]</span> +light; but Blackmore was inclined to think the spell +of bad weather that had now set in was the beginning +of an early winter, in which event we might stand-by +for weeks without seeing the sky. It was just as +well we did not wait. As I have already mentioned, +we did not feel the touch of sunlight again until we +were on the American side of the border.</p> + +<p>From the foot of the Canyon to Blackmore’s boat-house +was four miles. Pulling down a broadening and +slackening river flanked by ever receding mountains, +we passed under the big C. P. R. bridge and tied up at +four o’clock. In spite of taking it easy all the time, +the last twenty miles had been run in quite a bit under +two hours.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page192" name="page192">[Pg 192]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER IX<br /> +<br /> +REVELSTOKE TO THE SPOKANE</h2> + +<p>The voyage round the Big Bend, in spite of the +atrocious weather, had gone so well that I had just +about made up my mind to continue on down river +by the time we reached Revelstoke. A letter which +awaited me at the hotel there from Captain Armstrong, +stating that he would be free to join me for +my first week or ten days south from the foot of the +lakes, was all that was needed to bring me to a decision. +I wired him that I would pick him up in Nelson +as soon as I had cleaned up a pile of correspondence +which had pursued me in spite of all directions +to the contrary, and in the meantime for him to endeavour +to find a suitable boat. Nelson, as the metropolis +of western British Columbia, appeared to be +the only place where we would have a chance of finding +what was needed in the boat line on short notice. +While I wrote letters, Roos got his exposed film off +to Los Angeles, laid in a new stock, and received +additional instructions from Chester in connection +with the new picture—the one for which the opening +shots had already been made at Windermere, and +which we called “The Farmer Who Would See the +Sea.”</p> + +<p>As there was no swift water whatever between Revelstoke +and Kootenay Rapids, I had no hesitation in<span class="pagenum">[Pg 193]</span> +deciding to make the voyage down the Arrow Lakes +by steamer. Both on the score of water-stage and +weather, it was now a good month to six weeks later +than the most favourable time for a through down-river +voyage. Any time saved now, therefore, might +be the means of avoiding so many days of winter further +along. I was hoping that, with decreasing altitude +and a less humid region ahead, I would at least +be keeping ahead of the snows nearly if not quite all +the way to Portland. I may mention here that, all +in all, I played in very good luck on the score of +weather. There were to be, however, a few <i>geesly</i> +cold days on the river along about Wenatchee, and +two or three mighty blustery blows in the Cascades.</p> + +<p>The Arrow Lakes are merely enlargements of the +Columbia, keeping throughout their lengths the same +general north-to-south direction of this part of the +river. The upper lake is thirty-three miles in length, +and has an average width of about three miles. Sixteen +miles of comparatively swift river runs from the +upper to the lower lake. The latter, which is forty-two +miles long and two and a half wide, is somewhat +less precipitously walled than the upper lake, and +there are considerable patches of cultivation here and +there along its banks—mostly apple orchards. There +is a steamer channel all the way up the Columbia to +Revelstoke, but the present service, maintained by +the Canadian Pacific at its usual high standard, starts +at the head of the upper lake and finishes at West +Robson, some miles down the Columbia from the foot +of the lower lake. This is one of the very finest lake +trips anywhere in the world; I found it an unending<span class="pagenum">[Pg 194]</span> +source of delight, even after a fortnight of the superlative +scenery of the Big Bend.</p> + +<p>There is a stock story they tell of the Arrow Lakes, +and which appears intended to convey to the simple +tourist a graphic idea of the precipitousness of their +rocky walls. The skipper of my steamer told it while +we were ploughing down the upper lake. Seeing a +man struggling in the water near the bank one day, +he ran some distance off his course to throw the chap +a line. Disdaining all aid, the fellow kept right on +swimming toward the shore. “Don’t worry about +me,” he shouted back; “this is only the third time +I’ve fallen off my ranch to-day.”</p> + +<p>I told the Captain that the story sounded all right +to me except in one particular—that even my glass +failed to reveal any ranches for a man to fall off of. +“Oh, that’s all right,” was the unperturbed reply; +“there <i>was</i> one when that yarn was started, but I +guess it fell into the lake too. But mebbe I <i>had</i> ought +to keep it for the lower lake, though,” he added; +“there is still some un-slid ranches down there.”</p> + +<p>Nelson is a fine little city that hangs to a rocky +mountainside right at the point where Kootenay Lake +spills over and discharges its surplus water into a +wild, white torrent that seems to be trying to atone +at the last for its long delay in making up its mind +to join the Columbia. Nelson was made by the rich +silver-lead mines of the Kootenay district, but it was +so well made that, even now with the first fine frenzy +of the mining excitement over, it is still able to carry +on strongly as a commercial distributing and fruit +shipping centre. It is peopled by the same fine, out-<span class="pagenum">[Pg 195]</span>door +loving folk that one finds through all of western +Canada, and is especially noted for its aquatic sports. +I am only sorry that I was not able to see more of +both Nelson and its people.</p> + +<p>As soon as I saw Captain Armstrong I made a +clean breast to him about my failure to unearth the +treasure at the Bend. He was a good sport and bore +up better than one would expect a man to under the +circumstances. “I wish that matter of K—— and +his D. T.’s had come up before you left,” was his only +comment.</p> + +<p>“Why?” I asked. “I can’t see what difference that +would have made. We didn’t waste a lot of time +digging.”</p> + +<p>“That’s just it,” said the Captain with a wry grin. +“Wouldn’t you have gone right on digging if you +had known that the spell of jim-jams that finished +K—— came from some stuff he got from a section-hand +at Beavermouth? Now I suppose I’ll have to +watch my chance and run down and salvage that keg +of old Scotch myself.” It shows the stuff that Armstrong +was made of when I say that, even after the +way I had betrayed the trust he had reposed in me, +he was still game to go on with the Columbia trip. +That’s the sort of man he was.</p> + +<p>Boats of anywhere near the design we would need +for the river were scarce, the Captain reported, but +there was one which he thought might do. This +proved to be a sixteen-foot, clinker-built skiff that had +been constructed especially to carry an out-board +motor. She had ample beam, a fair freeboard and a +considerable sheer. The principal thing against her<span class="pagenum">[Pg 196]</span> +was the square stern, and that was of less moment +running down river than if we had been working up. +It <i>did</i> seem just a bit like asking for trouble, tackling +the Columbia in a boat built entirely for lake use; +but Captain Armstrong’s approval of her was quite +good enough for me. Save for her amiable weakness +of yielding somewhat overreadily to the seductive embraces +of whirlpools—a trait common to all square-sterned +craft of inconsiderable length—she proved +more than equal to the task set for her. We paid +fifty-five dollars for her—about half what she had +cost—and there was a charge of ten dollars for expressing +her to West Robson, on the Columbia.</p> + +<p>We left Nelson by train for Castlegar, on the Columbia +just below West Robson, the afternoon of +October nineteenth. The track runs in sight of the +Kootenay practically all of the way. There is a drop +of three hundred and fifty feet in the twenty-eight +miles of river between the outlet of the lake and the +Columbia, with no considerable stretch that it would +be safe to run with a boat. A large part of the drop +occurs in two fine cataracts called Bonnington Falls, +where there is an important hydro-electric plant, serving +Nelson and Trail with power; but most of the +rest of the way the river is one continuous series of +foam-white cascades with short quiet stretches between. +The last two or three miles to the river the +railway runs through the remarkable colony of Russian +Doukobours, with a station at Brilliant, where +their big co-operative jam factory and administrative +offices are located. We had a more intimate glimpse<span class="pagenum">[Pg 197]</span> +of this interesting colony from the river the following +day.</p> + +<p>We found the express car with the boat on the siding +at West Robson, and the three of us—Armstrong, +Roos and myself—had little difficulty in sliding +her down the quay and launching her in the Columbia. +Pulling a mile down the quiet current, we +tied her up for the night at the Castlegar Ferry. +Then we cut across the bend through the woods for a +look at Kootenay Rapids, the first stretch of fast +water we were to encounter. After the rough-and-rowdy +rapids of the Big Bend, this quarter-mile of +white riffle looked like comparatively easy running. +It was a very different sort of a craft we had now, +however, and Armstrong took the occasion to give the +channel a careful study. There were a lot of big black +rocks cropping up all the way across, but he thought +that, by keeping well in toward the right bank, we +could make it without much trouble.</p> + +<p>On the way back to the hotel at Castlegar, the +Captain was hailed from the doorway of a cabin set +in the midst of a fresh bit of clearing. It turned out +to be a boatman who had accompanied him and Mr. +Forde, of the Canadian Department of Public +Works, on a part of their voyage down the Columbia +in 1915. They reminisced for half an hour in the +gathering twilight, talking mostly of the occasion +when a whirlpool had stood their Peterboro on end +in the Little Dalles. I found this just a bit disturbing, +for Armstrong had already confided to me that +he intended running the Little Dalles.<span class="pagenum">[Pg 198]</span></p> + +<p>The boat trimmed well when we came to stow the +load the next morning, but when the three of us took +our places she was rather lower in the water than we +had expected she was going to be. She seemed very +small after Blackmore’s big thirty-footer, and the +water uncomfortably close at hand. She was buoyant +enough out in the current, however, and responded +very smartly to paddle and oars when Armstrong and +I tried a few practice manœuvres. The Captain sat +on his bedding roll in the stern, plying his long paddle, +and I pulled a pair of oars from the forward +thwart. Roos sat on the after thwart, facing Armstrong, +with his tripod, camera and most of the luggage +stowed between them. She was loaded to ride +high by the head, as it was white water rather than +whirlpools that was in immediate prospect. With a +small boat and a consequent comparatively small +margin of safety, one has to make his trim a sort of a +compromise. For rough, sloppy rapids it is well to +have the bows just about as high in the air as you can +get them. On the other hand, it is likely to be fatal +to get into a bad whirlpool with her too much down +by the stern. As the one succeeds the other as a general +rule, about the best you can do is to strike a comfortable +mean based on what you know of the water +ahead.</p> + +<p><a id="page198" name="page198"></a></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 448px;"> +<img src="images/illo_256.jpg" width="448" height="600" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">BONNINGTON FALLS OF THE KOOTENAY (<i>above</i>)<br /> +PLASTERED LOG CABIN IN THE DOUKHOBOR VILLAGE (<i>below</i>)</span> +</div> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p><a id="page199" name="page199"></a></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> +<img src="images/illo_257.jpg" width="600" height="465" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">TRUCKING THE SKIFF THROUGH KETTLE FALLS (<i>left</i>)<br /> +TWILIGHT IN THE GORGE AT KETTLE FALLS (<i>right</i>)</span> +</div> + +<p>I found it very awkward for a while pulling with +two oars after having worked for so long with one, +and this difficulty—especially in bad water—I never +quite overcame. In a really rough rapid one oar is +all a man can handle properly, and he does well if he +manages that. Your stroke is largely determined by +<span class="pagenum">[Pg 199]</span>the sort of stuff the blade is going into, and—as on +the verge of an eddy—with the water to port running +in one direction, and that to starboard running +another, it is obviously impossible for a man handling +two oars to do full justice to the situation. He simply +has to do the best he can and leave the rest to the +man with the paddle in the stern. When the latter +is an expert with the experience of Captain Armstrong +there is little likelihood of serious trouble.</p> + +<p>The matter of keeping a lookout is also much more +difficult in a small boat. In a craft with only a few +inches of freeboard it is obviously out of the question +for a steersman to keep his feet through a rapid, as +he may do without risk in a <i>batteau</i> or canoe large +enough to give him a chance to brace his knees against +the sides. Armstrong effected the best compromise +possible by standing and getting a good “look-see” +while he could, and then settling back into a securer +position when the boat struck the rough water. The +three or four feet less of vantage from which to con +the channel imposes a good deal of a handicap, but +there is no help for it.</p> + +<p>We ran both pitches of Kootenay Rapids easily +and smartly. Her bows slapped down pretty hard +when she tumbled off the tops of some of the bigger +rollers, but into not the softest of the souse-holes +would she put her high-held head. We took in plenty +of spray, but nothing green—nothing that couldn’t +be bailed without stopping. It was a lot better performance +than one was entitled to expect of a lake +boat running her maiden rapid.</p> + +<p>“She’ll do!” chuckled the Captain with a satisfied<span class="pagenum">[Pg 200]</span> +grin, resting on his paddle as we slid easily out of the +final run of swirls; “you ought to take her right +through without a lot of trouble.” “<i>Imshallah!</i>” I +interjected piously, anxious not to offend the River +God with a display of overmuch confidence. I began +to call her “<i>Imshallah</i>” in my mind from that time on, +and “<i>Imshallah</i>”—“God willing”—she remained +until I tied her up for her well-earned rest in a Portland +boat-house. It was in the course of the next day +or two that I made a propitiatory offering to the +River God in the form of the remnants of the <i>jodpurs</i> +he had tried so hard to snatch from me at Rock Slide +Rapids. I’ve always had a sneaking feeling offerings +of that kind are “good medicine;” that the old Greeks +knew what they were doing when they squared things +with the Gods in advance on venturing forth into unknown +waters.</p> + +<p>Big and Little Tin Cup Rapids, which are due to +the obstruction caused by boulders washed down by +the torrential Kootenay River, gave us little trouble. +There is a channel of good depth right down the middle +of both, and we splashed through this without +getting into much besides flying foam. Just below +we pulled up to the left bank and landed for a look at +one of the Doukobour villages.</p> + +<p>The Doukobours are a strange Russian religious +sect, with beliefs and observances quite at variance +with those of the Greek Church. Indeed, it was the +persecutions of the Orthodox Russians that were responsible +for driving considerable numbers of them to +Canada. They are best known in America, not for +their indefatigable industry and many other good<span class="pagenum">[Pg 201]</span> +traits, but for their highly original form of protesting +when they have fancied that certain of their rights +were being restricted by Canadian law. On repeated +occasions of this kind whole colonies of them—men, +women and children—have thrown aside their every +rag of clothing and started off marching about the +country. Perhaps it is not strange that more has +been written about these strange pilgrimages than of +the fact that the Doukobours have cleared and +brought to a high state of productivity many square +miles of land that, but for their unflagging energy, +would still be worthless. In spite of their somewhat +unconventional habits, these simple people have been +an incalculably valuable economic asset to western +Canada.</p> + +<p>On the off chance that there might be an incipient +“protest” brewing, Roos took his movie outfit ashore +with him. He met with no luck. Indeed, we found +the women of the astonishingly clean little village of +plastered and whitewashed cabins extremely shy of +even our hand cameras. The Captain thought that +this was probably due to the fact that they had been +a good deal pestered by kodak fiends while Godivaing +round the country on some of their protest +marches. “The people were very indignant about it,” +he said; “but I never heard of any one pulling +down their blinds.” Coventry was really very “Victorian” +in its attitude toward Lady Godiva’s “protest.”</p> + +<p>There was good swift water all the way from Castlegar +to Trail, and we averaged close to nine miles an +hour during the time we were on the river. At China<span class="pagenum">[Pg 202]</span> +Bar the river was a good deal spread out, running in +channels between low gravel islands. Any one of +these was runnable for a small boat, and we did not +need to keep to the main channel that had once been +maintained for steamers. Sixteen miles below Castlegar, +and about half a mile below the mouth of Sullivan +Creek, there was a long black reef of basaltic +rock stretching a third of the way across the river. +We shot past it without difficulty by keeping near the +left bank. The sulphurous fumes of the big smelter +blotching the southern sky with saffron and coppery +red clouds indicated that we were nearing Trail. The +stacks, with the town below and beyond, came into +view just as we hit the head of a fast-running riffle. +We ran the last half mile at a swift clip, pulling up +into about the only place that looked like an eddy on +the Trail side of the river. That this proved to be the +slack water behind the crumbling city dump could not +be helped. He who rides the running road cannot be +too particular about his landing places.</p> + +<p>We reached Trail before noon, and, so far as time +was concerned, could just as well have run right on +across the American line to Northport that afternoon. +However, October twenty-first turned out to be a +date of considerable importance to British Columbians, +for it was the day of the election to determine +whether that province should continue dry or, as the +proponents of wetness euphemized it, return to +“moderation.” As there was a special provision by +which voters absent from their place of registration +could cast their ballots wherever they chanced to be, +Captain Armstrong was anxious to stop over and do<span class="pagenum">[Pg 203]</span> +his bit for “moderation.” Indeed, I was a bit worried +at first for fear, by way of compensating in a measure +for the injury we had done him in failing to come +through with the treasure from the Big Bend, he +would expect Roos and me to put in a few absentee +ballots for “moderation.” There was a rumour about +that a vote for “moderation” would be later redeemable—in +case “moderation” carried, of course—in the +voter’s weight of the old familiar juice. I never got +further than a pencilled computation on the “temperance” +bar of the Crown Point Hotel that two hundred +and thirty-five pounds (I was down to that by now) +would work out to something like one hundred seventeen +and a half quarts. This on the rule that “A +pint’s a pound, the world round.” That was as far +as I got, I say, for there seemed rather too much of a +chance of international complications sooner or later. +But I am still wondering just what <i>is</i> the law covering +the case of a man who sells his vote in a foreign +country—and for his weight in whisky that he would +probably never have delivered to him. I doubt very +much if there is any precedent to go by.</p> + +<p>Between votes—or rather before Captain Armstrong +voted—we took the occasion to go over the +smelter of the Consolidated Mining and Smelting +Company. It is one of the most modern plants of its +kind in the world, and treats ore from all over western +Canada. We were greatly interested in the recently +installed zinc-leaching plant for the handling of an +especially refractory ore from the company’s own +mine in the Kootenays. This ore had resisted for +years every attempt to extract its zinc at a profit,<span class="pagenum">[Pg 204]</span> +and the perfection of the intricate process through +which it is now put at Trail has made a mine, which +would otherwise have remained practically valueless, +worth untold millions. The two thousand and more +employés of the smelter are the main factor in the +prosperity of this live and by no means unattractive +little town.</p> + +<p>We had two very emphatic warnings before leaving +Trail the next morning—one was on no account to +attempt to take any drinkables across the line by the +river, and the other was to keep a weather eye lifting +in running the rapids at the Rock Islands, two miles +below town. As we reached the latter before we did +the International Boundary Line, we started ’wareing +the rapids first. This was by no means as empty +a warning as many I was to have later. The islands +proved to be two enormous granite rocks, between +which the river rushed with great velocity. The Captain +headed the boat into the deep, swift channel to +the right, avoiding by a couple of yards a walloping +whale of a whirlpool that came spinning right past +the bow. I didn’t see it, of course, until it passed +astern; but it looked to me then as though its whirling +centre was depressed a good three feet below the +surface of the river, and with a black, bottomless funnel +opening out of that. I was just about to register +“nonchalance” by getting off my “all-day-sucker” +joke, when I suddenly felt the thwart beneath me +begin to push upwards like the floor of a jerkily-started +elevator, only with a rotary action. Fanning +empty air with both oars, I was saved from falling +backwards by the forty-five degree up-tilt of the boat.<span class="pagenum">[Pg 205]</span> +Way beneath me—down below the surface of the river—Armstrong, +pop-eyed, was leaning sharply forward +to keep from being dumped out over the stern. +Roos, with a death-grip on either gunwale, was trying +to keep from falling into the Captain’s lap. Round +we went like a prancing horse, and just as the boat +had completed the hundred and eighty degrees that +headed her momentarily up-river, something seemed +to drop away beneath her bottom, and as she sunk +into the hole there came a great snorting “ku-whouf!” +and about a barrel of water came pouring its solid +green flood over the stern and, incidentally, the Captain. +A couple of seconds later the boat had completed +her round and settled back on a comparatively +even keel as hard-plied oars and paddle wrenched +her out of the grip of the Thing that had held her in +its clutch. I saw it plainly as it did its dervish dance +of disappointment as we drew away. It looked to +me not over half as large as that first one which the +Captain had so cleverly avoided.</p> + +<p>“That was about the way we got caught in the +Little Dalles,” observed Armstrong when we were in +quieter water again. “Only it was a worse whirlpool +than that one that did it. This square stern gives the +water more of a grip than it can get on a canoe. We’ll +have to watch out for it.”</p> + +<p>Save over a broad, shallow bar across the current at +the mouth of the Salmon, there was deep, swift water +all the way to Waneta, the Canadian Customs station. +Here we landed Roos to await the morning +train from Nelson to Spokane and go through to +Northport to arrange the American Customs formal<span class="pagenum">[Pg 206]</span>ities. +At a final conference we decided to heed the +warning about not attempting to carry any drinkables +openly into the United States. Stowing what little +there was left where not the most lynx-eyed or ferret-nosed +Customs Officer could ever get at it, we pushed +off.</p> + +<p>There is a fairly fast current all the way to Northport, +but from the fact that we made the eleven miles +in about three-quarters of an hour, it seems likely +that, between paddle and oars, the boat was driven +somewhat faster than the Columbia. Just below +Waneta and immediately above the International +Boundary Line, the Pend d’Oreille or Clark’s Fork +flows, or rather falls into the Columbia. This really +magnificent stream comes tumbling down a sheer-walled +gorge in fall after fall, several of which can +be seen in narrowing perspective from the Columbia +itself. Its final leap is over a ten-feet-high ledge +which extends all the way across its two-hundred-feet-wide +mouth. Above this fine cataract it is the Pend +d’Oreille, below it, the Columbia. I know of no place +where two such rivers come together with such fine +spectacular effect, in a way so fitting to the character +of each.</p> + +<p>The Pend d’Oreille is generally rated as the principal +tributary of the upper Columbia. Although the +Kootenay—because it flows through a region of considerably +greater annual rainfall—carries rather the +more water of the two, the Pend d’Oreille is longer +and drains a far more extensive watershed—that lying +between the main chain of the Rockies and the Bitter +Root and Cœur d’Alene ranges. Great as is the<span class="pagenum">[Pg 207]</span> +combined discharge of these two fine rivers, their +effect on the Columbia is not apparent to the eye. If +anything, the latter looks a bigger stream where it +flows out of the lower Arrow Lake, above the Kootenay, +than it does where it crosses the American Line +below the Pend d’Oreille. As a matter of fact, its +flow must be nearly doubled at the latter point, but +the swifter current reduces its apparent volume. +Nothing but the most careful computations, based +on speed of current and area of cross-section, will give +anything approximating the real discharge of a river.</p> + +<p>I was a good deal interested in the Pend d’Oreille, +because it was on one of its upper tributaries, the +Flathead in Montana, that I had made my first timid +effort at rapid-running a good many years previously. +It hadn’t been a brilliant success—for two logs tied +together with ropes hardly make the ideal of a raft; +but the glamour of the hare-brained stunt had survived +the wetting. I should dearly have loved to explore +that wonderful black-walled canyon, with its +unending succession of cataracts and cascades, but +lack of time forbade. The drizzling rain made it impossible +even to get a good photograph of the fine +frenzy of that final mad leap into the Columbia.</p> + +<p>It was funny the way that rain acted. For something +like a month now there had been only two or +three days of reasonably fair weather, and for the last +fortnight the sun had hardly been glimpsed at all. +Pulling up to Waneta in a clammy drizzle, Captain +Armstrong remarked, as he drew the collar of his +waterproof closer to decrease the drainage down the +back of his neck, that he reckoned they wouldn’t stand<span class="pagenum">[Pg 208]</span> +for weather of that kind over in “God’s Country.” As +there was nothing but sodden clouds to the southward, +I didn’t feel like giving him any definite assurance +on the point at the moment. However, when we +crossed the Line an hour later the rain had ceased. A +couple of miles farther down the clouds were breaking +up, and at Northport the sun was shining. I did +not have another rainy day, nor even one more than +slightly overcast, until I was almost at the Cascades. +I trust my good Canadian friend was as deeply impressed +as he claimed to be.</p> + +<p>Beyond a sharp riffle between jagged rock islands +above Deadman’s Eddy, and one or two shallow boulder +bars where the channels were a bit obscure, it was +good open-and-above-board water all the way to +Northport. The “Eddy” is a whirling back-sweep +of water at a bend of the river, and is supposed to hold +up for inspection everything floatable that the Columbia +brings down from Canada. “Funny they never +thought of calling it ‘Customs Eddy,’” Armstrong +said. From the condition of its littered banks, it +looked to be almost as prolific of “pickings” as the +great drift pile of Kinbasket Lake. Being near a +town, however, it is doubtless much more thoroughly +gone over.</p> + +<p>We tied up below the Ferry at Northport, which +was the rendezvous to which Roos was to bring the +Customs Inspector. The ferry-man, who had once +seen Captain Armstrong run the rapids of the upper +Kootenay with one of his steamers, was greatly elated +over having such a notable walking the quarterdeck +of his own humble craft. Armstrong, in turn, was<span class="pagenum">[Pg 209]</span> +scarcely less excited over an automatic pumping contrivance +which the ferry-man had rigged up to keep +his pontoons dry. After waiting for an hour, we took +our bags and walked up to the hotel on the main +street at the top of the bluff. We found Roos in the +office reading a last year’s haberdashery catalogue. +He said he had not expected us for a couple of hours +yet, and that he had arranged for inspection at three +o’clock. That gave us time for a bath and lunch ourselves. +As our bags were now well beyond the tentacles +of the Customs, we did a little figuring on the +table-cloth between courses. By this we proved that, +had we had the nerve to disregard the warnings of +well-meaning friends in Trail and filled our hand-bags +with Scotch instead of personal effects, Armstrong +would now have had fourteen quarts up in his +room, and I eighteen quarts. Then the waitress gave +us current local quotations, and we started to figure +values. I shall never know whether or not there would +have been room on the corner of that gravy and egg +broidered napery for my stupendous total. Just as +I was beginning to run over the edge, the Inspector +came in and asked if we would mind letting him see +those two suit-cases we had brought to the hotel with +us! Many and various are the joys of virtue, but none +of the others comparable to that one which sets you +aglow as you say “Search me!” when, by the special +intervention of the providence which watches over +fools and drunks, you haven’t got goods.</p> + +<p>The inspection, both at the hotel and at the ferry, +was <i>fairly</i> perfunctory, though I did notice that the +Customs man assumed a rather springy step when he<span class="pagenum">[Pg 210]</span> +trod the light inner bottom of the skiff. Roos filmed +the operation as a part of the picture, I acting as +much as I could like I thought a farmer would act at +his first Customs inspection. Roos, complaining that +I didn’t “do it natural,” wanted to shoot over again. +The Customs man was willing, but Armstrong and I, +trudging purposefully off up the road, refused to +return. Roos followed us to the hotel in considerable +dudgeon. “Why wouldn’t you let me make that shot +over?” he asked. “It was an ‘oil-can’—rotten!” “Because,” +I replied evenly, looking him straight in the +eye, “I was afraid the Inspector might try that jig-a-jig +step of his on the false bottom in the bow if we put +him through the show a second time. I don’t believe +in tempting providence. We can get a street-car +conductor and make that Inspection shot again in +Portland. This isn’t....” “You’re right,” cut in +Roos, with a dawning grin of comprehension. “I beg +your pardon. You’re a deeper bird than I gave you +credit for. Or perhaps it was the Captain....”</p> + +<p><a id="page210" name="page210"></a></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> +<img src="images/illo_270.jpg" width="600" height="461" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">WAITING FOR THE FOG TO LIFT ABOVE BISHOP’S RAPID (<i>left</i>)<br /> +ROSS AND ARMSTRONG REGISTERING "GLOOM" (<i>right</i>)</span> +</div> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p><a id="page211" name="page211"></a></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 435px;"> +<img src="images/illo_271.jpg" width="435" height="600" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">THE “INTAKE” AT THE LITTLE DALLES (<i>above</i>)<br /> +WHERE WE STARTED TO LINE THE LITTLE DALLES (<i>below</i>)</span> +</div> + +<p>A heavy fog filled the river gorge from bank to +bank when we pushed off the following morning, and +we had to nose down carefully to avoid the piers of +the bridge of the Great Northern branch line to Rossland. +A quarter of a mile farther down the river +began shoaling over gravel bars, and out of the mist +ahead came the rumble of water tumbling over boulders. +This was an inconsiderable riffle called Bishop’s +Rapid, but the Captain was too old a river man to +care to go into it without light to choose his channel. +A half hour’s wait on a gravel bar in mid-stream +brought a lifting of the fog, and we ran through by +<span class="pagenum">[Pg 211]</span>the right hand of the two shallow channels without +difficulty. In brilliant sunshine we pulled down a +broad stretch of deep and rapidly slackening water to +the gleaming white lime-stone barrier at the head of +the Little Dalles.</p> + +<p>All of Northport had been a unit in warning us not +to attempt to run the Little Dalles. Nearly every +one, as far as I could judge, had lost some relative +there, and one man gave a very circumstantial description +of how he had seen a big <i>batteau</i>, with six +Swede lumbermen, sucked out of sight there, never +to reappear. On cross-questioning, he admitted that +this was at high water, and that there was nothing +like so much “suck” in the whirlpools at the present +stage. The Captain, however, having just received +telephonic word from Nelson that “moderation” had +carried in B. C. by a decisive majority, felt that nothing +short of running the Little Dalles would be adequate +celebration. He had managed to come through +right-side-up in a Peterboro once, and he thought our +skiff ought to be equal to the stunt. He held that +opinion just long enough for him to climb to the top +of the cliff that forms the left wall of river at the +gorge and take one good, long, comprehensive look +into the depths.</p> + +<p>“Nothing doing,” he said, with a decisive shake of +his broad-brimmed Stetson. “The river’s four or five +feet higher than when we ran through here in ’fifteen, +and that makes all the difference. It was touch-and-go +for a minute then, and now it’s out of the question +for a small boat. If we can’t line, we’ll have to find +some way to portage.”<span class="pagenum">[Pg 212]</span></p> + +<p>The Little Dalles are formed by a great reef of +lime-stone which, at one time, probably made a dam all +the way across the river. The narrow channel which +the Columbia has worn through the stone is less than +two hundred feet in width for a considerable distance, +and has lofty perpendicular walls. The river is divided +by a small rock island into two channels at the +head, the main one, to the right, being about two hundred +feet in width, and the narrow left-hand one not +over forty feet. The depth of the main channel is +very great—probably much greater than its narrowest +width; so that here, as also at Tumwater and “Five-Mile” +in the Great Dalles, it may be truly said that +the Columbia “has to turn on its side to wriggle +through.”</p> + +<p>It is that little rock island at the head of the gorge, +extending, as it does, almost longitudinally <i>across</i> the +current that makes all the trouble. It starts one set +of whirlpools running down the right-hand channel +and another set down the left-hand. Every one of +the vortices in this dual series of spinning “suckers” +is more than one would care to take any liberties +with if it could be avoided; and either line of whirlpools, +taken alone, probably <i>could</i> be avoided. The +impassable barrage comes a hundred feet below the +point where the left-hand torrent precipitates itself +at right-angles into the current of the right-hand one, +and the two lines of whirlpools converge in a “V” and +form one big walloping sockdolager. Him there +would still be room to run by if he were “whouf-ing” +there alone; but his satellites won’t have it. Their +accursed team-work is such that the spreading “V”<span class="pagenum">[Pg 213]</span> +above catches everything that comes down stream +and feeds it into the maw of the big whirlpool as into +a hopper. Logs, ties, shingle-bolts, fence-posts—all +the refuse of sawmills and the flotsam and jetsam of +farms and towns—are gulped with a “whouf!” and +when they reappear again, a mile or two down river, +they are all scoured smooth and round-cornered by +their passage through the monster’s alimentary canal.</p> + +<p>“I’m sorry not to celebrate the victory of ‘moderation,’” +said the Captain finally, with another regretful +shake of his head; “but ‘moderation’ begins at +home. It would be immoderately foolish to put the +skiff into that line of whirlpools, the way they’re running +now.” Roos was the only one who was inclined +to dispute that decision, and as his part would have +been to stand out on the brink of the cliff and turn the +crank, it was only natural that he should take the +“artistic” rather than the “humanitarian” view.</p> + +<p>As a last resort before portaging, we tried lining +down, starting at the head of the narrow left-hand +channel. We gave it up at the end of a hundred +feet. A monkey at one end of the line and a log of +wood at the other would have made the only combination +calculated to get by that way. It was no job +for a shaky-kneed man and a sinkable boat. There +was nothing to do but look up a team or truck. What +appeared to be the remains of the ancient portage +road ran down from an abandoned farm to the river, +and it seemed likely some kind of vehicle could be +brought over it.</p> + +<p>As the highway ran along the bench, four or five +hundred feet above the river, I set off by the railroad<span class="pagenum">[Pg 214]</span> +track, which was comparatively close at hand. At the +end of a couple of miles I reached a small station +called Marble, the shipping point for a large apple +orchard project financed by the J. G. White Company +of New York. Mr. Reed, the resident manager, +immediately ordered a powerful team and wagon +placed at my disposal, and with that I returned northward +over the highway. We had a rough time getting +down through brush and dead-falls to the river, +but finally made it without an upset. Roos having +finished what pictures he wanted—including one of +the Captain standing on the brink of the cliff and registering +“surprise-cum-disappointment-cum-disgust,”—we +loaded the skiff and our outfit onto the wagon +and started the long climb up to the top of the bench. +The discovery of an overgrown but still passable road +offered a better route than that followed in coming +down, and we made the highway, and on to the village, +in good time. Mr. Reed dangled the bait of a +French <i>chef</i> and rooms in the company’s hotel as an +inducement to spend the night with him, but we had +not the time to accept the kind invitation. His ready +courtesy was of the kind which I learned later I +could expect as a matter of course all along the river. +Never did I have trouble in getting help when I +needed it, and when it was charged for, it was almost +invariably an under rather than an over-charge. The +running road is the one place left where the people +have not been spoiled as have those on the highways +frequented by motor tourists.</p> + +<p>Launching the boat from the Marble Ferry at four +o’clock, we pulled off in a good current in the hope<span class="pagenum">[Pg 215]</span> +of reaching Bossburg before dark. Between the +windings of the river and several considerable +stretches of slack water, however, our progress was +less than anticipated. Shut in by high hills on both +sides, night descended early upon the river, and at +five-thirty I found myself pulling in Stygian blackness. +Knowing there was no really bad water ahead, +the Captain let her slide through a couple of easy +riffles, the white-topped waves barely guessed as they +flagged us with ghostly signals. But a deepening +growl, borne on the wings of the slight up-river night-breeze, +demanded more consideration. No one but a +lunatic goes into a strange rapid in a poor light, to +say nothing of complete darkness. Pulling into an +eddy by the left bank, we stopped and listened. The +roar, though distant, was unmistakable. Water was +tumbling among rocks at a fairly good rate, certainly +too fast to warrant going into it in the dark.</p> + +<p>While we were debating what to do, a black figure +silhouetted itself against the star-gleams at the top +of the low bank. “Hello, there!” hailed the Captain. +“Can you tell us how far it is to Bossburg?” “<i>This</i> +is Bossburg,” was the surprising but gratifying response. +“You’re there—that is, you’re here.” It +proved to be the local ferry-man, and Columbia ferry-men +are always obliging and always intelligent, at +least in matters relating to the river. Tying up the +boat, we left our stuff in his nearby house and sought +the hotel with our hand-bags. It was not a promising +looking hotel when we found it, for Bossburg was that +saddest of living things, an all-but-extinguished +boom-town; but the very kindly old couple who lived<span class="pagenum">[Pg 216]</span> +there and catered to the occasional wayfarer bustled +about and got us a corking good meal—fried chicken +and biscuits as light as the whipped cream we had on +the candied peaches—and our beds were clean and +comfortable.</p> + +<p>As we were now but a few miles above Kettle Falls, +the most complete obstruction in the whole length of +the Columbia, I took the occasion to telephone ahead +for a truck with which to make the very considerable +portage. There would be two or three miles at the +falls in any case, Captain Armstrong said, and he was +also inclined to think it would be advisable to extend +the portage to the foot of Grand Rapids, and thus +save a day’s hard lining. It was arranged that the +truck should meet us at the ruins of the old Hudson +Bay post, on the east bank some distance above the +upper fall.</p> + +<p>We pushed off from Bossburg at eight o’clock on +the morning of October twenty-third. The water was +slack for several hundred yards, which was found to +be due to a reef extending all of the way across the +river and forming the rapid which we had heard +growling in the dark. This was called “Six Mile,” and +while it would have been an uncomfortable place to +tangle up with in the night, it was simple running +with the light of day. “Five Mile,” a bit farther +down, was studded with big black rocks, but none of +them hard to avoid. As we were running rather +ahead of the time of our rendezvous with the truck, +we stretched our legs the length and back of the main +street of Marcus, a growing little town which is the +junction point for the Boundary Branch of the Great<span class="pagenum">[Pg 217]</span> +Northern. We passed the mouth of the Kettle River +shortly after running under the railway bridge, and a +pull across a big eddy carried us to the lake-like +stretch of water backed up by the rocky obstructions +responsible for Kettle Falls. The roar of the latter +filled the air as we headed into a shallow, mud-bottomed +lagoon widening riverward from the mouth +of a small creek and beached the skiff under a yellowing +fringe of willows. The site of the historic post +was in an extremely aged apple orchard immediately +above. It was one of those “inevitable” spots, where +the <i>voyageurs</i> of all time passing up or down the river +must have begun or ended their portages. I was trying +to conjure up pictures of a few of these in my +mind, when the chug-chugging of an engine somewhere +among the pines of the distant hillside recalled +me to a realization of the fact that it was time to get +ready for my own portage. Before we had our stuff +out of the boat the truck had come to a throbbing +standstill beyond the fringe of the willows. It promised +to be an easier portage than some of our predecessors +had had, in any event.</p> + +<p>To maintain his “continuity,” Roos filmed the skiff +being taken out of the water and loaded upon the +truck, the truck passing down the main street of the +town of Kettle Falls, and a final launching in the +river seven miles below. Half way into town we +passed an old Indian mission that must have been +about contemporaneous with Hudson Bay operations. +Although no nails had been used in its construction, +the ancient building, with its high-pitched roof, still +survived in a comparatively good state of preserva<span class="pagenum">[Pg 218]</span>tion. +The town is some little distance below the Falls, +and quite out of sight of the river, which flows here +between very high banks. We stopped at the hotel +for lunch before completing the portage.</p> + +<p>After talking the situation over with Captain Armstrong, +I decided to fall in with his suggestion to pass +Grand Rapids as well as Kettle Falls in the portage. +There were only about five miles of boatable water +between the foot of the latter and the head of the +former, and then an arduous three-quarters of a mile +of lining that would have entailed the loss of another +day. There is a drop of twelve feet in about twelve +hundred yards in Grand Rapids, with nothing approaching +a clear channel among the huge black basaltic +rocks that have been scattered about through +them as from a big pepper shaker. As far as I could +learn, there is no record of any kind of a man-propelled +craft of whatever size ever having run through +and survived, but a small stern-wheeler, the <i>Shoshone</i>, +was run down several years ago at high water. +She reached the foot a good deal of a hulk, but still +right side up. This is rated as one of the maddest +things ever done with a steamer on the Columbia, and +the fact that it did not end in complete disaster is +reckoned by old river men as having been due in about +equal parts to the inflexible nerve of her skipper and +the intervention of the special providence that makes +a point of watching over mortals who do things like +that. I met Captain McDermid a fortnight later in +Potaris. He told me then, what I hadn’t heard before, +that he took his wife and children with him. +“Nellie thought a lot of both me and the little old<span class="pagenum">[Pg 219]</span> +<i>Shoshone</i>,” he said with a wistful smile, “and she +reckoned that, if we went, she wouldn’t exactly like +to be left here alone. And so—I never could refuse +Nellie anything—I took her along. And now she +and the <i>Shoshone</i> are both gone.” He was a wonderful +chap—McDermid. All old Columbia River +skippers are. They wouldn’t have survived if they +hadn’t been.</p> + +<p>There was a low bench on the left bank, about a +mile below the foot of Grand Rapids, which could be +reached by a rough road, and from which the boat +could be slid down over the rocks to the river. Running +to this point with the truck, we left our heavier +outfit at a road camp and dropped the boat at the +water’s edge, ready for launching the following +morning. Returning to the town, we were driven +up to the Falls by Dr. Baldwin, a prominent +member of this live and attractive little community, +where Roos made a number of shots. The upper +or main fall has a vertical drop of fifteen feet at low +water, while the lower fall is really a rough tumbling +cascade with a drop of ten feet in a quarter of a mile. +The river is divided at the head of the Falls by an +arrow-shaped rock island, the main channel being the +one to the right. The left-hand channel loops in a +broad “V” around the island and, running between +precipitous walls, accomplishes in a beautiful rapid the +same drop that the main channel does by the upper +fall. A rocky peninsula, extending squarely across +the course of the left-hand channel, forces the rolling +current of the latter practically to turn a somersault +before accepting the dictum that it must double back<span class="pagenum">[Pg 220]</span> +northward for five or six hundred feet before uniting +with the main river. It was the savage swirling of +water in that rock-walled elbow where the “somersault” +takes place that prompted the imaginative +French-Canadian <i>voyageurs</i> to apply the appropriately +descriptive name of <i>Chaudière</i> to the boiling +maelstrom.</p> + +<p>Up to the present the development of the enormous +power running to waste over Kettle Falls has gone little +further than the dreams of the brave community +of optimists who have been attracted there in the +belief that a material asset of such incalculable value +cannot always be ignored in a growing country like +our own. And they are right, of course, but a few +years ahead of time. It is only the children and +grandchildren of the living pioneers of the Columbia +who will see more than the beginning of its untold +millions of horse-power broken to harness. And in +the meantime the optimists of Kettle Falls are turning +their attention to agriculture and horticulture. Never +have I seen finer apple orchards than those through +which we drove on the way to resume our down-river +voyage.</p> + +<p>The point from which we pushed off at ten o’clock +on the morning of October twenty-fourth must have +been only a little below that at which Lieutenant +Symons launched the <i>batteau</i> for his historic voyage +to the mouth of the Snake in 1881. Forty years have +gone by since that memorable undertaking, yet Symons’ +report is to-day not only the most accurate +description of an upper Columbia voyage that has +ever been written, but also the most readable. During<span class="pagenum">[Pg 221]</span> +the time I was running the three hundred and fifty +miles of river surveyed by Lieutenant Symons, I +found his admirable report only less fascinating on +the human side than it was of material assistance on +the practical.</p> + +<p>Of his preparations for the voyage Lieutenant +Symons writes:</p> + +<blockquote><p>“I was fortunate enough to procure from John Rickey, +a settler and trader, who lives at the Grand Rapids, a +strongly built <i>batteau</i>, and had his assistance in selecting a +crew of Indians for the journey. The <i>batteau</i> was about +thirty feet long, four feet wide at the gunwales, and two +feet deep, and is as small a boat as the voyage should ever +be attempted in, if it is contemplated to go through all the +rapids. My first lookout had been to secure the services of +‘Old Pierre Agare’ as steersman, and I had to carry on +negotiations with him for several days before he finally consented +to go. Old Pierre is the only one of the old Hudson +Bay <i>voyageurs</i> now left who knows the river thoroughly at +all stages of water, from Colville to its mouth.... The +old man is seventy years of age, and hale and hearty, although +his eyesight is somewhat defective.... The other +Indians engaged were Pen-waw, Big Pierre, Little Pierre, and +Joseph. They had never made the trip all the way down the +river, and their minds were full of the dangers and terrors of +the great rapids below, and it was a long time before we could +prevail upon them to go, by promising them a high price +and stipulating for their return by rail and stage. Old +Pierre and John Rickey laboured and talked with them long +and faithfully, to gain their consent, and I am sure that +they started off with as many misgivings about getting safely +through as we did who had to trust our lives to their skill, +confidence and obedience.”</p></blockquote><p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 222]</span></p> + +<p>Lieutenant Symons does not state whether any confusion +ever arose as a consequence of the fact that +three of his five Indians bore the inevitable French-Canadian +name of “Pierre.” Of the method of work +followed by himself and his topographical assistant, +Downing, throughout the voyage, he writes:</p> + +<blockquote><p>“Mr. Downing and myself worked independently in getting +as thorough knowledge of the river as possible, he taking the +courses with a prismatic compass, and estimating distances +by the eye, and sketching in the topographical features of +the surrounding country, while I estimated also the distances +to marked points, and paid particular attention to the +bed of the river, sounding wherever there were any indications +of shallowness. Each evening we compared notes as +to distances, and we found them to come out very well together, +the greatest difference being six and three-fourths +miles in a day’s run of sixty-four miles. Some days they +were identical. The total distance from our starting point +... to the mouth of the Snake River was estimated by +Mr. Downing to be three hundred and sixty-three miles, and +by myself to be three hundred and fifty. His distances were +obtained by estimating how far it was to some marked point +ahead, and correcting it when the point was reached; mine +by the time required to pass over the distances, in which the +elements considered were the swiftness of the current and +the labour of the oarsmen.”</p></blockquote> + +<p>I may state that it was only rarely that we found +the distances arrived at by Lieutenant Symons and +Mr. Downing to be greatly at variance with those +established by later surveys. In the matter of bars, +rapids, currents, channels and similar things, there +appeared to have been astonishingly little change in<span class="pagenum">[Pg 223]</span> +the four decades that had elapsed since he had made +his observations. Where he advised, for instance, +taking the right-hand in preference to the middle or +left-hand channels, it was not often that we went far +wrong in heeding the direction. Bars of gravel, of +course, shift from season to season, but reefs and +projections of the native rock are rarely altered by +more than a negligible erosion. The prominent topographical +features—cliffs, headlands, <i>coulees</i>, +mountains—are immutable, and for mile after mile, +bend after bend, we picked them up just as Symons +reported them.</p> + +<p>The river is broad and slow for a few miles below +Grand Rapids (they are called Rickey’s Rapids +locally), with steep-sided benches rising on either +hand, and the green of apple orchards showing in +bright fringes along their brinks. There had been +the usual warnings in Kettle Falls of a bad rapid to +be encountered “somewhere below,” but the data +available on this part of the river made us practically +certain that nothing worse than minor riffles existed +until the swift run of Spokane Rapids was reached. +Seven miles below Grand Rapids several islands of +black basalt contracted the river considerably, but +any one of two or three channels offered an easy way +through them. The highest of them had a driftwood +crown that was not less than fifty feet above the present +stage of the river, showing graphically the great +rise and fall at this point.</p> + +<p>At the shallow San Poil bar we saw some Indians +from the Colville Reservation fishing for salmon—the +crooked-nosed “dogs” of the final run. If they<span class="pagenum">[Pg 224]</span> +were of the tribe from which the bar must have been +named, civilization had brought them its blessing in +the form of hair-restorer. They were as hirsute a lot +of ruffians as one could expect to find out of Bolshevia—and +as dirty.</p> + +<p>Turtle Rapid was the worst looking place we +found during the day, but the menace was more apparent +than real. The riffle took its name from a +number of turtle-backed outcroppings of bedrock +pushing up all the way across the river. The current +was swift and deep, making it just the sort of place +one would have expected to encounter bad swirls. +These were, indeed, making a good deal of a stir at +the foot of several of the narrow side runs, but by +the broader middle channel which we followed the +going was comparatively smooth. We finished an +easy day by tying up at four o’clock where the road +to the Colville Reservation comes down to the boulder-bordered +bank at Hunter’s Ferry.</p> + +<p>Columbia River ferry-men are always kindly and +hospitable, and this one invited us to sleep on his +hay and cook our meals in his kitchen. He was an +amiable “cracker” from Kentucky, with a delectable +drawl, a tired-looking wife and a houseful of children. +Ferry-men’s wives always have many children. +This one was still pretty, though, and her droop—for +a few years yet—would be rather appealing than +otherwise. I couldn’t be quite sure—from a remark +she made—whether she had a sense of humor, or +whether she had not. Seeing her sitting by the kitchen +stove with a baby crooked into her left arm, a two-year-old +on her lap, and a three-year-old riding her<span class="pagenum">[Pg 225]</span> +foot, the while she was trying to fry eggs, bake biscuit +and boil potatoes, I observed, by way of bringing +a brighter atmosphere with my presence, that it +was a pity that the human race hadn’t been crossed +with octopi, so that young mothers would have +enough arms to do their work with. She nodded approvingly +at first, brightening visibly at the emancipative +vision conjured up in her tired brain, but +after five minutes of serious cogitation relapsed into +gloom. “I reckon it wouldn’t be any use, mistah,” +she said finally; “them octupusses would only give the +young ’uns mo’ ahms to find troubl’ with.” Now +<i>did</i> she have a sense of humour, or did she not?</p> + +<p>We had a distinctly bad night of it hitting the hay. +The mow was built with a horseshoe-shaped manger +running round three sides of it, into which the hay +was supposed to descend by gravity as the cows devoured +what was below. As a labour-saving device it +had a good deal to recommend it, but as a place to +sleep—well, it might not have been so bad if each of +the dozen cows had not been belled, and if the weight +of our tired bodies on the hay had not kept pressing +it into the manger all night, and so made a continuous +performance of feeding and that bovine bell-chorus. +I dozed off for a spell along toward morning, +awakening from a Chinese-gong nightmare to +find my bed tilted down at an angle of forty-five degrees +and a rough tongue lapping my face. With +most of my mattress eaten up, I was all but in the +manger myself. Turning out at daybreak, we +pushed off at an early hour.</p> + +<p>A run of nine miles, made in about an hour, took<span class="pagenum">[Pg 226]</span> +us to Gerome, where another ferry crossed to the +west or Colville Reservation bank. A couple of +swift, shallow rapids above and below Roger’s Bar +was the only rough water encountered. We were +looking for a point from which Spokane could be +reached by car, as Captain Armstrong, who had originally +planned to go with us only to Kettle Falls, was +now quite at the end of the time he was free to remain +away from Nelson and business. There were two +reasons for our making a temporary halt at Gerome +Ferry. One was the fact that Spokane could be +reached as readily from there as from any point lower +down, and the other was Ike Emerson. I shall have +so much to say of Ike a bit further along that I shall +no more than introduce him for the moment.</p> + +<p>As much of the worst water on the American course +of the Columbia occurs in the two hundred and thirty +miles between the head of Spokane Rapids and the +foot of Priest Rapids,<a name="FNanchor_2_2" id="FNanchor_2_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> I was considerably concerned +about finding a good river man to take Captain Armstrong’s +place and help me with the boat. Roos made +no pretensions to river usefulness, and I was reluctant +to go into some of the rapids that I knew were ahead +of us without a dependable man to handle the steering +paddle and to help with lining. Men of this kind +were scarce, it appeared—even more so than on the +Big Bend, in Canada, where there was a certain +amount of logging and trapping going on. Two or +three ferry-men had shaken their heads when I +<span class="pagenum">[Pg 227]</span>brought the matter up. There was nothing they +would like better if they were free, they said, but, +as ferries couldn’t be expected to run by themselves, +that was out of the question on such short notice.</p> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_2_2" id="Footnote_2_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_2"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> Not be confused with the rapids of the same name we had run on +the Big Bend in Canada.</p> +<p class="quotsig">L. R. F.</p></div> + +<p>It was that genial “cracker” at Hunter’s Ferry +who was the first to mention Ike Emerson. Ike +would be just my man, he said, with that unmistakable +grin that a man grins when the person he speaks +of is some kind of a “character.” Or, leastways, Ike +would be just my man—<i>if I could find him</i>. “And +where shall I be likely to find him?” I asked. He +wasn’t quite sure about that, but probably “daun +rivah sumwhah.” There was no telling about Ike, it +appeared. Once he had been seen to sink when his +raft had gone to pieces in Hell Gate, and he had been +mourned as dead for a fortnight. At the end of that +time he had turned up in Kettle Falls, but quite unable—or +else unwilling—to tell why the river had +carried him eighty-five miles <i>up</i> stream instead of +down to the Pacific. A keg of moonshine which had +been Ike’s fellow passenger on the ill-fated raft <i>may</i> +have had something to do both with the wreck and +that long up-stream swim after the wreck. At any +rate, it had never been explained. However, Gerome +was Ike’s headquarters—if any place might be called +that for a man who lived on or in the river most of the +time—and that would be the place to inquire for him.</p> + +<p>When I asked the ferry-man at Gerome if Ike +Emerson had been seen thereabouts recently, he +grinned the same sort of grin his colleague at Hunter’s +had grinned when the same subject was under +discussion. Yes, he had seen Ike only the night be<span class="pagenum">[Pg 228]</span>fore. +He was a real old river rat; just the man I +wanted—<i>if I could find him</i>. He was as hard as a +flea to put your hand on when you <i>did</i> want him, +though. Well, it took us four hours to run our man +down, but luck was with us in the end. Every lumber-jack, +farmer and Indian that we asked about Ike, +grinned that same grin, dropped whatever he was +doing and joined in the search. There were a score of +us when the “View Halloo” was finally sounded, and +we looked more like a lynching party on vengeance +bent than anything else I can think of. Ike, who was +digging potatoes (of all the things in the world for a +river rat to be doing), glowered suspiciously as we +debouched from a <i>coulee</i> and streamed down toward +him, but his brow cleared instantly when I hastily +told him what we had come for.</p> + +<p>You bet, he would go with us. But, wait a moment! +Why should we not go with him? He was +overdue with a raft of logs and cordwood he had contracted +to take down below Hell Gate, and was just +about to get to work building it. We could just +throw our boat aboard, and off we would go together. +If he could get enough help, he could have the raft +ready in two or three days, and, once started, it would +not be a lot slower than the skiff, especially if we took +a fast motor-boat he knew of for towing purposes +and to “put her into the rapids right.” It would make +a lot more of a show for the movies, and he had always +dreamed of having himself filmed on a big raft running +Hell Gate and Box Canyon. Just let us leave +it to him, and he would turn out something that would +be the real thing.<span class="pagenum">[Pg 229]</span></p> + +<p>All of this sounded distinctly good to me, but I +turned to Roos and Captain Armstrong for confirmation +before venturing a decision. Roos said it would +be “the cat’s ears” (late slang meaning <i>au fait</i>, or +something like that, in English); that a raft would +photograph like a million dollars. Armstrong’s face +was beaming. “It will be the chance of a lifetime,” +he said warmly. “Go by all means. I’m only sorry +I can’t be with you.” So we gave Ike <i>carte blanche</i> +and told him to go ahead; we would arrange the financial +end when he knew more about what he would be +spending. I was glad of the wait for one reason; it +would give us a chance to speed the Captain on his +way as far as Spokane.</p> + +<p>Running over a Spokane paper in the post office +and general store at Gerome, the program of the +Chamber of Commerce luncheon for the morrow, October +the twenty-sixth, recalled to me that I had a +conditional engagement to perform at that function. +Major Laird, the Publicity Secretary of the Chamber, +had phoned me before we left Nelson, asking if +I would run up to Spokane from some convenient +point on the river and give them a bit of a yarn about +our voyage at the next Tuesday luncheon. I had +replied that, as it was quite out of the question keeping +to any definite schedule in river travel, I could +give him no positive assurance of turning up in time, +but suggested that if he would sign up some one else +for <i>pièce de résistance</i>, he could be free to use me for +soup or nuts in the event I put in an appearance. As +it now appeared that we had arrived within a few +hours of Spokane, I phoned Major Laird, and he<span class="pagenum">[Pg 230]</span> +said he would start a car off at once to take us there.</p> + +<p>We spent the afternoon helping Roos patch up the +continuity of his “farmer” picture. Although Captain +Armstrong had appeared in all the scenes shot +since we started with the skiff, he had never made his +official entry into the picture. Properly, this should +have been done in one of the introductory scenes shot +at the source of the river, near Lake Windermere. It +will be remembered that, when I leaned on my hay-fork +and gazed pensively off toward the river, I was +supposed to see a prospector tinkering with his boat. +I had walked out of two scenes on my way to +join that prospector: the first time to ask if +he would take me with him, and the second time, with +a blanket-roll on my shoulder (the improvised one +with the two “nicht-goons” and other foreign knick-knacks +in it), to jump into the boat and push off. +Obviously, as we had neither prospector nor boat at +the time, these shots could not be made until later. +Now, with the “prospector” about to leave us, it was +imperative to continuity that we should get him into +the picture before we could go ahead getting him out +of it.</p> + +<p>“Location” was our first care, and in this fortune +favoured us. The mouth of a small creek flowing in +just below Gerome furnished a “source of the Columbia” +background that would have defied an expert to +tell from an original. In fact, it looked more like the +popular idea of a “source” than did the real one; and +that is an important point with the movies. Here we +made the “tinkering” and the “first push-off” shots. +Of course, I had a different blanket-roll on my shoul<span class="pagenum">[Pg 231]</span>der +this time, but I took great care to make it as close +an imitation as possible of the one I had so hastily +flung together out of “Jock’s” bedding. A close imitation +externally, I mean—there were no “frou-frous” +in it.</p> + +<p>Now that we had the “prospector” properly into +the picture, we were ready for the “farewell” shot—the +getting him out of it. For this the Captain and I +were “picked up” on a picturesque rocky point, regarding +with interest something far off down-river. +Presently he registers “dawning comprehension,” and +tells me in fluent French-Canadian pantomime that it +is a raft—a whale of a big one. That will offer a way +for me to continue my voyage now that he has to leave +me. Then we go down to the boat, which he presents +to me with a comprehensive “it-is-all-yours” gesture, +before shouldering his sack of ore (one of our bags of +canned stuff answered very well for this) and climbing +off up the bank toward the “smelter.” (We had intended +to make a real smelter scene at Trail or Northport, +but the light was poor at both places.) Finally +I pushed off alone, pulling down and across the current +to throw in my fortunes with the “raft.” That +left the thread of “continuity” dangling free, to be +spliced up as soon as Ike had the raft completed. +That worthy was losing no time. All afternoon we +heard the rumble of logs rolling over boulders, and +every now and then a fan-shaped splash of spray +would flash up with a spangle of iridescence in the light +of the declining sun.</p> + +<p>The car arrived for us at seven-thirty that evening. +It was driven by Commissioner Howard, of the Spo<span class="pagenum">[Pg 232]</span>kane +County Board, who had courteously volunteered +to come for us when it appeared there would be some +delay in getting a hired car off for the hundred and +sixty-mile round trip. He was accompanied by his +son, a high-school youngster. As they had eaten +lunch on the way, they announced themselves ready +to start on the return trip at once. The road turned +out to be a rough mountain track, and rather muddy. +Ten miles out from Gerome a suspicious clicking set +in somewhere under the rear seat, and at twenty miles +the differential had gone. Mr. Howard finally induced +an empty truck to take us in tow, and behind +that lumbering vehicle we did the last sixty miles. +The tow-chain parted on an average of once a mile +while we were still in the mountains, but did better +as the roads improved. The temperature fell as the +altitude increased, and it must have been well under +twenty before daylight—and a mean, marrow-searching +cold at that. Mr. Howard, refusing every +offer of relief, stuck it out at the wheel all the way in—a +remarkable example of nerve and endurance, +considering that he had only recently come out of a +hospital. Armstrong, as always, was indomitable, +singing French-Canadian boating songs of blood-stirring +<i>tempo</i> most of the way. I shall ever associate +his</p> + +<div class="poem" style="width: 28em;"> +<span class="i0">“<i>Rouli, roulant, ma boule roulant,</i></span> +<span class="i0"><i>En roulant, ma boule roulant!</i>”</span> +</div> + +<p>rather with the chug-chugging of a motor truck than +with the creak of oars from which it derived its inspiration.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 233]</span>We struck the paved state highway at Davenport +about four o’clock, and in the very grey dawn of +the morning after came rumbling into Spokane. +Somewhere in the dim shadowy outskirts we stopped +rumbling. The truck driver reported he had run out +of gas. Assiduous milking of the Cole’s tank yielded +just enough to carry us on to the hotel. The Davenport +of Spokane is one of the very finest hotels in all +the world, but if it had been just a cabin with a stove, +it would still have seemed a rose-sweet paradise after +those last two nights we had put in—one on the hay +with belled cows eating up the beds beneath our backs, +and the other jerked over a frosty road in the wake of +a skidding truck. Soaking for an hour in a steaming +bath, I rolled in between soft sheets, leaving orders +not to be called until noon.</p> + +<p>Spokane is one of the finest, cleanest and most beautiful +cities of the West, and I have never left it after +a visit without regret. This time, brief as our stay +had to be, was no exception. It was an unusually +keen looking lot of business and professional men that +turned out for the Chamber luncheon, among whom I +found not a few old college friends and others I had +not seen for a number of years. Notable of these +were Herbert Moore and Samuel Stern, with whom +I had spent six weeks on a commercial mission in +China in 1910. I was also greatly interested to meet +Mr. Turner, the field engineer of the great project +for reclaiming a million and three-quarters acres of +land in the Columbia Basin of eastern Washington +by diverting to it water from the Pend d’Oreille. +The incalculable possibilities, as well as the great need<span class="pagenum">[Pg 234]</span> +of this daring project I was to see much of at firsthand +during that part of my voyage on which I was +about to embark.</p> + +<p>Captain Armstrong left by train for Nelson the +evening of the 27th, and the following morning Major +Laird drove Roos and me back to Gerome. For a +considerable part of the distance we followed the +highly picturesque route along the Spokane River, +stopping for lunch at the hydro-electric plant of the +Washington Power Company at Long Lake. This +enterprising corporation has power installations +already in operation on the Spokane which must make +that stream pretty nearly the most completely harnessed +river of its size in America. The lofty concrete +barrier which backs up Long Lake has the distinction +of being the highest spillway dam in the world. +The “Spokane interval” proved a highly enjoyable +spell of relaxation before tackling the rough stretch +of river ahead. I knew I was going to miss greatly +the guiding hand and mind of Captain Armstrong, +but had high hopes of Ike Emerson. I was not to be +disappointed.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page235" name="page235">[Pg 235]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER X<br /> +<br /> +RAFTING THROUGH HELL GATE</h2> + +<p>Ike had been working at high speed during our +absence, but his imagination appeared rather to have +run ahead of his powers of execution. The hundred-feet-long, +thirty-feet-wide raft he had set himself to +construct (so as to have something that would “stack +up big in the movie”) took another two days to complete, +and even then was not quite all that critical +artist wanted to make it. After filling in the raft +proper with solid logs of spruce and cedar, he began +heaping cordwood upon it. He was trying +to make something that would loom up above +the water, he explained; “somethin’ tu make a +showin’ in the pictur’.” He had three or four teams +hauling, and as many men piling, for two days. We +stopped him at fifty cords in order to get under way +the second day after our return. There was some +division of opinion among the ’long shore loafers as to +whether or not this was the <i>largest</i> raft that had ever +started down this part of the Columbia, but they +were a unit in agreeing that it was the <i>highest</i>. Never +was there a raft with so much “freeboard.” The +trouble was that every foot of that “freeboard” was +cordwood, and then some; for the huge stacks of four-foot +firewood had weighted down the logs under them +until those great lengths of spruce and cedar were +completely submerged. When you walked about “on<span class="pagenum">[Pg 236]</span> +deck” you saw the river flowing right along through +the loosely stacked cordwood beneath. Roos was exultant +over the way that mighty mass of rough wood +charging down a rock-walled canyon was going to +photograph, and Ike was proud as a peacock over the +Thing he had brought into being. But Roos was +going to be cranking on the cliff when we went +through Hell Gate, and Ike didn’t care a fig what +happened to him anyhow. And I <i>did</i> care. There +were a lot of things that could happen to a crazy contraption +of that kind, <i>if ever it hit anything solid</i>; and +I knew that the walls of Hell Gate and Box Canyon +must be solid or they wouldn’t have stood as long as +they had. And as for hitting ... that raft must be +pretty nearly as long as Hell Gate was wide, and if +ever it got to swinging.... It’s funny the things +a man will think of the night before he is going to +try out a fool stunt that he doesn’t know much +about.</p> + +<p><a id="page236" name="page236"></a></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 387px;"> +<img src="images/illo_298.jpg" width="387" height="600" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">MAP OF THE UPPER COLUMBIA</span> +</div> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p><a id="page237" name="page237"></a></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> +<img src="images/illo_299.jpg" width="600" height="446" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">A “CLOSE-UP” OF IKE BUILDING HIS RAFT (<i>left</i>)<br /> +MY FIFTY POUND SALMON (<i>right</i>)</span> +</div> + +<p>A fine motherly old girl called Mrs. Miller had +put us up in her big, comfortable farm-house during +our wait while Ike completed his ship-building operations. +She must have known all of seven different +ways of frying chicken, and maybe twice that number +of putting up apple preserves. We had just about all +of them for breakfast the morning we started. Jess, +the ferry-man, treated us to vanilla extract cordials +and told us the story of a raft that had struck and +broken up just above his father’s ranch near Hawk +Creek. Only guy they fished out was always nutty +afterward. Cracked on the head with a length of +cordwood while swimming. Good swimmer, too; but +a guy had no chance in a swish-swashing bunch of +<span class="pagenum">[Pg 237]</span>broke-loose logs. Thus Jess, and thus—or in similar +vein—about a dozen others who came down to see us +off from the ferry landing. They all told stories of +<i>raft</i> disasters, just as they would have enlarged on +<i>boat</i> disasters if it had been a boat in which we were +starting to run Hell Gate and Box Canyon.</p> + +<p>I pulled across and landed Roos at the raft to make +an introductory shot or two of Ike before picking up +the thread of his “continuity” with my (pictorial) +advent. A corner of the raft had been left unfinished +for this purpose. Ike was discovered boring a log +with a huge auger, after which he notched and laid a +stringer, finishing the operation by pegging the latter +down with a twisted hazel withe. The old river rat +seemed to know instinctively just what was wanted +of him, going through the action so snappily that Roos +clapped him on the back and pronounced him “the +cat’s ears” as an actor.</p> + +<p>Ike showed real quality in the next scene; also the +single-minded concentration that marks the true +artist. Looking up from his boring, he sees a boat +paddling toward him from up-river. The nearing +craft was <i>Imshallah</i>, with the “farmer” at the oars, +just as he had started (for the still unbuilt raft) +when the “prospector” gave him the boat before disappearing +up the bank to the “smelter” with his sack +of “ore” over his shoulder. Thus “continuity” was +served.</p> + +<p>The “farmer” pulls smartly alongside, tosses Ike +the painter and clambers aboard the raft. An animated +colloquy ensues, in which the “farmer” asks +about the river ahead, and Ike tells him, with dramatic +gestures, that it will be death to tackle it in so frail<span class="pagenum">[Pg 238]</span> +a skiff. A raft is the only safe way to make the passage +and—here Ike spreads out his hands with the +manner of a butler announcing that “dinner is +served!”—the raft is at the “farmer’s” disposal. That +suits the “farmer” to a “T;” so the skiff is lifted +aboard and they are ready to cast off.</p> + +<p>Where Ike displayed the concentration of a true artist +was in the skiff-lifting shot. Just as the green +bow of <i>Imshallah</i> came over the side, a boy who had +been stacking cordwood, in rushing forward to clear +the fouled painter, stepped on an unsecured log and +went through into the river. By this time, of course, +I knew better than to spoil a shot by suspending or +changing action in the middle of it, but that Ike +should be thus esoterically sapient was rather too +much to expect. Yet the sequel proved how much +more consummate an artist of the two of us that untutored +(even by Roos) old river rat was. When we +had finished “Yo-heave-ho-ing” as the skiff settled into +place, I (dropping my histrionics like a wet bathing +suit) shouted to Ike to come and help me fish that kid +out. “What kid?” he drawled in a sort of languid +surprise. Then, after a kind of dazed once-over of +the raft, fore-and-aft: “By cripes, the kid <i>is</i> gone!” +Now has that ever been beaten for artistic concentration?</p> + +<p>The lad, after bumping down along the bottom to +the lower end of the raft, had come to the surface no +whit the worse for his ducking. He was clambering +up over the logs like a wet cat before either Ike or I, +teetering across the crooked, wobbly cordwood, had +stumbled half the distance to the “stern.” “It must<span class="pagenum">[Pg 239]</span> +be a right sma’t betta goin’ daun unda than up heah,” +was Ike’s only comment.</p> + +<p>The motor-boat which Ike had engaged to tow the +raft was already on hand. It had been built by a +Spokane mining magnate for use at his summer home +on Lake Cœur d’Alene, and was one of the prettiest +little craft of the kind I ever saw. With its lines +streaming gracefully back from its sharp, beautifully-flared +bow, it showed speed from every angle. Hardwood +and brass were in bad shape, but the engines +were resplendent; and the engines were the finest +thing about it. They had been built to drive it twenty-five +miles an hour when she was new, the chap running +it said, and were probably good for all of twenty-two +yet when he opened up. Except that its hull +wasn’t rugged enough to stand the banging, it was an +ideal river boat, though not necessarily for towing +rafts. However, it was mighty handy even at that +ignominious work.</p> + +<p>I couldn’t quite make up my mind about the engineer +of the motor boat—not until he settled down +to work, that is. His eye was quite satisfactory, but +his habit of hesitating before answering a question, +and then usually saying “I dunno,” conveyed rather +the impression of torpid mentality if not actual dulness. +Nothing could have been further from the truth, +as I realized instantly the moment he started swinging +the raft into the current. He merely said “I dunno” +because he really didn’t know, where an ordinary man +would have felt impelled to make half an answer, or +at least to say something about the weather or the +stage of the river. Earl (I never learned his last<span class="pagenum">[Pg 240]</span> +name) was sparing with his tongue because he was +unsparing with his brain. His mind was always ready +to act—and to react. There were to arise several situations +well calculated to test the mettle of him, and +he was always “there.” I have never known so thoroughly +useful and dependable a man for working a +launch in swift water.</p> + +<p>While Ike was completing his final “snugging +down” operations, I chanced to observe a long steel-blue +and slightly reddish-tinged body working up the +bottom toward the stern of the raft. It looked like +a salmon, except that it was larger than any member +of that family I had ever seen. A blunt-pointed pike-pole +is about the last thing one would use for a fish-spear, +but, with nothing better ready to hand, I tried +it. My first thrust was a bad miss, but, rather +strangely, I thought—failed to deflect the loggily +nosing monster more than a foot or two from his +course. The next thrust went home, but where I was +half expecting to have the pole torn from my hands +by a wild rush, there was only a sluggish, unresentful +sort of a wriggle. As there was no hook or barb to +the pike, the best I could do was to worry my prize +along the bottom to the bank, where a couple of Indians +lifted it out for me. It was a salmon after all—a +vicious looking “dog,” with a wicked mouthful of +curving teeth—but of extraordinary size. It must +have weighed between fifty and sixty pounds, for the +pike-pole all but snapped when I tried to lift the +monster with it. Indeed, its great bulk was undoubtedly +responsible for the fact that it was already half-dead +from battering on the rocks before I speared it.<span class="pagenum">[Pg 241]</span> +As the flesh was too soft even for the Indians, I gave +it to a German farmer from a nearby clearing to feed +to his hogs. Or rather, I traded it. The German had +a dog which, for the sake of “human interest,” Roos +very much wanted to borrow. (Why, seeing it was a +dog, he should not have called it “canine interest,” I +never quite understood; but it was the “heart touch” +he wanted, at any rate). So Ike proposed to the +“Dutchman” that we give him fifty pounds of dead +“dog” for half that weight of live dog, the latter to be +returned when we were through with him. That was +Ike’s <i>proposition</i>. As soon as we were under way, +however, he confided to me that he never was going +to give that good collie back to a Dutchman. A people +that had done what the “Dutchmen” did to Belgium +had no right to have a collie anyhow. If they +must have dogs, let them keep dachshunds—or pigs. +And he forthwith began to alienate that particular +collie’s affection by feeding him milk chocolate. Poor +old Ike! Being only a fresh-water sailor, I fear he +did not have a wife in every port, so that there was an +empty place in his heart that craved affection.</p> + +<p>We cast off at ten o’clock, Earl swung the raft’s +head out by a steady pull with the launch, and the +current completed the operation of turning. Once +in mid-stream she made good time, the motor-boat +maintaining just enough of a tug to keep the towing-line +taut and give her a mile an hour or so of way over +the current. That gave Earl a margin to work with, +and, pulling sharply now to one side, now to the other, +he kept the great pile of logs headed where the current +was swiftest and the channel clearest. It was all<span class="pagenum">[Pg 242]</span> +in using his power at the right time and in the right +way. A hundred-ton tugboat would have been helpless +in stopping the raft once it started to go in the +wrong direction. The trick was to start it right and +not let it go wrong, Ike explained—just like raising +pups or kids. It was certainly no job for a novice, +and I found constant reassurance in the consummate +“raftsmanship” our taciturn engineer was displaying.</p> + +<p>The hills on both sides of the river grew loftier and +more rugged as we ran to the south, and the trees +became patchier and scrubbier. The bunch grass on +the diminishing benches at the bends was withered and +brown. It was evident from every sign that we were +nearing the arid belt of eastern Washington, the great +semi-desert plateau that is looped in the bend of the +Columbia between the mouth of the Spokane and the +mouth of the Snake. The towering split crest of +Mitre Rock marked the approach to the slack stretch +of water backed up by the boulder barrage over which +tumbles Spokane Rapids. The run through the latter +was to be our real baptism; a short rapid passed a +few miles above proving only rough enough to set the +raft rolling in fluent undulations and throw a few +light gobs of spray over her “bows.” We were now +going up against something pretty closely approximating +the real thing. It wasn’t Hell Gate or Box +Canyon by a long way, Ike said, but at the same time +it wasn’t any place to risk any slip-up.</p> + +<p>Save for two or three of the major riffles on the Big +Bend of Canada, Spokane Rapids has a stretch of +water that must go down hill just about as fast as any +on all the Columbia. The channel—although running<span class="pagenum">[Pg 243]</span> +between boulders—was narrow in the first place, and +the deepest part of it was still further restricted by +an attempt to clear a way through for steamer navigation +in the years when a through service up and +down the Columbia was still dreamed of. The channel +was deepened considerably, but the effect of this +was to divert a still greater flow into it and form a +sort of a chute down which the water rushed as +through a flume. Being straight, this channel is not +very risky to run, even with a small boat—provided +one keeps to it. A wild tumble of rollers just to the +left of the head must be avoided, however, even by a +raft. That was why we had the motor-boat—to be +sure of “hitting the intake right,” as Ike put it. And +the motor-boat ought to be able to handle the job +without help. He had been working hard ever since +we started on a gigantic stern-sweep, but that was for +Hell Gate and Box Canyon. Here, with her nose +once in right, she should do it on her own.</p> + +<p>Mooring the raft against the right bank in the +quiet water a couple of hundred yards above the “intake,” +Earl ran us down to the mouth of the Spokane +River in the launch. We were purchasing gasoline +and provisions in the little village of Lincoln, just +below the Spokane, and Ike thought that the lower +end of the rapid would be the best place for Roos to +set up to command the raft coming through. It was +indeed terrifically fast water, but—because the launch +had the power to pick the very best of the channel—the +run down just missed the thrill that would have +accompanied it had it been up to one’s oars to keep +his boat out of trouble. Earl shut off almost com<span class="pagenum">[Pg 244]</span>pletely +as he slipped into the “V,” keeping a bare +steerage-way over the current. Twenty miles an hour +was quite fast enough to be going in the event she <i>did</i> +swerve from the channel and hit a rock; there was no +point in adding to the potential force of the impact +with the engine. As there was a heavy wash from the +rapids in even the quietest eddy he could find opposite +the town, Earl stayed with the launch, keeping her +off the rocks with a pole while Ike, Roos and myself +went foraging. Ike spilled gasoline over his back in +packing a leaking can down over the boulders, causing +burns from which he suffered considerable pain +and annoyance when he came to man the sweep the +following day.</p> + +<p>After dropping Roos on the right bank to set up for +the picture, Earl drove the launch back up the rapid +to the raft. I hardly know which was the more impressive, +the power of the wildly racing rapid or the +power of the engine of the launch. It was a ding-dong +fight all the way. Although he nosed at times +to within a few inches of the overhanging rocks of the +bank in seeking the quietest water, the launch was +brought repeatedly to a standstill. There she would +hang quivering, until the accelerating engine would +impart just the few added revolutions to the propellers +that would give her the upper hand again. The +final struggle at the “intake” was the bitterest of all, +and Earl only won out there by sheering to the right +across the “V”—at imminent risk of being swung +round, it seemed to me—and reaching less impetuous +water.</p> + +<p>Throwing off her mooring lines, Earl towed the<span class="pagenum">[Pg 245]</span> +raft out into the sluggish current. There was plenty +of time and plenty of room to manœuvre her into the +proper position. All he had to do was to bring her +into the “intake” well clear of the rocks and rollers to +the left, and then keep towing hard enough to hold +her head down-stream. It was a simple operation—compared, +for instance, with what he would have on +the morrow at Hell Gate—but still one that had to +be carried out just so if an awful mess-up was to be +avoided. Novice as I was with that sort of a raft, I +could readily see what would happen if she once got +to swinging and turned broadside to the rapid.</p> + +<p>That was about the first major rapid I ever recall +running when I didn’t have something to do, and it +was rather a relief to be able to watch the wheels go +round and feel that there was nothing to stand-by for. +Even Ike, with no sweep to swing, was foot-loose, or +rather hand-free. Knowing Earl’s complete capability, +he prepared to cast aside navigational worries +for the nonce. He had picked up his axe and was about +to turn to hewing at the blade of his big steering-oar, +when I reminded him that he was still an actor +and that he had been ordered to run up and down the +raft and register “great anxiety” while within range +of the camera.</p> + +<p>Perhaps the outstanding sensation of that wild run +was the feeling of surprise that swept over me at the +almost uncanny speed with which that huge unwieldy +mass of half submerged wood gathered way. In still +water it would have taken a powerful tug many minutes +to start it moving; here it picked up and leapt +ahead like a motor-boat. One moment it was drifting<span class="pagenum">[Pg 246]</span> +along at three miles an hour; five seconds later, having +slid over the “intake,” it was doing more than +twenty. The actual slope of that first short pitch +must have been all of one-in-ten, so that I found myself +bracing against the incline of the raft, as when +standing in a wagon that starts over the brow of a +hill. Then the pitch eased and she hit the rollers, +grinding right through them like a floating Juggernaut. +The very worst of them—haughty-headed +combers that would have sent the skiff sky-rocketing—simply +dissolved against the logs and died in hissing +anguish in the tangle of cordwood. The motion had +nothing of the jerkiness of even so large a craft as the +launch, and one noticed it less under his feet than +when he looked back and saw the wallowing undulations +of the “deck.”</p> + +<p>But best of all was the contemptuous might with +which the raft stamped out, obliterated, abolished the +accursed whirlpools. Spokane was not deep and +steep-sided enough to be a dangerous whirlpool rapid, +like the Dalles or Hell Gate, but there were still a lot +of mighty mean-mouthed “suckers” lying in ambush +where the rollers began to flatten. There was no +question of their arrogance and courage. The raft +might have been the dainty <i>Imshallah</i>, with her +annoying feminine weakness for clinging embraces, +for all the hesitancy they displayed in attacking it. +But, oh, what a difference! Where the susceptible +<i>Imshallah</i> had edged off in coy dalliance and ended +by all but surrendering, the raft simply thundered +ahead. The siren “whouf!” of the lurking brigand +was forced back down its black throat as it was lit<span class="pagenum">[Pg 247]</span>erally +effaced, smeared from the face of the water. +Gad, how I loved to see them die, after all <i>Imshallah</i> +and I had had to endure at their foul hands! <i>Imshallah</i>, +perched safely aloft on a stack of cordwood, +took it all with the rather languid interest one would +expect from a lady of her quality; but I—well, I fear +very much that I was leaning out over the “bows,” at +an angle not wholly safe under the circumstances, +and registering “ghoulish glee” at the exact point +where Roos had told me three times that I must be +running up and down in the wake of Ike and registering +“great anxiety.”</p> + +<p>As there was no stopping the raft within a mile +or two of the foot of the rapid, it had been arranged +that we should launch the skiff as soon as we were +through the worst water, and pull in to the first favourable +eddy to await Roos and his camera. It was +Ike bellowing to me to come and lend him a hand with +the skiff that compelled me to relinquish my position +at the “bow,” where, “thumbs down” at every clash, +I had been egging on the raft to slaughter whirlpools. +The current was still very swift, so that Ike was carried +down a considerable distance before making a +landing. As it was slow going for Roos, laden with +camera and tripod, over the boulders, ten or fifteen +minutes elapsed before they pushed off in pursuit of +the raft. The latter, in the meantime, had run a +couple of miles farther down river before Earl found +a stretch sufficiently quiet to swing her round and +check her way by towing up against the current.</p> + +<p>In running down to this point the raft had splashed +through a slashing bit of riffle, which I afterwards<span class="pagenum">[Pg 248]</span> +learned was called Middle Rapid locally. There was +a short stretch of good rough white water. Offhand, +it looked to me rather sloppier than anything we had +put the skiff into so far; but, as it appeared there +would be no difficulty in steering a course in +fairly smooth water to the left of the rollers, +I was not greatly concerned over it. Presently +Ike came pulling round the bend at a great rate, +and the next thing I knew <i>Imshallah</i> was floundering +right down the middle of the frosty-headed combers. +Twice or thrice I saw the “V” of her bow shoot +skyward, silhouetting like a black wedge against a +fan of sun-shot spray. Then she began riding more +evenly, and shortly was in smoother water. It was +distinctly the kind of thing she did best, and she had +come through with flying colours. Roos was grinning +when he climbed aboard, but still showed a tinge of +green about the gills. “Why didn’t you head her into +that smooth stretch on the left?” I asked. “<i>You</i> had +the steering paddle.” “I tried to hard enough,” he +replied, still grinning, “but Ike wouldn’t have it. +Said he kinda suspected she’d go through that white +stuff all right, and wanted to see if his suspicions +were correct.” And that was old Ike Emerson to +a “T.”</p> + +<p>We wallowed on through French Rapids and +Hawk Creek Rapids in the next hour, and past the +little village of Peach, nestling on a broad bench in +the autumnal red and gold of its clustering orchards. +Ike, pacing the “bridge” with me, said that they used +to make prime peach brandy at Peach, and reckoned +that p’raps.... “No,” I cut in decisively; “<i>I</i> have<span class="pagenum">[Pg 249]</span> +no desire to return to Kettle Falls.” I had jumped +at the chance to draw Ike on that remarkable up-river +journey of his after the disaster in Hell Gate, +but he sheered off at once. I have grave doubts as +to whether that strange phenomenon ever will be +explained.</p> + +<p>We were now threading a great canyon, the rocky +walls of which reared higher and higher in fantastic +pinnacles, spires and weird castellations the deeper +we penetrated its glooming depths. There had been +painters at work, too, and with colourings brighter and +more varied than any I had believed to exist outside +of the canyons of the Colorado and the Yellowstone. +Saffron melting to fawn and dun was there, and +vivid streaks that were almost scarlet where fractures +were fresh, but had changed to maroon and terra +cotta under the action of the weather. A fluted cliff-face, +touched by the air-brush of the declining sun, +flushed a pink so delicate that one seemed to be looking +at it through a rosy mist. There were intenser +blocks and masses of colours showing in vivid lumps +on a buttressed cliff ahead, but they were quenched +before we reached them in a flood of indigo and mauve +shadows that drenched the chasm as the sun dropped +out of sight. From the heights it must have been a +brilliant sunset, flaming with intense reds and yellows +as desert sunsets always are; but looking out through +the purple mists of the great gorge there was only a +flutter of bright pennons—crimson, gold, polished +bronze and dusky olive green—streaming across an +ever widening and narrowing notch of jagged rock, +black and opaque like splintered ebony. For a quarter<span class="pagenum">[Pg 250]</span> +of an hour we seemed to be steering for those shimmering +pennons as for a harbor beacon; then a sudden +up-thrust of black wall cut them off like a sliding +door. By the time we were headed west again the +dark pall of fallen night had smothered all life out +of the flame-drenched sky, leaving it a pure transparent +black, pricked with the twinkle of kindling stars. +Only by the absence of stars below could one trace the +blank opacity of the blacker black of the towering +cliffs.</p> + +<p>No one had said anything to me about an all-day-and-all-night +schedule for the raft, and, as a matter +of fact, running in the night had not entered into the +original itinerary at all. The reason we were bumping +along in the dark now was that Ike, who had no +more idea of time than an Oriental, had pushed off +from Gerome an hour late, wasted another unnecessary +hour in Lincoln yarning across the sugar barrel +at the general store, and, as a consequence, had been +overtaken by night ten miles above the point he +wanted to make. As there was no fast water intervening, +and as Earl had shown no signs of dissent, +Ike had simply gone right on ahead regardless. +When I asked him if it wasn’t a bit risky, he said he +thought not very; adding comfortingly that he had +floated down on rafts a lot of times before, and hadn’t +“allus bumped.” If he could see to tighten up +stringer pegs, he reckoned Earl ought to be able to +see rocks, “’cose rocks was a sight bigger’n pegs.”</p> + +<p>It was not long after Ike had nullified the effect of +his reassuring philosophy by smearing the end of his +thumb with a mallet that Earl’s night-owl eyes<span class="pagenum">[Pg 251]</span> +played him false to the extent of overlooking a rock. +It may well have been a very small rock, and it +was doubtless submerged a foot or more; so there was +no use expecting a man to see the ripple above it +when there wasn’t light enough to indicate the passage +of his hand before his eyes. It was no fault of Earl’s +at all, and even the optimistic Ike had claimed no +more than that he hadn’t “allus bumped.” Nor was +it a very serious matter at the worst. The raft merely +hesitated a few seconds, swung part way round, +slipped free again and, her head brought back at the +pull of the launch, resumed her way. The jar of +striking was not enough to throw a well-braced man +off his feet. (The only reason Roos fell and pulped +his ear was because he had failed to set himself at the +right angle when the shock came.) The worst thing +that happened was the loss of a dozen or so cords of +wood which, being unsecurely stacked, toppled over +when she struck. Luckily, the boat was parked on +the opposite side, as was also Roos. It would have +been hard to pick up either before morning, and +Roos would hardly have lasted. The wood was a +total loss to Ike, of course; but he was less concerned +about that than he was over the fact that it reduced +her “freeboard” on that quarter by three feet, so that +she wouldn’t make so much of a “showin’ in the picters.” +He <i>did</i> raise a howl the next morning, though. +That was when he found that his old denim jacket +had gone over with the cordwood. It wasn’t the +“wamus” itself he minded so much, he said, but the +fact that in one of that garment’s pockets had been +stored the milk chocolate which he was using to alien<span class="pagenum">[Pg 252]</span>ate +the affections of the Dutchman’s collie. “It’s +all in gettin’ a jump on a pup’s feelin’s at the fust +offsta’t,” he philosophied bitterly; “an’ naow I’ll be +losin’ mah jump.” Rather keen on the psychology +of alienation, that observation of old Ike, it struck +me.</p> + +<p>It was along toward nine o’clock, and shortly after +the abrupt walls of the canyon began to fall away +somewhat, that a light appeared on the left bank. +Making a wide circle just above what had now become +a glowing window-square, Earl brought the +raft’s head up-stream and swung her in against the +bank. The place was marked Creston on the maps, +but appeared to be spoken of locally as Halberson’s +Ferry. We spent the night with the hospitable Halbersons, +who ran the ferry across to the Colville +Reservation side and operated a small sawmill when +logs were available. Earl slept at his ranch, a few +miles away on the <i>mesa</i>.</p> + +<p>The night was intensely cold, and I was not surprised +to find icicles over a foot long on the flume +behind the house in the morning. The frozen ground +returned a metallic clank to the tread of my hob-nailed +boots as I stepped outside the door. Then I +gave a gasp of amazement, for what did I see but Ike +running—with a light, springing step—right along +the surface of the river? At my exclamation one of +the Halbersons left off toweling and came over to +join me. “What’s wrong?” he asked, swinging his +arms to keep warm. “Wrong!” I ejaculated; “look +at that! I know this isn’t Galilee; but you don’t +mean to tell me the Columbia has frozen over during<span class="pagenum">[Pg 253]</span> +the night!” “Hardly that,” was the laughing answer. +“Ike’s not running on either the ice or the water; he’s +just riding a water-soaked log to save walking. It’s +an old trick of his. Not many can do it like he can.” +And that was all there was to it. Ike had spotted a +drift-log stranded a short distance up-river, and was +simply bringing it down the easiest way so as to lash +it to the raft and take it to market. But I should +have hated to have seen a thing like that “water-walking” +effect in those long ago days on the Canadian +Big Bend, when we used to prime our breakfast +coffee with a couple of fingers of “thirty per +over-proof.”</p> + +<p>We cast off at nine-thirty, after Ike had laid in +some more “component parts” of his mighty sweep +at the little sawmill. Although less deeply encanyoned +than through the stretch down which we passed +the previous night, there were still enormously high +cliffs on both sides of the river. Trees and brush +were scarcer and scrubbier than above, and the general +aspect was becoming more and more like the +semi-arid parts of the Colorado Desert. The colouring +was somewhat less vivid than the riot in the canyon +above, but was almost equally varied. The colour-effect +was diversified along this part of the river by +the appearance of great patches of rock-growing +lichen, shading through half a dozen reds and browns +to the most delicate amethyst and sage-green. At +places it was impossible to tell from the river where +the mineral pigments left off and the vegetable coating +began.</p> + +<p>The river was broad and widening, with a compar<span class="pagenum">[Pg 254]</span>atively +slow current and only occasional stretches of +white water. I took the occasion to launch the skiff +and paddle about for an hour, trying to get some line +on the speed at which the raft was towing. In smooth +water I found I had the legs of her about three-to-one, +and in rapids of about two-to-one. From this +I figured that she did not derive more than from a +mile and a half to two miles an hour of her speed +from the launch. I only raced her through one bit +of rapid, and she was such a poor sport about the +course that I refused to repeat the stunt. Just as I +began to spurt past her down through the jumping +white caps she did a sort of a side-slip and crowded +me out of the channel and into a rather messy souse-hole. +The outraged <i>Imshallah</i> gulped a big mouthful, +but floundered through right-side up, as she +always seemed able to do in that sort of stuff. But +I pulled into an eddy and let the hulking old wood-pile +have the right-of-way, declining Earl’s tooted +challenge for a brush in the riffle immediately following. +A monster that could eat whirlpools alive wasn’t +anything for a skiff to monkey with the business end +of. I boarded her respectfully by the stern and +pulled <i>Imshallah</i> up after me.</p> + +<p>The great bald dome of White Rock, towering a +thousand feet above the left bank of the river, signalled +our approach to Hell Gate. Towing across a +broad reach of quiet water, Earl laid the raft against +the left bank about half a mile above where a pair of +black rock jaws, froth-flecked and savage, seemed +closing together in an attempt to bite the river in two.<span class="pagenum">[Pg 255]</span> +That was as close as it was safe to stop the raft, Earl +explained as we made fast the mooring lines, for the +current began to accelerate rapidly almost immediately +below. There were some shacks and an ancient +apple orchard on the bench above, and Ike came over +to whisper that they used to make some mighty kicky +cider there once upon a time, and perhaps.... I +did not need the prompting of Earl’s admonitory +head-shake. “Get a jump on you with the sweep,” I +said, “while Earl and I go down and help Roos set +up. There’ll be time enough to talk about cider below +Hell Gate.” I saw a somewhat (to judge from a +distance) Bacchantic ciderette picking her way down +the bench bank to the raft as the launch sped off down +stream, but if Ike realized dividends from the visit +there was never anything to indicate it.</p> + +<p>Although Hell Gate is a long ways from being the +worst rapid on the Columbia, it comes pretty near to +qualifying as the <i>worst looking</i> rapid. A long black +reef, jutting out from the left bank, chokes the +river into a narrow channel and forces it over +against the rocky wall on the right. It shoots +between these obstructions with great velocity, only +to split itself in two against a big rock island a hundred +yards farther down. The more direct channel +is to the right, but it is too narrow to be of use. The +main river, writhing like a wounded snake after being +bounced off the sheer wall of the island, zigzags on +through the black basaltic barrier in a course shaped +a good deal like an elongated letter “Z.” Hell Gate +is very much like either the Great or Little Dalles<span class="pagenum">[Pg 256]</span> +would be if a jog were put into it by an earthquake—a +rapid shaped like a flash of lightning, and with just +as much kick in it.</p> + +<p>After much climbing and scrambling over rocks, +Roos found a place about half way down the left side +of the jagged gorge from which he could command +the raft rounding the first leg of the “Z” and running +part of the second leg. It would have taken a half +dozen machines to cover the whole run through, but +the place he had chosen was the one which would +show the most one camera could be expected to get. +It would miss entirely the main thing—the fight to +keep the raft from bumping the rock island and splitting +in two like the river did. That could not be +helped, however. A set up in a place to catch that +would have caught very little else, and we desired to +show something of the general character of the gorge +and rapid. Roos, solacing himself with the remark to +the effect that, if the raft <i>did</i> break up, probably the +biggest part of the wreck would come down his side, +was cutting himself a “sylvan frame” through the +branches of a gnarled old screw pine as we left him +to go to the launch.</p> + +<p><a id="page256" name="page256"></a></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> +<img src="images/illo_320.jpg" width="600" height="442" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">IKE RIDING A LOG (<i>left</i>)<br /> +IKE ON THE MOORING LINE OF THE +RAFT (<i>right</i>)</span> +</div> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p><a id="page257" name="page257"></a></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 441px;"> +<img src="images/illo_321.jpg" width="441" height="600" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">RAFT IN TOW OF LAUNCH NEAR MOUTH OF SAN POIL (<i>above</i>)<br /> +IKE AT THE SWEEP BELOW HELL GATE (<i>below</i>)</span> +</div> + +<p>Ike was sitting on the bank talking with a couple +of men from the farm-house when we got back to the +raft. He had completed the sweep, he said, but as +he had forgotten to provide any “pin” to hang it on +he didn’t quite know what to do. Perhaps we had +better go up to the farm-house and have dinner first, +and then maybe he would think of something. The +thought of keeping Roos—whom I had seen on the +verge of apoplexy over a half minute delay once +<span class="pagenum">[Pg 257]</span>he was ready for action—standing with crooked elbow +at his crank, waiting an hour or more for the raft to +shoot round the bend the next second, struck me as +so ludicrous that I had to sit down myself to laugh +without risk of rolling into the river. When I finally +got my breath and sight back, I found Earl’s ready +mind had hit upon the idea of using the hickory adze-handle +as a pivot for the sweep and that he and Ike +were already rigging it. Ten minutes later the launch +had swung the raft out into the current and we were +headed for Hell Gate.</p> + +<p>The sweep, clumsy as it looked, was most ingeniously +constructed. Its handle was a four-inch-in-diameter +fir trunk, about twenty feet in length. One +end of it had been hewn down to give hand-grip on it, +and the other split to receive the blade. The latter +was a twelve-foot plank, a foot and a half in width +and three inches in thickness, roughly rounded and +hewn to the shape of the flat of an oar. It was set at +a slight upward tilt from the fir-trunk handle. Ike +had contrived to centre the weight of the whole sweep +so nicely that you could swing it on its adze-handle +pivot with one hand. Swing it in the air, I mean; +submerged, five or six men would have been none too +few to force that colossal blade through the water. +Ike admitted that himself, but reckoned that the two +of us ought to be ‘better’n nothin’ ’tall.’</p> + +<p>As we swung out into the quickening current, I +mentioned to Ike that, as I had never even seen a +sweep of that kind in operation, much less worked at +it myself, it might now be in order for him to give me +some idea of what he hoped to do with it, and how.<span class="pagenum">[Pg 258]</span> +“Ye’re right,” he assented, after ejecting the inevitable +squirt of tobacco and parking the residuary quid +out of the way of his tongue as a squirrel stows a nut; +“ye’re right; five minutes fer eloosidashun an’ +r’h’rsal.” As usual, Ike overestimated the time at his +disposal; nevertheless, his intensive method of training +was so much to the point that I picked up a +“right smart bit o’ sweep dope” before we began to +cram into the crooked craw of Hell Gate.</p> + +<p>This was the biggest raft he had ever tried to take +through, Ike explained, but he’d never had so powerful +a motor launch; and Earl was the best man in his +line on the Columbia. He reckoned that the launch +would be able to swing the head of the raft clear of the +rock island where the river split “agin” it; but swinging +<i>out</i> the head would have the effect of swinging in +the stern. We were to man the sweep for the purpose +of keeping the raft from striking amidships. We +would only have to stroke one way, but we’d sure +have to “jump into it billy hell!” “That being so,” I +suggested, “perhaps we better try a practice stroke or +two to perfect our team-work.” That struck Ike as +reasonable, and so we went at it, he on the extreme end +of the handle, I one “grip” farther along.</p> + +<p>Pressing the handle almost to our feet in order to +elevate the blade, we dipped the latter with a swinging +upward lift and jumped into the stroke. In +order to keep the blade well submerged, it was necessary +to exert almost as much force upward as forward. +The compression on the spine was rather +awful—especially as I was two or three inches taller +than Ike, and on top of that, had the “inside” berth,<span class="pagenum">[Pg 259]</span> +where the handle was somewhat nearer the deck. But +the blade moved through the water when we both +straightened into it; slowly at first, and more rapidly +toward the end of the stroke. Then we lifted the +blade out of the water, and Ike swung it back through +the air alone. I had only to “crab-step” back along +the runway—a couple of planks laid over the cordwood—and +be ready for the next stroke. Twice we +went through that operation, without—so far as I +could see—having any effect whatever upon the raft; +but that was only because I was expecting “skiff-action” +from a hundred tons of logs. We really +must have altered the course considerably, for presently +a howl came back from Earl to “do it t’other +way,” as we were throwing her out of the channel. +By the time we had “corrected” with a couple of +strokes in the opposite direction the launch was dipping +over the crest of the “intake.” Straightening +up but not relinquishing the handle, Ike said to “let +’er ride fer a minnit,” but to stand-by ready.</p> + +<p>That swift opening run through the outer portal of +Hell Gate offered about the only chance I had for a +“look-see.” My recollections of the interval that followed +at the sweep are a good deal blurred. I noted +that the water of the black-walled chasm down which +we were racing was swift and deep, but not—right +there at least—too rough for the skiff to ride. I +noted how the sharp point of the rock island ahead +threw off two unequal back-curving waves, as a battleship +will do when turning at full speed. I remember +thinking that, if I were in the skiff, I would try to +avoid the island by sheering over to the right-hand<span class="pagenum">[Pg 260]</span> +channel. It looked too hard a pull to make the main +one to the left; and the latter would have the worst +whirlpools, too. I noted how confoundedly in the +way of the river that sharp-nosed island was; and not +only of the river, but of anything coming down the +river. With that up-stabbing point out of the stream, +how easy it would be! But since....</p> + +<p>“Stan’-by!” came in a growl from Ike. “’Memba +naow—‘billy hell’ when I says ‘jump!’” By the fact +that he spat forth the whole of his freshly-bitten quid +I had a feeling that the emergency was considerably +beyond the ordinary. My last clear recollection was +of Earl’s sharply altering his course just before he +nosed into the roaring back-curving wave thrown off +by the island and beginning to tow to the left with +his line at half of a right-angle to the raft. The staccato +of his accelerating engine cut like the rattle of a +machine-gun through the heavy rumble of the rapid, +and I knew that he had thrown it wide open even before +the foam-geyser kicked up by the propellers began +to tumble over onto the stern of the launch. On a +reduced scale, it was the same sort of in-tumbling +jet that a destroyer throws up when, at the appearance +of an ominous blur in the fog, she goes from +quarter-speed-ahead to full-speed-astern. A jet like +that means that the spinning screws are meeting +almost solid resistance in the water.</p> + +<p>Ike’s shoulder cut off my view ahead now, and I +knew that the bow was swinging out only from the +way the stern was swinging in. At his grunted +“Now!” we did our curtsey-and-bow to the sweep-handle, +just as we had practised it, then dipped the<span class="pagenum">[Pg 261]</span> +blade and drove it hard to the right. Four or five +times we repeated that stroke, and right smartly, too, +it seemed to me. The stern stopped swinging just at +the right time, shooting by the foam-whitened fang +of the black point by a good ten feet. The back-curving +wave crashed down in solid green on the starboard +quarter—but harmlessly. There was water +enough to have swamped a <i>batteau</i>, but against a raft +the comber had knocked its head off for nothing.</p> + +<p>Under Ike’s assurance that the battle would all be +over but the shouting in half a minute, I had put +about everything I had into those half dozen mighty +pushes with the sweep. I started to back off leisurely +and resume my survey of the scenery as we cleared the +point, but Ike’s mumbled “Nother one!” brought me +back to the sweep again. Evidently there had been +some kind of a slip-up. “Wha’ ’smatter?” I gurgled, +as we swayed onto the kicking handle, and +“Engin’s on blink,” rumbled the chesty reply. “Gotta +keep’er off wi’ sweep.”</p> + +<p>It had been the motor-boat’s rôle, after keeping the +head of the raft clear of the point of the island by a +strong side pull, to tow out straight ahead again as +soon as the menace of collision was past. Earl was +trying to do this now (I glimpsed as I crab-stepped +back), but with two or three cylinders missing was +not able to do much more than straighten out the tow-line. +As the raft was already angling to the channel, +the fact the current was swifter against the side of +the island had the tendency to throw her stern in that +direction. It was up to the sweep to keep her from +striking, just as it had been at the point. What made<span class="pagenum">[Pg 262]</span> +it worse now was that the possible points of impact +were scattered all the way along for two or three +hundred yards, while the launch was giving very +little help.</p> + +<p>A man ought to be able to lean onto a sweep all +day long without getting more than a good comfortable +weariness, and so I <i>could</i> have done had I been +properly broken in. But I was in the wrong place +on the sweep, and, on top of that, had allowed my infantile +enthusiasm to lead me into trying to scoop +half the Columbia out of its channel at every stroke. +And so it was that when we came to a real showdown, +I found myself pretty hard put to come +through with what was needed. Ike’s relentless +“’Nother one!” at the end of each soul-and-body +wracking stroke was all that was said, but the ’tween-teethed +grimness of its utterance was more potent +as a verbal scourge than a steady stream of sulphurous +curses. Ike was saving his breath, and I didn’t +have any left to pour out my feelings with.</p> + +<p>We were close to the ragged black wall all the way, +and I have an idea that the back-waves thrown off +by the projecting points had about as much to do +with keeping us from striking as had the sweep. Such +waves will often buffer off a canoe or <i>batteau</i>, and +they must have helped some with the raft. There is +no doubt, however, that, if the raft had once been +allowed to swing broadside, either she or the rock +island would have had to change shape or else hold up +the million or so horse-power driving the Columbia. +That could have only resulted in a one-two-three +climax, with the island, Columbia and raft finishing<span class="pagenum">[Pg 263]</span> +in the order named. Or, to express it in more accurate +race-track vernacular; “Island,” first; “Columbia,” +second; “Raft,” nowhere!</p> + +<p>My spine was a bar of red-hot iron rasping up and +down along the exposed ends of all its connecting +nerves, when a throaty “Aw right!” from Ike signalled +that the worst was past. Hanging over the end +of the trailing sweep-handle, I saw that the raft had +swung into a big eddy at the foot of the island, and +that the launch, with its engine still spraying scattered +pops, was trying to help the back-current carry +her in to the right bank. Middle and Lower Rapids +of Hell Gate were still below us, but Earl had evidently +determined not to run them until his engine +was hitting on all fours again. It was characteristic +of him that he didn’t offer any explanation as to what +had gone wrong, or why; but the trouble must have +been a consequence of the terrific strain put +on the engine in towing the head of the raft +clear of the upper point of the island. At +the end of a quarter hour’s tinkering Earl reckoned +that the engine would go “purty good” now; leastways, +he hoped so, for there was nothing more he +could do outside of a machine-shop. To save tying up +again below, he ran across and picked up Roos and +the camera before casting off.</p> + +<p>Middle and Lower Rapids were just straight, fast, +white water, and we ran them without trouble. Roos +set up on the raft and shot a panorama of the reeling +rollers and the flying black curtains of the rocky +walls as they slid past. Then he made a close-up of +the weird, undulating Chinese-Dragon-wiggle of the<span class="pagenum">[Pg 264]</span> +“deck” of the raft, and finally, when we had recovered +a bit of breath, of Ike and me toiling at the +sweep. To save time, we had lunch on the raft, taking +Earl’s portion up to him in the skiff.</p> + +<p>Ike, announcing that he would need a crew of four +or five men to handle the raft in Box Canyon, was +scouting for hands all afternoon. Whenever a farm +or a ferry appeared in the distance, we would pull +ahead in the skiff and he would dash ashore and pursue +intensive recruiting until the raft had come up +and gone on down river. Then we would push off +and chase it, repeating the performance as soon as +another apple orchard or ferry tower crept out beyond +a bend. For all our zeal, there was not a man +to show when we finally pulled the skiff aboard as +darkness was falling on the river. Most of the men +Ike talked to took one look at the nearing raft and +cut him off with a “Good-night” gesture, the significance +of which was not lost on me even in the distant +skiff. The nearest we came to landing any one was +at Plum, where the half-breed ferry-man said he +would have gone if it hadn’t been for the fact that his +wife was about to become a mother. It wasn’t that +he was worried on the woman’s account (she did that +sort of thing quite regularly without trouble), but +he had bet a horse with the blacksmith that it was +going to be a boy, and he kind of wanted to be on +hand to be sure they didn’t put anything over on him.</p> + +<p>At Clark’s Ferry an old pal of Ike’s, whom he had +confidently counted on getting, not only refused to +go when he saw the raft, but even took the old river +rat aside and talked to him long and earnestly, after<span class="pagenum">[Pg 265]</span> +the manner of a brother. Ike was rather depressed +after that, and spent the next hour slouching back and +forth across the stern runway, nursing the handle of +the gently-swung sweep against his cheek like a pet +kitten. He was deeply introspective, and seemed to +be brooding over something. It was not until the next +morning that he admitted that the raft had not proved +quite as handy as he had calculated.</p> + +<p>Again we ran well into the dark, but this time in a +somewhat opener canyon than the black gorge we had +threaded the night before. It was Spring Canyon +we were making for, where Ike had left his last raft. +No one was living there, he said, but it was a convenient +place for the ranchers from up on the plateau to +come and get the wood. Earl found the place and +made the landing with not even a window-light to +guide. We moored to the lower logs of the cedar +raft, most of which was now lying high and dry on +the rocks, left by the falling river. We cooked supper +on the bank and—after Roos had deftly picked +the lock with a bent wire—slept on the floor of an +abandoned farm-house on the bench above.</p> + +<p>Ike had complained a good deal of his gasoline-burned +back during the day, and was evidently suffering +not a little discomfort from the chafing of his +woollen undershirt. He was restless during the night, +and when he got up at daybreak I saw him pick up +and shake out an old white table-cloth that had been +thrown in one corner. When I went down to the raft +a little later, I found the old rat stripped to the waist +and Earl engaged in swathing the burned back in the +folds of the white table-cloth. As the resultant bundle<span class="pagenum">[Pg 266]</span> +was rather too bulky to allow a shirt to be drawn over +it, Ike went around for a couple of hours just as he +was, for all the world like “the noblest Roman of them +all”—from neck to the waist, that is. The long, drooping, +tobacco-stained moustaches, no less than the sagging +overalls, would have had rather a “foreign” look +on the <i>Forum Romanum</i>.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page267" name="page267">[Pg 267]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER XI<br /> +<br /> +BY LAUNCH THROUGH BOX CANYON</h2> + +<p>There was plainly something on Ike’s mind all +through breakfast, but what it was didn’t transpire +until I asked him what time he would be ready to push +off. Then, like a man who blurts out an unpalatable +truth, he gave the free end of his “toga” a fling back +over his shoulder and announced that he had come to +the conclusion that the raft was too big and too loosely +constructed to run Box Canyon; in fact, we could +count ourselves lucky that we got through Hell Gate +without smashing up. What he proposed to do was to +take the biggest and straightest logs from both the +rafts and make a small, solid one that would stand any +amount of banging from the rocks. He never gave +a thought to his life when working on the river, he +declared, but it would be a shame to run an almost +certain risk of losing so big a lot of logs and cordwood. +The wreckage would be sure to be salvaged +by farmers who would otherwise have to buy wood +from him, so he would be a double loser in case the +raft went to pieces. I told him that I quite appreciated +his feelings (about the wood and logs, I mean), +and asked how long he figured it would take to get +the logs out of the old rafts and build a new one. He +reckoned it could be done in two or three days, if we +hustled. As I had already learned that any of Ike’s<span class="pagenum">[Pg 268]</span> +estimates of time had to be multiplied by at least two +to approximate accuracy, I realized at once that our +rafting voyage was at an end. We already had some +very good raft pictures, and as a few hundred yards +of the run through Box Canyon would be all that +could be added to these, it did not seem worth anything +like the delay building the new raft would impose. +As far as the sale of the wood and logs was +concerned, Ike said he would rather have the stuff +where it was than in Bridgeport.</p> + +<p>So, quite unexpectedly but in all good feeling, we +prepared to abandon the raft and have the motor-boat +take the skiff in tow as far as Chelan. This +would make up a part of the time we had lost in waiting +for the raft in the first place, and also save the +portage round Box Canyon. It was quite out of the +question venturing into that gorge in our small boat, +Earl said, but he had made it before with his launch, +and reckoned he could do it again. We settled with +Ike on a basis of twenty dollars a day for his time, out +of which he would pay for the launch. As his big +raft of logs and firewood was brought to its destination +for nothing by this arrangement, he was that +much ahead. For the further use of the launch, we +were to pay Earl ten dollars a day and buy the gasoline.</p> + +<p>We helped Ike get the raft securely moored, had +an early lunch on the rocks, and pushed off at a little +after noon, the skiff in tow of the launch on a short +painter. A few miles along Ike pointed out a depression, +high above the river on the left side, which he +said was the mouth of the Grand Coulee, the ancient +bed of the Columbia. I have already mentioned a<span class="pagenum">[Pg 269]</span> +project which contemplates bringing water from the +Pend d’Oreille to irrigate nearly two million acres of +semi-arid land of the Columbia basin. A project +that some engineers consider will bring water to the +same land more directly and at a much less cost per +acre is to build a dam all the way across the Columbia +below the mouth of the Grand Coulee, and use the +power thus available to pump sixteen thousand second-feet +into the old channel of that river. Mr. James +O’Sullivan, a contractor of Port Huron, Michigan, +who has made an exhaustive study of this latter project, +writes me as follows:</p> + +<blockquote><p>“A dam at this point could be built 300 feet high above +low water, and it would form a lake 150 miles long all the +way to the Canadian boundary. It is estimated that one +million dollars would pay all the flooding damages. A dam +300 feet high would be 4,300 feet long on the crest, and +would require about 5,000,000 cubic yards of concrete. It +would cost, assuming bedrock not to exceed 100 feet below +water, about forty million dollars. It is estimated that the +power-house, direct connected pumps, turbines and discharge +pipes would cost fifteen million dollars.... From the +Columbia River to the arid lands, a distance of less than +forty miles, there is a natural channel less than one mile wide, +flanked by rock walls on both sides, so that the cost of getting +water to the land would be primarily confined to the dam +and power. Such a dam would require about five years to +build, and it would create out of a worthless desert a national +estate of four hundred and fifty million dollars, and +the land would produce annually in crops two hundred and +seventy-five million.... An irrigation district is now +being formed in Central Washington, and it is proposed to +proceed at once with the core drilling of the dam-site, to +<span class="pagenum">[Pg 270]</span>determine the nature and depth of bedrock, which seems to +be the only question left unsettled which affects the feasibility +of the project. The Northwestern states are all in a +league for securing the reclamation of this vast area, and +there is no doubt that, if bedrock conditions prove to be +favourable, that in the near future the money will be raised to +construct this great project, which will reclaim an area +equal to the combined irrigation projects undertaken by the +U. S. Government to-day.... It is considered now that +where power is free, a pumping lift as high as 300 feet is +perfectly feasible.”</p></blockquote> + +<p>Which of these two great projects for the reclamation +of the desert of the Columbia Basin has the +most to recommend is not a question upon which a +mere river <i>voyageur</i>, who is not an engineer, can offer +an intelligent opinion. That the possibilities of such +reclamation, if it can be economically effected, are +incalculably immense, however, has been amply demonstrated. +From source to mouth, the Columbia to-day +is almost useless for power, irrigation and even +transportation. The experience of those who, lured +on by abnormal rainfalls of a decade or more ago, +tried dry farming in this region border closely on the +tragic. And the tragedy has been all the more poignant +from the fact that the disaster of drought has +overtaken them year after year with the Columbia +running half a million second-feet of water to waste +right before their eyes. I subsequently met a rancher +in Wenatchee who said the only good the Columbia +ever was to a man who tried to farm along it in the +dry belt was as a place to drown himself in when he +went broke.</p> + +<p><a id="page270" name="page270"></a></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 446px;"> +<img src="images/illo_336.jpg" width="446" height="600" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">THE SUSPENSION BRIDGE AT CHELAN FALLS (<i>above</i>)<br /> +OLD RIVER VETERANS ON THE LANDING AT POTARIS. (CAPT. +McDERMID ON LEFT, IKE EMERSON ON RIGHT) (<i>below</i>)</span> +</div> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p><a id="page271" name="page271"></a></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 449px;"> +<img src="images/illo_337.jpg" width="449" height="600" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">NIGHT WAS FALLING AS WE HEADED INTO BOX CANYON (<i>above</i>)<br /> +THE COLUMBIA ABOVE BOX CANYON (<i>below</i>)</span> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 271]</span>The rock-littered channel of Moneghan’s or Buckley’s +Rapids was easily threaded by the launch, and +Equilibrium or “Jumbo” Rapids, three miles lower +down, did not prove a serious obstruction. The official +name is the former, and was given the riffle by +Symons on account of a round-topped rock which +rolled back and forth in the current because of its +unstable equilibrium. The local name of “Jumbo” +derives from the fact that this same rolling rock has +something of the appearance of an elephant, when +viewed from a certain angle. Ten miles more of deep, +evenly-flowing water brought us to Mah-kin Rapids +and the head of Nespilem Canyon. The next twenty-four +miles, terminating at the foot of what is officially +called Kalichen Falls and Whirlpool (Box Canyon +in local nomenclature), is the fastest stretch of equal +length on the Columbia except on the Big Bend in +Canada. It is one continuous succession of rapids, +eddies and whirlpools all the way, and the much feared +Box Canyon is a fitting finale. I was distinctly glad +to be running through in a motor-boat rather than +the skiff. As to the raft, I never have been able to +make up my mind as to just how she would have +fared.</p> + +<p>The roar of the savage half-mile tumble of Mah-kin +Rapids was a fitting overture to the main performance. +The river narrows down sharply between +precipitous banks, and most of the rocks from the +surrounding hills seem to have rolled into the middle +of the channel. There was an awful mess of churned +water even where the river was deepest, and I +wouldn’t have been quite comfortable heading into it<span class="pagenum">[Pg 272]</span> +even in the launch. Earl seemed rather of the same +mind, too, for he kept edging out to the right every +time one of the big combers lurched over at him. +With the engine running like a top, he kept her in +comparatively good water all the way through. It +was a striking lesson in the value of power in running +a rapid—as long as the power doesn’t fail you.</p> + +<p>Rock-peppered rapids followed each other every +mile or two from the foot of Mah-kin, but—thanks +to Earl’s nose for the best channel—we were not taking +more than an occasional shower of spray over the +bows where the water was whitest. It was not too +rough for reading, and, anxious to prepare Roos for +what he was about to experience at Kalichen Falls +and Collision Rock, I dug out Symons’ report and +ran rapidly through the dramatic description of how +his party fared in running the sinister gorge ahead. +It seems to me rather a classic of its kind, and I am +setting it down in full, just as I read it to Roos and +Ike that afternoon in the cockpit of the launch. I +only wish I could complete the effect with the diorama +of the flying canyon walls, the swirling waters of the +river, and the obligato in duet by the roaring rapids +and the sharply hitting engine.</p> + +<blockquote><p>“The shores of Nespilem Canyon are strewn with huge +masses of black basaltic rock of all sizes and shapes, and +this continues for several miles, forming a characteristic +picture of Columbia River scenery. The complete ... +lifelessness of the scene makes it seem exceedingly wild, almost +unearthly. And so we plunge along swiftly through the +rolling water, with huge rocks looming up, now on one side +and now on the other. Every stroke of the oar is bearing +<span class="pagenum">[Pg 273]</span>us onward, nearer and nearer, to that portion of our voyage +most dreaded, the terrible Kalichen Falls and Whirlpool Rapids. +We hear the low rumbling of the water, and see the +tops of the huge half-sunken rocks and the white foam of +the tumbling waters. For a few moments the rowing ceases, +while brave old Pierre gives his orders to the Indians in +their own tongue. He knows that everything depends upon +his steering and their rowing or backing at the right moment, +with all the strength they possess. Years ago he was in a +Hudson Bay Company <i>batteau</i> which capsized in these very +rapids, and out of a crew of sixteen men eight perished in +the water or on the rocks.</p> + +<p>“The Indians make their preparations for the struggle by +stripping off all their superfluous clothing, removing their +gloves, and each ties a bright-coloured handkerchief tightly +about his head; poles and extra oars are laid ready in convenient +places to reach should they become necessary, and +then with a shout the Indians seize their oars and commence +laying to them with all their strength. We are rushing +forward at a fearful rate, owing to the combined exertions +of the Indians and the racing current, and we shudder at the +thought of striking any of the huge black rocks near which +we glide. Now we are fairly in the rapids, and our boat is +rushing madly through the foam and billows; the Indians +are shouting at every stroke in their wild, savage glee; it is +infectious; we shout too, and feel the wild exultation which +comes to men in moments of great excitement and danger. +Ugly masses of rocks show their heads above the troubled +waters on every side, and sunken rocks are discernible by +the action of the surf. Great billows strike us fore and aft, +some falling squarely over the bows and drenching us to the +waist. This is bad enough, but the worst is yet to come as +we draw near with great velocity to a huge rock which appears +dead ahead.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 274]</span></p> +<p>“Has old Pierre seen it? The water looks terribly cold +as we think of his failing eyesight. Then an order, a shout, +backing on one side and pulling on the other, and a quick +stroke of the steering oar, and the rock appears on our +right hand. Another command, and answering shout, and the +oars bend like willows as the Indians struggle to get the +boat out of the strong eddy into which Pierre had thrown +her. Finally she shoots ahead and passes the rock like a +flash, within less than an oar’s length of it, and we shout for +joy and breathe freely again....</p> + +<p>“For half a mile the river is comparatively good, and our +staunch crew rest on their oars preparatory to the next +struggle, which soon comes, as some more rocky, foamy +rapids are reached. Here the swells are very high and grand, +and our boat at one time seems to stand almost perpendicularly.” +(“Them’s Eagle Rapids,” Ike interrupted; “sloppier +’n ’ell, but straight.”)</p> + +<p>“For about nine miles further the river continues studded +with rocks and swift, with ripples every mile or so, until +we reach Foster Creek Rapids. Here the rocks become +thicker ... and the water fierce and wild. For a mile +more we plunge and toss through the foaming, roaring +water, amid wild yells from our Indian friends, and we +emerge from Foster Creek Rapids, which appear to be as +rough and dangerous a place as any we have yet encountered. +We are now out of Nespilem Canyon and through all +the Nespilem Rapids, and we certainly feel greatly relieved....”</p></blockquote> + +<p>Ike, renewing his quid, observed that they didn’t +call it Nespilem Canyon any more, for the reason that +that sounded too much like “Let’s spill ’em!” and +there was enough chance of that without asking for +it. Roos, in bravado, asked Ike if he was going to<span class="pagenum">[Pg 275]</span> +strip down like Symons’ Indians did. The old Roman +replied by pulling on a heavy mackinaw over his +“toga,” saying that he’d rather have warmth than +action once he was out in the “Columby.” That led +me to ask him—with a touch of bravado on my own +account—how long it would take him to “submarine” +from Box Canyon to Kettle Falls. He grinned a bit +sourly at that, and started slacking the lashings on +the sweeps and pike-poles. Roos was just tying a +red handkerchief round his head when Earl beckoned +him forward to take the wheel while he gave the engine +a final hurried tuning. Ike, saying that we would +be hitting “White Cap” just round the next bend, +gave me brief but pointed instructions in the use of +sweep and pike-pole in case the engine went wrong. +He had spat forth his quid again, just as at Hell Gate, +and his unmuffled voice had a strange and penetrating +<i>timbre</i>.</p> + +<p>White Cap Rapids are well named. Two rocky +points converge at the head and force all the conflicting +currents of the river into a straight, steep +channel, heavily littered with boulders and fanged +with outcropping bedrock. In that currents from +opposite sides of the river are thrown together in one +mad tumble of wallowing waters, it is much like Gordon +Rapids, on the Big Bend. If anything, it is the +rougher of the two, making up in volume what it +lacks in drop. It is a rapid that would be particularly +mean for a small boat, from the fact that there would +be no way of keeping out of the middle of it, and that +is a wet place—very. The launch had the power to +hold a course just on the outer right edge of the rough<span class="pagenum">[Pg 276]</span> +water, and so made a fairly comfortable passage of it.</p> + +<p>With the “intake” above Kalichen Falls full in +view a half mile distant, Earl went back to his engine +as we shot out at the foot of “White Cap” and gave +it a few little “jiggering” caresses—much as a rider +pats the neck of his hunter as he comes to a jump—before +the final test. Then he covered it carefully +with a double canvas and went back to the wheel. +Roos he kept forward, standing-by to take the wheel +or tinker the engine in case of emergency. The lad, +though quite without “river sense,” was a first-class +mechanic and fairly dependable at the steering wheel +providing he was told what to do.</p> + +<p>The sounding board of the rocky walls gave a deep +pulsating resonance to the heavy roar ahead, but it +was not until we dipped over the “intake” that the +full volume of it assailed us. Then it came with a +rush, a palpable avalanche of sound that impacted on +the ear-drums with the raw, grinding roar of a passing +freight train. It was not from the huge rollers the +launch was skirting so smartly that this tearing, rending +roar came, but from an enormous black rock +almost dead ahead. It was trying to do the same +thing that big island in the middle of Hell Gate had +tried to do, and was succeeding rather better. The +latter had been able to do no more than split the river +down the middle; this one was forcing the whole +stream to do a side-step, and pretty nearly a somersault—hence +Kalichen Falls and Whirlpool. Collision +Rock was distinctly impressive, even from a +launch.</p> + +<p>The sun was just dipping behind the southern wall<span class="pagenum">[Pg 277]</span> +of Box Canyon (how funky I became later, when I +was alone, about going into a rapid in that slanting, +deceptive evening light!) as the launch hit the rough +water. There was dancing iridescence in the flung +foam-spurts above the combers, and at the right of +Collision Bock the beginning of a rainbow which I +knew would grow almost to a full circle when we +looked back from below the fall. I snapped once with +my kodak into the reeling tops of the waves that +raced beside us, and then started to wind up to have a +fresh film for the rock and the crowning rainbow. +That highly artistic exposure was never made.</p> + +<p>Earl, instead of shutting off his engine as he did +in running Spokane Rapids, opened up all the wider +as he neared the barrier and its refluent wave. This +was because the danger of striking submerged rocks +was less than that of butting into that one outcrop +of ragged reef that was coming so near to throwing +the river over on its back. If the launch was to avoid +telescoping on Collision Rock as the Columbia was +doing, it must get enough way on to shoot across the +current into the eddy on the left. That was what +Earl was preparing for when he opened up the engine. +With both boat and current doing well over twenty +miles an hour, we were literally rushing down at the +rocky barrier with the speed of an express train when +Earl spun the wheel hard over and drove her sharply +to the left. That was when I stopped kodaking.</p> + +<p>In spite of the rough water, the launch had been remarkably +dry until her course was altered. Then she +made up for lost time. The next ten or fifteen seconds +was an unbroken deluge. With a great up-toss<span class="pagenum">[Pg 278]</span> +of wake, she heeled all of forty-five degrees to starboard +at the turn, seeing which, the river forthwith +began piling over her port or up-stream side and making +an astonishingly single-minded attempt to push +her on the rest of the way under. Failing in that (for +her draught was too great and her engine set too low +to make her easily capsizable), the river tried to accomplish +the same end by swamping her. Fore and +aft the water came pouring over in a solid green flood, +and kept right on pouring until Earl, having driven +through to the point he wanted, turned her head down +stream again and let her right herself.</p> + +<p>The water was swishing about my knees for a few +moments in the cockpit, and it must have been worse +than that forward. Then it drained down into the +bilge without, apparently, greatly affecting her buoyancy. +The higher-keyed staccato of the engine cut +sharply through the heavier roar of the falls. It was +still popping like a machine-gun, without a break. +Reassured by that welcome sound, Earl orientated +quickly as he shook the water from his eyes, and then +put her full at the head of the falls. Just how much +of a pitch there was at this stage of water I couldn’t +quite make out. Nothing in comparison with the cataract +there at high water (when the river rushes right +over the top of Collision Rock) certainly; and yet it +was a dizzy bit of a drop, with rather too deliberate +a recovery to leave one quite comfortable. For a few +seconds the launch’s head was deeply buried in the +soft stuff of the souse-hole into which she took her +header; the next her bows were high in the air as the +up-boil caught her. Then her propellers began strik<span class="pagenum">[Pg 279]</span>ing +into something solider than air-charged suds, and +she shot jerkily away in a current so torn with swirls +that it looked like a great length of twisted green-and-white +rope. We had missed Collision Rock by thirty +feet, and given the dreaded whirlpool behind it an +even wider berth.</p> + +<p>The next thirteen miles we did at a rate that Ike +figured must have been about the fastest travelling +ever done on the Columbia. The current runs at +from ten to twenty miles an hour all the way from the +head of Box Canyon to Bridgeport, and Earl, racing +to reach Foster Creek Rapids before it was dark, ran +just about wide open nearly the whole distance. It +was real train speed at which we sped down the darkening +gorge—possibly over forty miles an hour at +times. Earl knew the channel like a book, and said +there was nothing to bother about in the way of rocks +as long as he could see. We were out of the closely-walled +part of the canyon at Eagle Rapids, and the +sunset glow was bright upon the water ahead. There +is a series of short, steep riffles here, extending for a +mile and a half, and Earl slammed right down the +lot of them on the high. Ike was right about their +being sloppy, but the beacon of the afterglow gave +the bearing straight through. Two miles further on +the river appeared suddenly to be filled with swimming +hippos—round-topped black rocks just showing +above the water; but each one was silhouetted against +a surface that glinted rose and gold, and so was as +easy to miss as in broad daylight.</p> + +<p>It was all but full night as the roar of Foster Creek +Rapids began to drown the rattle of the engine, with<span class="pagenum">[Pg 280]</span> +only a luminous lilac mist floating above the south-western +mountains to mark where the sun had set; +but it was enough—just enough—to throw a glow of +pale amethyst on the frothy tops of the white-caps, +leaving the untorn water to roll on in fluid anthracite. +Earl barely eased her at the head, and then +plunged her down a path of polished ebony, with the +blank blur of rocks looming close on the right and an +apparitional line of half-guessed rollers booming +boisterously to the left. For three-quarters of a mile +we raced that ghostly Ku-Klux-Klan procession, and +Roos, who was timing with his radium-faced watch, +announced that we had made the distance in something +like seventy seconds. Then there was quieter +water, and presently the lights of Bridgeport. Earl +put us off opposite the town, and ran down a quarter +of a mile farther to get out of the still swiftly-running +current and berth the launch in a quiet eddy +below the sawmill.</p> + +<p>Bridgeport, for a town a score of miles from the +railway, proved unexpectedly metropolitan, with electric +lights, banks, movie theatres, and a sign at the +main crossing prohibiting “Left Hand Turns.” The +people, for a country town, showed very diverting +evidences of sophistication. At the movies that night +(where we went to get the election returns), they +continually laughed at the villain and snickered at +the heroine’s platitudinous sub-titles; and finally, +when word came that it was Harding beyond all +doubt, they forgot the picture completely and gave +their undivided attention to joshing the town’s only +avowed Democrat. The victim bore up fairly well as<span class="pagenum">[Pg 281]</span> +long as his baiters stuck to “straight politics,” but +when they accused him of wearing an imitation leather +coat made of brown oil-cloth, the shaft got under his +armour. With a ruddy blush that was the plainest +kind of a confession of guilt, he pushed out to the +aisle and beat a disorderly retreat.</p> + +<p>A prosperous apple farmer sitting next me (he +had been telling me what his crop would bring the +while the naturally vamp-faced heroine was trying +to register pup-innocence and “gold-cannot-buy-me” +as the villain was choking her) sniffed contemptuously +as the discomfited Democrat disappeared through the +swinging doors. “Seems to feel worse about being +caught with an imitation coat than about being an +imitation politician. Better send him to Congress!” +Now <i>wasn’t</i> that good for a small town that didn’t +even have a railroad? I’ve known men of cities of all +of a hundred thousand, with street cars, municipal +baths, Carnegie libraries and women’s clubs, who +hadn’t the measure of Congress as accurately as that. +I wish there had been time to see more of Bridgeport.</p> + +<p>It was down to twelve above when we turned out +in the morning, with the clear air tingling with frost +particles and incipient ice-fringes around the eddies. +Fortunately, Earl had bailed both boats the night before +and drained his engine. Just below Bridgeport +the river, which had been running almost due west +from the mouth of the Spokane River, turned off to +the north. In a slackening current we approached +the small patch of open country at the mouth of the +Okinagan. The latter, which heads above the lake +of the same name in British Columbia, appears an<span class="pagenum">[Pg 282]</span> +insignificant stream as viewed from the Columbia, and +one would never suspect that it is navigable for good-sized +stern-wheelers for a considerable distance above +its mouth. On the right bank of the Columbia, just +above the mouth of the Okinagan, is the site of what +was perhaps the most important of the original Astor +posts of the interior. As a sequel to the war of 1812 +it was turned over to the Northwest Company, and +ultimately passed under the control of Hudson Bay. +I could see nothing but a barren flat at this point +where so much history was made, but a splendid apple +orchard occupies most of the fertile bench in the loop +of the bend on the opposite bank.</p> + +<p>The mouth of the Okinagan marks the most northerly +point of the Washington Big Bend of the Columbia. +From there it flows southwesterly for a few +miles to the mouth of the Methow, before turning almost +directly south. We passed Brewster without +landing, but pulled up alongside a big stern-wheeler +moored against the bank at Potaris, just above the +swift-running Methow Rapids. It was the <i>Bridgeport</i>, +and Ike had spoken of her skipper, whom he +called “Old Cap,” many times and with the greatest +affection. “Old Cap” proved to be the Captain McDermid, +who had run the <i>Shoshone</i> down through +Grand Rapids, and who was rated as the nerviest +steamer skipper left on the Columbia.</p> + +<p>Captain McDermid was waiting on the bow of his +steamer to give us a hand aboard. He had read of +our voyage in the Spokane papers, he said, and had +been on the lookout for several days. At first he had +watched for a skiff, but later, when he had heard that<span class="pagenum">[Pg 283]</span> +we had pushed off with Ike on a raft, it was logs he +had been keeping a weather eye lifting for. When +Ike described the raft to him, he wagged his head +significantly, and said he reckoned it was just as well +we had changed to the launch for Box Canyon. “It +isn’t everybody that can navigate under water like +this old rat here,” he added, giving Ike a playful prod +in the ribs.</p> + +<p>As we were planning to go on through to the mouth +of the Chelan River, in the hope of getting up to the +lake that afternoon, an hour was the most I could +stop over on the <i>Bridgeport</i> for a yarn with Captain +McDermid, where I would have been glad of a +week. He told me, very simply but graphically, of +the run down Grand Rapids, and a little of his work +with stern or side-wheelers in other parts of the world, +which included a year on the upper Amazon and about +the same time as skipper of a ferry running from the +Battery to Staten Island. Then he spoke, with a +shade of sadness, of the <i>Bridgeport</i> and his plans +for the future. In all the thousand miles of the Columbia +between the Dalles and its source, she had +been the last steamer to maintain a regular service. +(This was not reckoning the Arrow Lakes, of course). +But the close of the present apple season had marked +the end. Between the increasing competition of railways +and trucks, the game was no longer worth the +candle. He, and his partners in the <i>Bridgeport</i>, +had decided to try to take her to Portland and offer +her for sale. She was very powerfully engined and +would undoubtedly bring a good price—once they +got her there. But getting her to Portland was the<span class="pagenum">[Pg 284]</span> +rub. There were locks at the Cascades and the Dalles, +but Rock Island, Cabinet, Priest and Umatilla, +to say nothing of a number of lesser rapids would +have to be run. It was a big gamble, insurance, of +course, being out of the question on any terms. The +<i>Douglas</i>, half the size of the <i>Bridgeport</i>, had +tried it a couple of months ago, and—well, we would +see the consequences on the rocks below Cabinet Rapids. +Got through Rock Island all right, and then +went wrong in Cabinet, which wasn’t half as bad. +Overconfidence, probably, “Old Cap” thought. But +he felt sure that <i>he</i> would have better luck, especially +if he went down first and made a good study of Rock +Island and Priest; and that was one of the things +that he had wanted to see me about. If there was +room for him in the skiff, he would like to run through +with us as far as Pasco, and brush up on the channel +as we went along. If things were so he could get +away, he would join us at Wenatchee on our return +from Chelan. I jumped at the chance without hesitation, +for it would give us the benefit of the experience +and help of the very best man on that part of +the Columbia in getting through the worst of the +rapids that remained to be run. I had been a good +deal concerned about how the sinister cascade of Rock +Island was to be negotiated, to say nothing of the +long series of riffles called Priest Rapids, which had +even a worse record. I parted with Captain McDermid +with the understanding that we would get in +touch by phone a day or two later, when I knew definitely +when we would return to the river from Chelan, +and make the final arrangements.<span class="pagenum">[Pg 285]</span></p> + +<p>Leaving Ike on the <i>Bridgeport</i> for a yarn with +his old friend, we pushed off in the launch for Chelan. +Methow Rapids, just below the river of that name, +was the only fast water encountered, and that was a +good, straight run in a fairly clear channel. We +landed half a mile below the mouth of the Chelan +River, where the remains of a road led down through +the boulders to the tower of an abandoned ferry. Earl +put about at once and headed back up-stream, expecting +to pick up Ike at Potaris and push on through to +Bridgeport that evening.</p> + +<p>We parted from both Earl and Ike in all good +feeling and with much regret. Each in his line was +one of the best men I have ever had to do with. Ike—in +spite of the extent to which his movements were +dominated by the maxim that “time is made for +slaves,” or, more likely, for that very reason—was a +most priceless character. I only hope I shall be able +to recruit him for another river voyage in the not-too-distant +future.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page286" name="page286">[Pg 286]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER XII<br /> +<br /> +CHELAN TO PASCO</h2> + +<p>For two reasons I am writing but briefly of our +visit to Lake Chelan: first, because it was entirely incidental +to the Columbia voyage, and, second, because +one who has only made the run up and down this +loveliest of mountain lakes has no call to write of it. +Chelan is well named “Beautiful Water.” Sixty +miles long and from one to four miles wide, cliff-walled +and backed by snowy mountains and glaciers, +it has much in common with the Arrow Lakes of the +upper Columbia, and, by the same tokens, Kootenay +Lake. Among the large mountain lakes of the world +it has few peers.</p> + +<p>The Chelan River falls three hundred and eighty-five +feet in the four miles from the outlet of the lake +to where it tumbles into the Columbia. It is a foam-white +torrent all the way, with a wonderful “Horse-shoe” +gorge near the lower end which has few rivals +for savage grandeur. One may reach the lake from +the Columbia by roads starting either north or south +of the draining river. We went by the latter, as it +was the more conveniently reached from the ferry-man’s +house where we had left our outfit after landing. +The town of Chelan, at the lower end of the +lake, is a lovely little village, with clean streets, bright +shops, and a very comfortable hotel. I have forgotten +the name of the hotel, but not the fact that it +serves a big pitcher of thick, yellow cream with every<span class="pagenum">[Pg 287]</span> +breakfast. So far as my own experience goes, it is +the only hotel in America or Europe which has perpetuated +that now all but extinct ante-bellum custom. +In case there may be any interested to know—even +actually to enjoy—what our forefathers had with +their coffee and mush, I will state that three transcontinental +railways pass within a hundred miles to the +southward of Chelan. It will prove well worth the +stop-over; and there is the lake besides.</p> + +<p>The lower end of Lake Chelan is surrounded by +rolling hills, whose fertile soil is admirably adapted +to apples, now an important industry in that region; +the upper end is closely walled with mountains and +high cliffs—really an extremely deep gorge half filled +with water. Indeed, the distinction of being the +“deepest furrow Time has wrought on the face of the +Western Hemisphere” is claimed for upper Chelan +Lake—this because there are cliffs which rise almost +vertically for six thousand feet from the water’s edge, +and at a point where the sounding lead has needed +nearly a third of that length of line to bring it back +from a rocky bottom which is indented far below the +level of the sea.</p> + +<p>The head of Chelan is far back in the heart of the +Cascades, in the glaciers of which its feeding streams +take their rise. The main tributaries are Railroad +Creek, which flows in from the south about two-thirds +of the way up, and Stehekin River, which comes in +at the head. These two streams are credited with +some of the finest waterfalls, gorges and cliff and +glacier-begirt mountain valleys to be found in North +America, and it is possible to see the best of both in<span class="pagenum">[Pg 288]</span> +the course of a single “circular” trip by packtrain. +To my great regret, it was not practicable to get an +outfit together in the limited time at our disposal. +The best we could do so late in the season was a hurried +run up to Rainbow Falls, a most striking cataract, +three hundred and fifty feet in height, descending +over the cliffs of the Stehekin River four miles +above the head of the lake. Roos made a number of +scenic shots here, but on a roll which—whether in the +camera or the laboratory it was impossible to determine—was +badly light-struck. Similar misfortune +attended a number of other shots he made (through +the courtesy of the Captain of the mail launch in running +near the cliffs) of waterfalls tumbling directly +into the lake. There are many slips between the cup +and the lip—the camera and the screen, I should say—in +scenic movie work.</p> + +<p><a id="page288" name="page288"></a></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> +<img src="images/illo_356.jpg" width="600" height="459" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">A ROCKY CLIFF NEAR HEAD OF LAKE +CHELAN (<i>left</i>)<br /> + +RAINBOW FALLS, 350 FEET HIGH, ABOVE +HEAD OF LAKE CHELAN (<i>right</i>)</span> +</div> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p><a id="page289" name="page289"></a></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 437px;"> +<img src="images/illo_357.jpg" width="437" height="600" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">WENATCHEE UNDER THE DUST CLOUD OF ITS SPEEDING +AUTOS (<i>above</i>)<br /> +HEAD OF ROCK ISLAND RAPIDS (<i>below</i>)</span> +</div> + +<p>We arrived back at the town of Chelan in time for +lunch on the sixth of November, and a couple of hours +later were down at the Columbia ready to push off +again. I had been unable to get in touch with Captain +McDermid by phone, but was confident that he +would turn up in good time at Wenatchee. As there +was nothing between that point and the mouth of the +Chelan in the way of really bad water, I had no hesitation +in making the run without a “pilot.” Launching +<i>Imshallah</i> below the old ferry-tower at two +o’clock, we reached the little town of Entiat, just +above the river and rapids of that name, at five. The +skiff rode higher with Captain Armstrong and his +luggage out, her increased buoyancy compensating +in a measure for the less intelligent handling she had. +<span class="pagenum">[Pg 289]</span>Roos took the steering paddle in the stern, and I continued +rowing from the forward thwart. All of the +luggage was shifted well aft. The current was fairly +swift all the way, but the two or three rapids encountered +were not difficult to pass. Ribbon Cliff, two +thousand feet high and streaked with strata of yellow, +grey and black clays, was the most striking physical +feature seen in the course of this easy afternoon’s +run.</p> + +<p>Entiat is a prosperous little apple-growing centre, +and, with the packing season at its height, was jammed +to the roof with workers. Rooms at the hotel +were out of the question. Roos slept on a couch in +the parlour, which room was also occupied by three +drummers and two truck drivers. I had a shakedown +on a canvased-in porch, on which were six beds +and four cots. My room-mates kept me awake a good +part of the night growling because their wages had +just been cut to seven dollars a day, now that the rush +was over. I would have been the more surprised that +any one should complain about a wage like that had +not a trio of farmettes—or rather packettes—at the +big family dinner table been comparing notes of their +takings. One twinkling-fingered blonde confessed to +having averaged thirteen dollars a day for the last +week packing apples, while a brown-bloomered brunette +had done a bit better than twelve. The third +one—attenuated, stoop-shouldered and spectacled—was +in the dumps because sore fingers had scaled +her average down to ten-fifty—“hardly worth coming +out from Spokane for,” she sniffed. Roos tried to +engage them in conversation, and started out auspi<span class="pagenum">[Pg 290]</span>ciously +with a description of running Box Canyon. +But the gimlet-eyed thin one asked him what he got +for doing a thing like that, and promptly their interest +faded. And why <i>should</i> they have cared to waste +time over a mere seventy-five-dollar-a-week cameraman? +But it was something even to have eaten pumpkin +pie with the plutocracy.</p> + +<p>The swift-flowing Entiat River has dumped a good +many thousand tons of boulders into the Columbia, +and most of these have lodged to form a broad, shallow +bar a short distance below the mouth of the +former. The Columbia hasn’t been able quite to make +up its mind the best way to go here, and so has hit on +a sort of a compromise by using three or four channels. +Roos found himself in a good deal the same sort of +dilemma when we came rolling along there on the +morning of the seventh, but as a boat—if it is going +to preserve its entity as such—cannot run down more +than one channel at a time, <i>Imshallah</i> found the attempt +at a compromise to which she was committed +only ended in butting her head against a low gravel +island. It was impossible to make the main middle +channel from there, but we poled off without much +difficulty and went bumping off down a shallow channel +to the extreme right. She kissed off a boulder once +or twice before winning through to deeper water, but +not hard enough to do her much harm. It was a distinctly +messy piece of work, though, and I was glad +that Ike or Captain Armstrong was not there to see +their teachings put into practice.</p> + +<p>The river cliffs became lower as we ran south, and +after passing a commanding point on the right bank<span class="pagenum">[Pg 291]</span> +we came suddenly upon the open valley of the Wenatchee, +the nearest thing to a plain we had seen in +all the hundreds of miles from the source of the Columbia. +There are not over twenty to thirty square +miles of land that is even comparatively level here, +but to eyes which had been wont for two months to +seek sky-line with a forty-five degree upward slant +of gaze it was like coming out of an Andean pass +upon the boundless Pampas of Argentina. Wenatchee +was in sight for several miles before we reached +it, an impressive water-front of mills, warehouses and +tall buildings. Over all floated a dark pall, such as +one sees above Pittsburgh, Birmingham, Essen or any +other great factory city, but we looked in vain for the +forest of chimneys it would have taken to produce that +bituminous blanket. As we drew nearer we discovered +that what we had taken to be smoke was a +mighty dust-cloud. It was a Sunday at the height of +the apple-packing season, and all the plutocratic +packettes were joy-riding. There were, it is true, +more Fords than Rolls-Royces in the solid double +procession of cars that jammed the main street for a +mile, but that was doubtless because the supply of the +former had held out better. I can’t believe that the +consideration of price had anything to do with it.</p> + +<p>The hotel, of course, was full, even with the dining-room +set thick with cots, but by admiring a haberdashery +drummer’s line of neck-ties for an hour, I +managed to get him to “will” me his room and bath +when he departed that afternoon. Roos employed +similar strategy with a jazz movie orchestra fiddler, +but his train didn’t pull out until four-thirty in the<span class="pagenum">[Pg 292]</span> +morning. A young reporter from the local paper +called for an interview in the afternoon, and told us +the story of the <i>Douglas</i>, the steamer which Captain +McDermid had mentioned as having been lost in +trying to take her to Portland. Selig had gone along +to write the story of the run through Rock Island +Rapids, the first to be reached and the place which +was reckoned as the most dangerous she would have +to pass. When she had come out of that sinister gorge +without mishap, he had them land him at the first +convenient place in the quiet water below, from where +he made his way to the railway and hurried back to +Wenatchee with his story. That he had seen all the +best of the excitement, he had no doubt. A quarter +of an hour after Selig left her, the <i>Douglas</i> was a +total wreck on the rocks below Cabinet Rapids. He +didn’t know just how it had happened, but said we +would find what was left of her still where she had +struck.</p> + +<p>Wenatchee is the liveliest kind of a town, and +claims to be the largest apple-shipping point in the +United States. It also has a daily paper which claims +to be the largest in the world in a city of under ten +thousand population. I can easily believe this is true. +I have seen many papers in cities of fifty or a hundred +thousand that were not to be compared with it +for both telegraphic and local news. Banks are on +almost every corner for a half dozen blocks of the +main street of Wenatchee, and every one seems to +have a bank account. I saw stacks of check-books +by the cashiers’ desks in restaurants and shops, and<span class="pagenum">[Pg 293]</span> +in one of the ice cream parlours I saw a young packette +paying for her nut sundae with a check.</p> + +<p>No word came from Captain McDermid during the +day, and after endeavouring to reach him by phone all +of the following forenoon, I reluctantly decided to +push on without him. This was a good deal of a disappointment, +not only because I felt that I was going +to need his help mighty badly, but also because I was +anxious to see more of him personally. A man who +will take a steamer containing his wife and children +down Rickey’s Rapids of the Columbia isn’t to be met +with every day. Roos was anxious to get a picture of +the “Farmer Who Would See the Sea” working his +way down Rock Island Rapids, and as his machine +was about the most valuable thing there was to lose +in getting down there, it seemed up to me to do what +I could. But for the first time since we pushed off +to run the Big Bend, I unpacked and kept out my inflatable +“Gieve” life-preserver waistcoat, which I had +worn in the North Sea during the war, and which I +had brought along on the “off chance.” Selig came +down with his Graflex to get a photo of our departure +for the <i>World</i>, but declined an invitation for another +run through Rock Island Rapids.</p> + +<p>There is a long and lofty highway bridge spanning +the Columbia half a mile below Wenatchee, which +fine structure also appears to be used on occasion as +a city dump. That it was functioning in this capacity +at the very moment we were about to pass under it +between the two mid-stream piers did not become +apparent until the swift current had carried us so<span class="pagenum">[Pg 294]</span> +close that it was not safe to try to alter course either +to left or right. There was nothing to do but run the +gauntlet of the swervily swooping dust-tailed comets +whose heads appeared to run the whole gamut of discard +of a rather extravagant town of eight thousand +people, all disdainful of “used” things. It would +have been a rare chance to renew our outfit, only most +of the contributions were speeding too rapidly at the +end of their hundred-foot drop to make them entirely +acceptable. “Low bridge!” I shouted to Roos, and +swung hard onto my oars, yelling a lung-full at every +stroke in the hope that the busy dumpers might stay +their murderous hands at the last moment. Vain +hope! My final frightened upward glance told me +that the nauseous cataclysm was augmenting rather +than lessening.</p> + +<p>I put <i>Imshallah</i> into some mighty nasty looking +rapids with a lot less apprehension than I drove her +into that reeking second-hand barrage, that Niagara +of things that people didn’t want. Doubtless it was +the fact that <i>I</i> wanted the stuff still less than they did +that lent power to my arms and gave me a strength +far transcending that of ordinary endeavour. Roos +swore afterward that I lifted her right out of the +water, just as a speeding hydroplane lifts at the top +of its jump. This may have been so; but if it was, +Roos sensed it rather than saw it, for his humped +shoulders were folded tightly over his ducked head, +like the wings of a newly hatched chicken. Anyhow, +the little lady drove through safely, just as she always +had. But where she had always emerged dewy-fresh +and dancing jauntily on the tips of her toes from the<span class="pagenum">[Pg 295]</span> +roughest of rapids, here she oozed out upon an oil-slicked +stream with the “Mark of the Beast” on her +fore and aft. I mean that literally. That accursed +little “White Wings” that sat up aloft to take toll of +the life of poor Jack, must have had some kind of a +slaughter-house dumping contract—and <i>Imshallah</i> +got a smothering smear of the proceeds. Also +a trailing length of burlap and a bag of cinders. As +the latter burst when it kissed off my shoulder, Roos’ +joke about my wearing sack-cloth-and-ashes was not +entirely without point. The only article of value accruing +was the shaving-brush which fell in Roos’ lap. +He felt sure it must have been thrown away by mistake, +for it had real camel’s-hair bristles, and he liked +it better than his own—after the ashes had worked out +of it. And yet it might have been a lot worse. I only +<i>heard</i> the splash of the wash-boiler that must have hit +just ahead of her, but the sewing machine that grazed +her stern jazzed right across my line of vision.</p> + +<p>Up to that time Surprise Rapids of the Big Bend +of Canada had stood as the superlative in the way of a +really nasty hole to go through; from then on “Surprise +Rapids of Wenatchee Bridge” claimed pride of +place in this respect.</p> + +<p>Swabbing down decks as best we could without +landing, we pushed ahead. I was anxious to get down +to Rock Island Rapids in time to look over the channels, +if not to start through, before dark. We should +have known better than to treat a dainty lady like +<i>Imshallah</i> in that way. It was bad enough to have +subjected her to the indignity of running the garbage +barrage; not to give her a proper bath after it was un<span class="pagenum">[Pg 296]</span>pardonable. +At least that was the way she seemed +to look at it, and so I never felt inclined to blame her +for taking matters into her own hands. Wallowing +through a sharp bit of rapid a mile below the bridge +washed the outside of her bright and clean as ever, +but it was the stain of that slaughter-house stuff on +the inside that rankled. She was restive and cranky +in the swirls and eddies all down a long stretch of +slack water running between black basalt islands, and +as the river narrowed and began to tumble over a +boisterous rapid above the Great Northern Railway +bridge, she began jumping about nervously, like a +spirited horse watching his chance for a bolt.</p> + +<p>It was Roos’ business, of course, to watch where +she was going, but he made no claim of being a qualified +steersman; so that there was really no excuse for +my failing to watch our capricious lady’s symptoms +and keep a steadying hand on her. Probably I <i>should</i> +have done so had not a freight train run out on the +bridge just as we neared the head of the rapid, throwing +out so striking a smoke-smudge against a background +of sun-silvered clouds that I needs must try +for a hurried snapshot. That done, we were close to +the “V” of the drop-off, and I had just time to see +that there were three or four rather terrifying rollers +tumbling right in the heart of the riffle, evidently +thrown up by a jagged outcrop of bedrock very close +to the surface. I would never have chanced putting +even a big <i>batteau</i> directly into so wild a welter, but, +with fairly good water to the left, there was no need +of our passing within ten feet of the centre of disturbance. +The course was so plain that I do not re<span class="pagenum">[Pg 297]</span>call +even calling any warning to Roos as I sat down +and resumed my oars. Each of us claimed the other +was responsible for what followed, but I think the +real truth of it was that <i>Imshallah</i> had made up her +mind to have a bath without further delay, and +couldn’t have been stopped anyhow.</p> + +<p>I never did see just what hit us, nor how we were +hit; for it all came with the suddenness of a sand-bagging. +Roos was stroking away confidently, and appeared +to be singing, from the movement of his lips. +The words, if any, were drowned in the roar. All at +once his eyes became wild and he lashed out with a +frenzied paddle-pull that was evidently intended to +throw her head to the left. The next instant the +crash came—sudden, shattering, savage. I remember +distinctly wondering why Roos’ eyes were shifted +apprehensively upward, like those of a man who fancies +he is backing away from a bombing airplane. +And I think I recall spray dashing two or three +lengths astern of us, before the solid battering ram +of the water hit me on the back, and Roos in the face. +And all <i>Imshallah</i> did was to stand straight up on +her hind legs and let little demi-semi-quivers run up +and down her back like a real lady exulting in the +tickle of a shower-bath. Then she lay down and let +the river run over her; then reared up on her hind legs +again. Twice or thrice she repeated that routine, +when, apparently satisfied that her ablutions were +complete, she settled down and ran the rest of the +rapid sedately and soberly, and, I am afraid, without +much help from either oars or paddle. I have +always thought Roos was particularly happy in his<span class="pagenum">[Pg 298]</span> +description of how it looked for’ard just after that +first big wave hit us. “The top of that comber was +ten feet above your head,” he said, “and it came curving +over you just like the ‘canopy’ of a ‘Jack-in-the-Pulpit.’”</p> + +<p>With <i>Imshallah</i> rather more than half full of +water, and consequently not a lot more freeboard for +the moment than a good thick plank, it was just as +well that no more rapids appeared before we found a +patch of bank flat enough to allow us to land and +dump her. Fresh as a daisy inside and out, she was +as sweet and reasonable when we launched her again +as any other lady of quality after she has had her +own way. Not far below the bridge we tied up near +the supply-pipe of a railway pumping station on the +left bank. With the black gorge of Rock Island +Rapids three-quarters of a mile below sending up an +ominous growl, this appeared to be the proper place +to stop and ask the way.</p> + +<p>The engineer of the pumping-station said that he +knew very little about the big rapid, as he had only +been on his present job for a week. He had only seen +the left-hand channel, and, as an old sailor, he was +dead certain no open boat ever launched could live +to run the lower end of it. He said he thought the +safest way would be to put the skiff on his push-car, +run it down the tracks a couple of miles, and launch +it below the worst of the rapids. I told him we might +be very glad to do this as a last resort, but, as it would +involve a lot of time and labour, I would like to look +at the rapid first. He told us to make free of his +bunk-house in case we spent the night there, and sug<span class="pagenum">[Pg 299]</span>gested +we call in at a farm house a couple of hundred +yards down the track and talk with an old man there, +who would probably know all about the rapid.</p> + +<p>That proved to be a good tip. The farmer turned +out to be an old-time stern-wheeler captain, who had +navigated the upper Columbia for many years in the +early days. He was greatly interested in our trip, +and said that we ought to have no great trouble with +the rapids ahead, that is, as long as we didn’t try to +take undue liberties with them. The safest way to +get through would be to land at the head of the big +island that divided the channels and line right down +the left side of it. It would be pretty hard work, but +we ought not to get in wrong if we took our time. He +was sorry he couldn’t go down and look the place +over with us, but it happened that his youngest daughter +was being married that evening, and things were +sort of crowding for the rest of the day. <i>That</i> explained +why the yard was full of flivvers, and the numerous +dressed-up men lounging around the porches. +We decided that the groom was the lad, with an aggressively +fresh-shaven gill, who was being made the +butt of a joke every time he sauntered up to a new +group, and that the bride was the buxom miss having +her chestnut hair combed at a window, with at least +half a dozen other girls looking on.</p> + +<p>Roos was very keen to have the wedding postponed +to the following morning, and changed to an <i>al fresco</i> +affair which he could shoot with good light. With a +little study, he said, he was sure he could work it into +his “continuity.” Perhaps, for instance, the +“Farmer-Who-Would-See-the-Sea” +might start them off on<span class="pagenum">[Pg 300]</span> +their honeymoon by taking them a few miles down +river in his boat. That would lend “heart interest and....” +I throttled that scheme in the bud before my +impetuous companion could broach it to the principals. +I wasn’t going to tempt the providence that had +saved me whole from the wrath of Jock o’ Windermere +by taking a chance with any more “bride stuff.”</p> + +<p>The black-walled gorge of Rock Island is one of +the grimmest-looking holes on the Columbia, and of +all hours of the day sunset, when the deep shadows +are banking thick above the roaring waters, is the +least cheery time to pay it a visit. Somewhat as at +Hell Gate, the river splits upon a long, rocky island, +the broader, shallower channel being to the right, and +the narrower, deeper one to the left. The upper end +of the right-hand channel was quiet and straight; indeed, +it was the one I would have been prompted to +take had not the old river captain at the farm-house +inclined to the opinion that the lining on the other +would be easier. The former had been the course +Symons had taken, and he mentioned that the lower +end was very crooked and rocky. I decided, therefore, +to brave the difficulties that I could see something +of in advance rather than to blunder into those +I knew not of. Although the left channel began to +speed up right from the head, I saw enough of it to +be sure that we could run at least the upper two-thirds +of it without much risk, and that there was then +a good eddy from which to land on the side next to +the railroad. This was the head of the main fall—an +extremely rough cascade having a drop of ten feet in +four hundred yards. Down that we would have to<span class="pagenum">[Pg 301]</span> +line. I was quite in agreement with the pump-station +man that no open boat would live in those wildly rolling +waters. Fearful of complications, I restrained +Roos from accepting an invitation to the wedding, and +we turned in early for a good night’s sleep at the +pump-station bunk-house.</p> + +<p>The game old octogenarian had asked me especially +to hail him from the river in the morning, so that he +could go down and help us through the rapids. I +should have been glad indeed of his advice in what I +knew would be a mighty awkward operation, but had +not the heart to disturb him when I saw there was no +curl of smoke from the kitchen chimney when we +drifted by at eight o’clock. The roar of fast and furious +revelry had vied with the roar of the rapids pretty +well all night, culminating with a crescendo leading up +to the old shoe barrage at about daybreak. It didn’t +seem quite human to keep the old boy lining down river +all morning after lining up against that big barrel of +“sweet cider” all night.... (No, I hadn’t missed +that little detail; that was one of the reasons I had +kept Roos away). So we drifted on down toward +the big noise alone. The pump-man promised he +would come down to help as soon as his tank was +filled, but that wouldn’t be for an hour or more.</p> + +<p>Rock Island Rapids are in a gorge within a gorge. +The black water-scoured canyon with the foam-white +river at the bottom of it is not over fifty feet +deep in the sheer. Back of high-water mark there is +a narrow strip of bench on either side, above which +rises a thousand feet or more of brown bluff. The +eastern wall still cast its shadow on the river, but the<span class="pagenum">[Pg 302]</span> +reflection of the straw-yellow band of broadening +light creeping down the western bluff filled the gorge +with a diffused golden glow that threw every rock and +riffle into sharp relief. It was a dozen times better +to see by than the blinding brilliance of direct light, +and, knowing just what to expect for the next quarter-mile, +I ran confidently into the head of the rapid. +Early morning is the hour of confidence and optimism +on the flowing road; evening the hour of doubt, indecision +and apprehension.</p> + +<p>A submerged rock at the entrance to the left channel, +which I had marked mentally from the high bank +the night before as an obstacle to be avoided, proved +rather harder to locate from water level; but Roos +spotted it in time to give it a comfortable berth in +shooting by. Then the abrupt black walls closed in, +and we ran for three hundred yards in fast but not +dangerous water. The current took us straight into +the eddy I had picked for a landing place, and the +skiff slid quietly into a gentle swirling loop of back-water, +with nothing but a huge jutting rock intervening +between that secure haven and the brink of the +fall. So far all had gone exactly as planned. Now +we were to see how it looked for lining.</p> + +<p>Roos set up on a shelf and cranked while I lined +round the projecting rock, an operation which proved +unexpectedly simple once it was started right. At +my first attempt I failed to swing the boat out of the +eddy, and as a consequence she was brought back +against the rock and given rather a stiff bump. The +next time I launched her higher up, and paying out +plenty of scope, let her go right out into the main<span class="pagenum">[Pg 303]</span> +current and over the “intake” of the fall. It took +brisk following up to keep the line from fouling, and +after that was cleared I didn’t have quite as much +time as I needed to take in slack and brace myself for +the coming jerk. The result was <i>Imshallah</i> got such +a way on in her hundred feet of run that, like a <i>locoed</i> +broncho pulling up and galloping off with its picket-pin, +she took me right along over and off the big rock +and into the water below. To my great surprise, +where I was expecting to go straight into the whirlpool +one usually finds behind a projecting rock, I +landed in water that was both slack and comparatively +shallow. Recovering quickly from my stumble, I +braced against the easy current and checked the runaway +with little trouble. Roos, who had missed the +last part of the action, wanted me to do that jump +and stumble over again, but the ten foot flop down +onto the not very deeply submerged boulders was a +bit too much a shake-up to sustain for art’s sake.</p> + +<p>Now that it was too late to line back, I saw why it +was the old captain had advised working down the +side of the island. The left bank of the cascade +(which latter was tumbling close beside me now), +was all but sheer. Only here and there were there +footings close to the water, so that the man with the +line would have to make his way for the most part +along the top of the rocky wall. <i>He</i> could get along +all right, but there was no place where a man could +follow the boat and keep it off with a pole. It might +have been managed with a man poling-off from the +boat itself, but I hardly felt like urging Roos to take +the chance. It was out of the question trying to line<span class="pagenum">[Pg 304]</span> +back up the “intake” of the fall, but there <i>was</i> one +loop-hole which looked worth exploring before risking +an almost certain mess-up in trying to work down +the side of the cascade.</p> + +<p>I have mentioned that I had expected to find a +whirlpool under the big jutting rock. The only reason +there wasn’t one was because what at high water +must have been a very considerable back channel +took out at this point and acted as a sort of safety-valve. +There was still a stream a few inches deep +flowing out here, running off to the left into a dark +cavernous-looking crack in the bedrock. That water +had to come back to the river somewhere below, and +there was just a chance that the boat could be squeezed +through the same way. At any rate, there was not +enough of a weight of water to do any harm, and it +ought not to be hard to “back up” in the event it +proved impossible to push on through. Leaving +Roos to set up and shoot a particularly villainous +whirlpool he had discovered, I dragged the skiff +through the shallow opening and launched it into a +deep black pool beyond.</p> + +<p>Poling from pool to pool, I entered a miniature +gorge where I was presently so walled in by the rock +that the raw roar of the cascade was muffled to a +heavy, earth-shaking rumble. This tiny canyonette +opened up at the end of a hundred yards to a sheer-walled +rock-bound pool, evidently scoured out by the +action of a high-water whirlpool. This turned out +to be an enormous “pot-hole,” for I had to avoid the +water-spun boulder, which had been the tool of the +sculpturing River God, in pushing into the outlet<span class="pagenum">[Pg 305]</span> +crack. The latter was so narrow and overhanging +that I had to lie down and work the skiff along with +my up-raised hands. Twenty yards of that brought +me out to a winding little lake, less steeply walled +than the gorge above, but apparently closed all the +way round, even at the lower end. I was in a complete +<i>cul de sac</i>. A gurgling whirlpool showed where +the water escaped by a subterranean passage, but that +was plainly no place to take a lady, especially a lady +of quality like <i>Imshallah</i>.</p> + +<p>Tying <i>Imshallah</i> up to a boulder to prevent her +amiable weakness for rushing to the embraces of +whirlpools getting the better of her, I climbed up a +steeply-sloping pitch of bedrock and looked down to +the head of a long narrow arm of quiet water. The +gay little waterfall breaking forth from the rock beneath +my feet was leaping directly into the main +stream of the Columbia—and below the cascade. A +stiff thirty or forty-foot portage, and we were +through. We might have to wait for the pump-man +to help us lift the boat up that first pitch, but he +ought to be along almost any time now.</p> + +<p>Taking a short-cut back across the water-washed +rock, I found Roos just completing his shots of the +cascade. The sun was on the latter now, and its dazzling +whiteness threw it into striking relief against +the sinister walls between which it tumbled. Save the +first two falls of Surprise Rapids, there is not a savager +rush of water on the upper Columbia than this +final three hundred yards of the left-hand channel of +Rock Island. Roos was delighted with the way it +showed up in his finder, and even more pleased when<span class="pagenum">[Pg 306]</span> +he learned that we were not going to have to line the +boat down it. Then he had one of his confounded +inspirations. That portage over the reef of bedrock, +with the little waterfall in the background, would +photograph like a million dollars, he declared; but to +get the full effect of it, and to preserve “continuity,” +the “farmer” ought to do it alone. It wouldn’t do to +include the pump-man in the picture, now that the +“farmer” was supposed to be travelling alone. If I +<i>had</i> to have his help, all right; only it wouldn’t do to +shoot while the other man was in the picture. But it +<i>would</i> really be the “Cat’s ears” if the “farmer” could +make it on his own. He wouldn’t have to make +that big pull-up without stopping; he could jerk +the boat along a foot or two at a time, and then get +his breath like the pursued villain did in the processional +finales of knockabout comedies. Then he +showed me how, by resuming the same grip on the +boat and the same facial expression at each renewed +attack, the action could be made to appear practically +continuous.</p> + +<p>Well, I fell for it. Tom Sawyer was not more +adroit in getting out of white-washing his fence than +was Roos in getting out of that portage job. He +wanted to preserve “continuity” by starting back at +the head of the cascade, but we compromised by making +it the “pot-hole.” Emerging to the lakelet, I +registered “extreme dejection” at finding my progress +blocked, and “dull gloom” as I landed and climbed +up for a look-see. But when I reached the top of the +reef and discovered the quiet water below, like sunlight +breaking through a cloud, I assumed as nearly as<span class="pagenum">[Pg 307]</span> +I knew how an exact imitation of an expression I had +seen on the face of Balboa in a picture called “First +Sight of the Pacific.” “That’s the ‘Cat’s ears,’” encouraged +Roos; “now snake the boat over—and make +it snappy!”</p> + +<p>I made it snappy, all right; but it was my spine +that did most of the snapping. And it wasn’t a foot +at a time that I snaked the boat over. (Roos had +been too optimistic on that score); it was by inches. +Roos took infinite pains in coaching me as to “resuming +grip and expression;” but even so, I am afraid the +finished film will display considerable jerkiness in +its “continuous action.” I gained some solace by calling +Roos names all the time, and so must again beg +“lip-readers” who see the picture to consider the provocation +and not judge too harshly. Once tilted over +the crest of the reef, the boat took more holding than +hauling. Being pretty well gone in the back and +knees, she got away from me and slid the last ten +feet, giving her bottom a bumping that it never did +entirely recover from. I was caulking incipient leaks +all the way to Portland as a consequence of that confounded +“one man” portage.</p> + +<p>Just as we had loaded up and were ready to push +off, the pump-man breezed along and asked us to +give him a passage as far as Columbia River station, +two or three miles below. He wanted to take an oar, +but as the distance was short and the current swift, I +told him it was not worth bothering with. So he laid +the oar he had taken out along the starboard gunwale, +and knelt just aft the after thwart, facing forward. +Roos always claimed that it was the loom of<span class="pagenum">[Pg 308]</span> +the pump-man’s back cutting off his view ahead that +was responsible for the little diversion that followed. +A good part of the blame was doubtless my own for +not keeping a sharper watch over my shoulder, as I +certainly should have done had I been alone. In any +event, <i>Imshallah’s alibi</i> was complete. She behaved +through it all like a real thoroughbred.</p> + +<p>There was a sinuous tangle of swirls where the +right-hand and left-hand cascades flew at each other’s +throats at the lower end of the rock island, and then a +gay stretch of sun-dazzled froth where the teeth of a +long reef menaced all the way across the channel; +then a stretch of lazily-coiling green-black water, +flowing between lofty brown cliffs and broken here +and there with the loom of house-like rocks of shattered +basalt. The roar of Rock Island died down in +muffled <i>diminuendo</i>, and it seemed mighty good to +have that diapason muttering in bafflement astern +rather than growling in anticipation ahead. There +was only one little rapid between here and the siding, +the pump-man said, and it wouldn’t bother us much as +there was plenty of room to get by. He was right—for +the most part.</p> + +<p>I took a good look at the riffle as we headed down +to it. It was a short stretch of rough, noisy water, +but nothing that would have had to be avoided except +for a single big roller in the middle of it. As this was +throwing a great dash of spray high in the air every +now and then, I felt sure the rock responsible for it +was very slightly submerged—perhaps not more than +a few inches. As this was so obviously an obstacle to +steer well clear of, it never occurred to me to give<span class="pagenum">[Pg 309]</span> +Roos any especial warning about it, especially as he +continued standing and sizing up the situation for half +a minute after I had resumed my oars. The main +current ran straight across the riffle, but with fifty +feet of clear water to the left there was no need of +getting into any of the worst of it, let alone trying to +hurdle that foam-throwing rock.</p> + +<p>Leaning hard on my oars, I had good steerage-way +on the skiff by the time she dipped over into the fast-running +water. Roos was cuffing jauntily at the +wave crests, and singing. Because of the sequel, I +remember particularly it was “Dardanella” that was +claiming his attention. Two or three times he had +maintained that he was a “lucky fella” before I saw +what seemed to me to be mingled dissent and perturbation +gathering in the pump-man’s steel-grey eyes. +Then, all of a sudden, he gave vocal expression to his +doubts. “You won’t think you’re a ‘lucky fella’ if +you put her onta that rock,” he yelled over his shoulder. +Turning at the finish of my stroke, I saw that +big spray-flipping comber about two lengths away, +and <i>dead ahead</i>, looking savager than ever. Trailing +my right oar, I pulled every ounce I could bring to +bear upon my left, trying to throw her head toward +the better water. The next instant I was all but falling +over backwards as the oar snapped cleanly off in +the oar-lock. I recall perfectly the gleam of the long +copper nails which had weakened it, and the fresh +fracture of the broken spruce.</p> + +<p>The weight I put onto my right oar in saving myself +from tumbling backward had the effect of throwing +her head in just the opposite direction I had in<span class="pagenum">[Pg 310]</span>tended. +Since she could hardly have avoided hitting +the big roller anyhow, once she was so near, it is +probably better that she hit it squarely than sidling. +The crash was solid, almost shattering in its intensity, +and yet I am not sure that she hit the rock at all. If +she did, it was a glancing blow, for she could not possibly +have survived anything heavier.</p> + +<p>The pump-man, true to his sailor instincts, kept +his head perfectly in the face of the deluge that had +engulfed him. The spare oar was lying ready to +hand, and he had it waiting for me in the oar-lock by +the time I was on an even keel again. The second +wave, which she rode on her own, threw <i>Imshallah’s</i> +head off a bit, but by the time she was rising to the +third I was helping her again with the oars. Seeing +how well she was taking it, I did not try to pull out +of the riffle now, but let her run right down through +it to the end. Only the first wave put much green +water into her, but even that had not filled her anywhere +nearly so deep as she had been the evening +before. When we beached her below Columbia River +station we found her starboard bow heavily dented, +but even that did not convince me that we had hit the +big rock. I am rather inclined to think that denting +was done when I did my lone-hand portage at Rock +Island. I was dead sorry I couldn’t persuade that +pump-man to throw up his job and come along with +us. He had the real stuff in him.</p> + +<p><a id="page310" name="page310"></a></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 429px;"> +<img src="images/illo_380.jpg" width="429" height="600" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">THE PICTURE THAT COST ME A WETTING (<i>above</i>)<br /> +THE WRECK OF THE "DOUGLAS" (<i>below</i>)</span> +</div> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p><a id="page311" name="page311"></a></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> +<img src="images/illo_381.jpg" width="600" height="449" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">WE COOKED OUR BREAKFAST IN THE GALLEY OF THE WRECK OF THE +“DOUGLAS” (<i>left</i>)<br /> +A ROCKY CLIFF ABOVE BEVERLY (<i>right</i>)</span> +</div> + +<p>After having lunch in the railway men’s eating +house at Columbia River, we went down to push off +again. Finding the local ferry-man examining the +skiff, I asked him if he thought she would do to run +<span class="pagenum">[Pg 311]</span>Cabinet Rapids, which we could hear rumbling a mile +below. “Not if you try to push them out of the river +the way you did that riffle above here a while ago,” +he replied with a grin. He said he had been watching +us through his glass, and that the boat had disappeared +from sight for three or four seconds when she +hit the big roller. He offered to bet his ferry-boat +against the skiff that we couldn’t do it again and +come through right-side-up. No takers. Speaking +seriously, he said that, by keeping well to the left, we +could run Cabinet all right—if nothing went wrong. +“But better not make a practice of breaking an oar +just where you’re going to need it most,” he added +with another grin; “there’s nothing on the river that +would live through the big riffle over against the right +bank. You’ll see what she did to the <i>Douglas</i>.”</p> + +<p>Landing from the slack water above a rocky point +which juts out into the river at the head of Cabinet +Rapids, we climbed a couple of hundred yards over +water-scoured boulders to the brink of the gorge. It +was a decidedly rough-looking rapid, but by no means +so hopeless for running with a small boat as Rock +Island. In that the main riffle was thrown against a +sheer bank of the river, it reminded me a good deal +of Death Rapids on the Big Bend. But this riffle, +while appearing fully as rough as that of the dreaded +<i>Dalles des Morts</i>, was not, like the latter, unavoidable. +The chance of passing it in only fairly broken water +to the left looked quite good enough to try. The +wreck of the <i>Douglas</i>, standing out white and stark +against the black boulders a mile below, was a good +warning against taking any unnecessary chances. I<span class="pagenum">[Pg 312]</span> +looked well to the oars and the trim of the boat before +shoving off.</p> + +<p>Once out into the river, I could see that the rapid +was white from bank to bank, but still nothing that +ought to trouble us seriously. I stood for a minute +or two looking ahead from the vantage of one of the +thwarts, and it was just as I was taking up my oars +again in the quickening current that the corner of my +eye glimpsed the narrow opening of a deep back-channel +winding off between splintered walls of columnar +basalt to the left. I wasn’t looking for any +more one-man portages, but this opening looked good +enough to explore. It might lead through by an easy +way, and there was hardly enough water to do much +harm if it didn’t. It took hard pulling to sheer off +from the “intake” now we had drifted so close, but +we finally made it and entered the dark back-channel. +Narrowing and broadening, just as the other had +done, it led on for a couple of hundred yards, finally +to discharge over a six-foot fall into a deeply indented +pool that opened out to the river about half way down +the rapid. The wedge-shaped crack at the head of the +little fall was narrower than the skiff at water-line, +but by dint of a little lifting and tugging we worked +her through and lowered her into the pool below. +Pulling out through the opening, we headed her confidently +into the current. There was a quarter-mile +of white water yet, but we were far enough down now +so that the loss of an oar or any other mishap wouldn’t +leave the skiff to run into those wallowing rollers over +against the further cliff. A sharp, slashing run carried +us through to the foot of Cabinet Rapids, and a<span class="pagenum">[Pg 313]</span> +few minutes later we had hauled up into an eddy +under the left bank opposite the wreck of the +<i>Douglas</i>.</p> + +<p>The little stern-wheeler had come to grief at high-water, +so that we had to clamber all of three hundred +yards over big, smooth, round boulders to reach the +point where the wreck was lying. The latter was by +no means in so bad a shape as I had expected to find it. +The principal damage appeared to have been done to +the wheel, which was clamped down tight over a huge +boulder, and to the starboard bow, which was stove in. +The rest of her hull and her upper works were intact; +also the engines, though terribly rusty. There was +not much from which one could reconstruct the story +of the disaster; in fact, I have not learned to this day +any authentic details. The chances are, however, that +the wheel struck a rock somewhere in Cabinet Rapids, +and, after that, drifting out of control, she had come +in for the rest of the mauling. If her captain is like +the rest of the Columbia River skippers I met, I have +no doubt that she will be patched up again before +next high-water and started off for Portland.</p> + +<p>With towering cliffs on both sides and the great +black boulders scattered all around, Roos felt that +both subject and setting were highly favourable for +an effective movie, and started to think out a way to +work the wreck of the <i>Douglas</i> into his “continuity.” +After some minutes of brown study, he declared that +the best way to work it would be for the “farmer” to +land, come clambering across the boulders registering +“puzzled wonderment,” and then to stand in silent +contemplation of the wreck, registering “thankful<span class="pagenum">[Pg 314]</span>ness.” +“Thankfulness for what?” I demanded; “it +doesn’t strike me as Christian to gloat over the wreck +of a ship.” “You don’t get me at all,” he expostulated. +“I don’t mean for him to show thankfulness +because of the wreck of the steamer, but because his +own boat has so far escaped a similar fate. He just +stands here with his arms folded, casts his eyes upward, +moves his lips as if....”</p> + +<p>“Nothing doing,” I cut in decisively. “If you’d +been raising beans and hay and apricots as long as I +have, you’d know that a farmer never registers thankfulness +about anything but a rise in the market, and +there ain’t no such thing any more.” While we were +arguing that moot point, the sun dipped behind the +loftily looming wall of brown-black cliff across the +river and the trouble settled itself automatically. +Because there was no longer light, Roos thought it +would be a good stunt to camp where we were until +morning, and as a camp was always “continuity”—there +we were!</p> + +<p>There was plenty of cordwood left, and the galley +stove was in good condition. As we had no candles, +dinner was cooked by the mingled red and green +gleams of the port and starboard lights, transferred to +the galley for that purpose. I slept in the cook’s +cabin and Roos—with his bed made up on the wire +springs from the Captain’s cabin—on the deck of the +galley. With water freezing half an inch thick in the +coffee-pot on the galley stove, we had an insufferably +cold night of it—one of the worst we spent on the river. +In the morning Roos made his “camp shots,” which +consisted principally of the farmer chopping cord<span class="pagenum">[Pg 315]</span>wood +on the main deck, building a fire in the galley +stove and cooking breakfast. Out of deference to +my esoteric knowledge of the way farmers feel about +things, he consented to omit the “thankfulness stuff.”</p> + +<p>Shoving off into a steady six-mile current at nine-thirty, +a few minutes brought us in sight of a striking +basaltic island, which Symons had characterized as +“one of the most perfect profile rocks in existence.” +“Approaching it from the north,” he wrote, “it presents +a striking likeness to the profile of Queen Victoria.... +Coming nearer to it and passing it on the +west, the profile changes and merges into a more +Grecian and Sphinx-like face, whose placid immobility +takes one’s mind involuntarily to far-off Egypt. +It rises from the surface of the water about a hundred +feet, and a pair of eagles have selected it as their home, +and upon its extreme top have built a nest, giving, as +it were, a crown to this goddess of the Columbia.”</p> + +<p>Roos declared himself strong for that “Sphinx +stuff,” and had his camera set up in the bow ready +for a close-up of every change of expression. He was +doomed to disappointment. The first thing we discovered +missing was the crowning eagles’ nest, and +then Victoria’s nose, mouth and chin. Her brow and +hair were there, but both considerably eroded and +inroad-ed by the weather. The “Grecian-and-Sphinx-like +face” we never did locate, although I +pulled around the island twice in search of them. +Roos declared her an “oil can,” and packed up his +camera in supreme disgust. That was, I believe, the +last time he had it set up on the Columbia.</p> + +<p>As Lieutenant Symons had proved so invariably<span class="pagenum">[Pg 316]</span> +accurate in all of his topographical descriptions, I am +strongly inclined to the belief that floods and the +elements had conspired to wreak much havoc with +“Victoria’s” features in the forty years that had +elapsed since he limned them so strikingly with pen +and pencil. I have known fairly stonily-featured +ladies to change almost as much in a good deal less +than forty years.</p> + +<p>Cabinet Rapids is the beginning of a somewhat +irregular series of columnar basaltic cliffs which wall +in the Columbia closely for the next thirty miles. +They range in height from fifteen hundred to three +thousand feet, and in colour from a rich blend of saffron-cinnamon, +through all the shades of brown, to a +dull black. The prevailing formation is that of upended +cordwood, but there are endless weird stratifications +and lamiations, with here and there queer +nuclei that suggest sulphur crystallizations. Imbedded +in the face of one of these cliffs not far from +the tumultuous run of Gualquil Rapids, is a landmark +that has been famous among Columbia <i>voyageurs</i> +for over a hundred years. This is huge log, +barkless and weather-whitened, standing on end in +the native basalt. Over a thousand feet above the +river and almost an equal distance from the brink of +the sheer wall of rock, there is no possible question of +its having been set there by man. The descriptions +written of it a hundred years ago might have been +written to-day. Whether it is petrified or not, there +is no way of knowing. The only possible explanation +of its presence is that it was lodged where it is at a +time when the Columbia flowed a thousand feet<span class="pagenum">[Pg 317]</span> +higher than it does to-day, probably before it tore its +great gorge through the Cascades and much of what +is now eastern Washington was a vast lake.</p> + +<p>On the suggestion of the ferry-man at Trinidad, we +avoided the upper half of Gualquil Rapids by taking +a straight, narrow channel to the right, which would +probably have been dry in another week. There is a +half mile of fast, white water here, ending with some +heavy swirls against a sheer cliff, but nothing seriously +to menace any well-handled open boat. The +water was slack for a number of miles from the foot +of Gualquil, but began quickening where the river +spread out between long gravel bars below Vantage +Ferry. They were shunting sheep across at the latter +point, and the Portuguese herders crowded eagerly +round our boat, making strange “high signs” and +voicing cryptic utterances, evidently having something +to do with a local bootleggers’ code. At our +failure to respond in kind, they became suspicious +(doubtless the fact that Roos was wearing a second-hand +Canadian officer’s uniform he had bought in +Revelstoke had something to do with it) that we were +prohibition enforcement officials, and they were muttering +darkly to each other and shaking their heads +as we pushed off again.</p> + +<p>The cliffs ran out not long after we left Vantage +Ferry, and as we neared the Chicago, Milwaukee and +St. Paul Bridge at Beverly rough patches of sandy +desert began opening up on either side. Deprived of +the shelter of the high river walls, we were at once exposed +to a heavy easterly wind that had evidently +been blowing all day on the desert. The sun dulled<span class="pagenum">[Pg 318]</span> +to a luminous blur behind the pall of the sand-filled +air, and the wind, which headed us every now and +then, about neutralized the impulse of the accelerating +current. There was a forty-miles-an-hour sand-storm +blowing when we beached the boat under the +railway bridge at four-thirty. The brilliantly golden-yellow +cars of the C. M. & St. P. Limited rumbling +across above behind their electric locomotive +seemed strangely out-of-place in the desolate landscape.</p> + +<p>The one sidewalk of the town’s fragment of street +was ankle-deep in sand as we buffetted our way to +the hotel. “Have you ever been in Beverly before?” +asked the sandy-haired (literally) girl who responded +to the jangle of the cowbell on the counter. “But +I should know better than that,” she apologized with +a blush as she blew off the grit on the register; “’cause +if you had been here once, you’d sure never be here +again. What’s the game, anyhow? You haven’t...?” +A knowing twitch of a dusty eyelash finished +the question.</p> + +<p>“No, we haven’t,” growled Roos irritably. Somehow +he was never able to extract half the amusement +that I did over being taken for a boot-legger.</p> + +<p>It was the sand-storm that broke Roos’ heart, I +think. He was non-committal at supper that night +when I started to talk about Priest Rapids, and the +next morning, after describing his shave as like rubbing +his face with a brick, he announced that he was +through with the Columbia for good. As there was a +good deal to be said for his contention that, between +the shortening days and the high cliffs walling in the<span class="pagenum">[Pg 319]</span> +river, there were only two or three hours of good +shooting light even when the sun was out, I did not +feel justified in urging him to go on unless he wanted +to. In any event, light for filming the running and +lining of Priest Rapids, now that the sand-storm was +at its height, was out of the question for a day or two +at least. And below Priest Rapids there would be +nothing worth filming until the mouth of the Snake +was passed. I suggested, therefore, that he should +go on to Pasco by train and await me there, finding +out in the meantime by wire whether Chester cared +to have him continue the “farmer” picture in the face +of the adverse light conditions.</p> + +<p>By this time I had fairly complete data on Priest +Rapids. These, beginning at the end of a stretch of +slack water several miles below Beverly, continue for +eleven miles. In this distance there are seven major +riffles, with considerable intervals of fairly quiet water +between. It seemed probable that all of these, with +the exception of the second and seventh, and possibly +the sixth, could be run. The lining of the others, +while not difficult, would require the help of another +man. All that morning I inhaled sand as I went +over Beverly with a fine-toothed comb in a very +earnest effort to find some one willing to give me a +hand through Priest Rapids. The nearest I came to +success was an ex-brakeman, who said he would go +with me after the storm was over, provided a job +hadn’t turned up in the meantime. The only real +river-man I found was an old chap who opined that +the middle of November was too late in the year to +be getting his feet—if nothing else—wet in the “Co<span class="pagenum">[Pg 320]</span>lumby.” +He offered to haul the boat to the foot of +the rapids by the road for twenty dollars, but as the +down-river branch of the Milwaukee presented an opportunity +to accomplish the same end in less time and +discomfort, I decided to portage by the latter. As +there was an auto-stage service from Hanford to +Pasco, Roos accompanied me to the former point by +train, and helped get the boat down to the river and +into the water in the morning. Hanford was not the +point on the line closest to the foot of Priest Rapids, +but I took the boat through to there because the station +was nearer the river than at White Bluffs, and +launching, therefore, a simpler matter.</p> + +<p>The stretch of seventy miles between the foot of +Priest Rapids and the mouth of the Snake has the +slowest current of any part of the Columbia above the +Dalles. Mindful of the time we had been losing by +stops for lunch, I now began putting into practice a +plan which I followed right on to the end of my voyage. +Taking a package of biscuit and a couple of +bars of milk chocolate in my pocket, I kept the river +right straight on through to my destination. Munching +and resting for an hour at noon, I at least had the +benefit of the current for this period. Eating a much +lighter lunch, I also gained the advantage of no longer +being troubled with that comfortable <i>siesta</i>-time +drowsiness that inevitably follows a hearty meal and +disinclines one strongly to heavy exertion for an hour +or more.</p> + +<p>For a dozen miles or more below Hanford the river, +flanked on either side by rolling desert sand-dunes, +winds in broad shallow reaches through a region des<span class="pagenum">[Pg 321]</span>olate +in the extreme. The only signs of life I saw for +many miles were coyotes slinking through the hungry +sage-brush and occasional flocks of geese, the latter +forerunners of the countless myriads that were to keep +me company below the Snake. At Richfield the results +of irrigation became evident in young apple +orchards and green fields of alfalfa, and these multiplied +all the way down to Pasco. The country seemed +very flat and monotonous after so many weeks among +cliffs and mountains, but there was no question of its +richness and productivity once water was brought to +it. The low overflow flats about the mouth of the +Yakima, which flows into the Columbia from the west +a few miles above Pasco, gave little indication of the +beauty of the famous apple country which owes so +much to the waters diverted from that little river.</p> + +<p>After pulling for an hour with the long Northern +Pacific bridge in view, I landed just below the Pasco-Kennewick +ferry at three o’clock. As I was beaching +the boat and getting out the luggage to leave in the +ferry-man’s house-boat, a hail from the river attracted +my attention. It was from Roos, in the front seat of +an auto, on the approaching ferry-boat. His stage +had been behind time in leaving Hanford, and as a +consequence I had beaten him to the Pasco landing +by ten minutes. After the speed with which we had +moved on the upper river, however, mine had been +rather a slow run. In spite of my steady pulling, it +had taken me just under six hours to do the thirty-five +miles.</p> + +<p>After the exchange of a wire or two, Roos obtained +permission from Chester to suspend the “farmer”<span class="pagenum">[Pg 322]</span> +picture, and was ordered on to New York to report. +We were both a good deal disappointed not to have a +pictorial record of the “farmer” actually seeing the +sea; in fact, we did some hours of “location” scouting +in the hope of finding a substitute Pacific in the +vicinity of Pasco. If that Beverly sand-storm had +only made itself felt seventy-five miles farther down +river I honestly believe we would have accomplished +our worthy end. There was a pretty bit of white +beach below the N. P. bridge. <i>If</i> the sand had been +blowing thick enough to obscure the farther shore, +and <i>if</i> the wind had blown in the right direction to +throw up a line or two of surf, I could have stood +with one foot on that beach, the other on <i>Imshallah’s</i> +bow, elbow on knee, chin in hand, and registered “fulfilment,” +and none could have told it from the real +Pacific. Indeed, that bit of backwash from Pasco’s +outfall sewer, with the sand-barrage and surf I have +postulated, would have “shot” <i>more</i> like the Pacific +than many spots I can think of looking off to the +Columbia bar.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page323" name="page323">[Pg 323]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER XIII<br /> +<br /> +PASCO TO THE DALLES</h2> + +<p>The only lone-hand river voyage I had ever taken +previous to the one on which I was about to embark +was down the lower Colorado River, from Needles to +the head of the Gulf of California. This had been in +comparatively quiet water all the way, with nothing +much to look out for save the tidal bore at the lower +end. As I had never been above the Dalles on the +lower Columbia, I had very little idea of what I would +encounter in the way of rapids. I knew that there +were locks by which the Dalles and Cascades could +be passed, but as the combined fall at these points +accounted for only about a quarter of that between the +Snake and tide-water, it was certain there must still +be some very swift rapids to run. That there had at +times been a steamer service maintained from the +Snake down meant that there must be some sort of a +rock-free channel through all of the riffles; but it did +not necessarily mean that these were runnable in a +small boat. A properly handled stern-wheeler can +be drifted down and (by means of line and capstan) +hauled up rapids where not even a high-powered +launch can live. I had a list of about a score of the +principal rapids between the Snake and Celilo Falls, +with their distances from the Canadian Boundary +by river. This would enable me to know approximately +<i>where</i> I was going to find them. That was all.<span class="pagenum">[Pg 324]</span> +Information on fall, channel and the best means of +running them I would have to pick up as I went along.</p> + +<p>I shoved off from Pasco Ferry at nine o’clock in +the morning of Sunday, November fourteenth. With +Roos and his blanket-roll, camera and tripod out of +the stern, I found that the skiff trimmed better when +I rowed from the after thwart. She pulled easier and +handled a lot more smartly now. It was evident, +however, that her increased freeboard was going to +make her harder to hold to her course with head winds, +but these I hoped to have little trouble with until I +reached the gorge of the Cascades. The ferry-man +assured me that I would encounter no really bad +water until I came to the last pitch of Umatilla +Rapids, about thirty-five miles below. He advised +me to take a good look at that before putting into it, +as an unbroken reef ran almost directly across the +current and the channel was not easy to locate. It +was the most troublesome bar to navigation on the +lower Columbia, and steamers were repeatedly getting +in trouble there. I would see the latest wreck a +couple of miles below the foot of the rapids.</p> + +<p>I passed the mouth of the Snake about three miles +below the ferry. Here was no such spectacular meeting +of waters as occurs when the Pend d’Oreille and +Columbia spring together, for the country is low and +level, and the mouth of the Snake broad and shallow. +The discharge was through two channels, and the +water greenish-grey in colour; but where that blend +in the swift tributaries of the upper river suggests the +intense coldness of glacial origin, here the picture +conjured up was of desert and alkali plains. Its<span class="pagenum">[Pg 325]</span> +mouth is the least interesting part of the Snake. It +has some magnificent canyons in its upper and middle +waters—as have also its two fine tributaries, the Salmon +and Clearwater,—and its Shoshone Falls are +second only to Niagara on the North American continent.</p> + +<p>Lieutenant Symons, who concluded his exploration +of the upper Columbia at the Snake, characterizes the +region as a “bleak, dreary waste, in which for many +miles around sage-brush and sand predominate ... +one of the most abominable places in the country to +live in.” Alexander Ross, on the other hand, writing +seventy years earlier, describes it as one of the loveliest +lands imaginable. The fact that the one reached +the Snake in the fall and the other in the spring may +have had something to do with these diametrically +opposed impressions. Irrigation and cultivation have +gone far to redeem this land from the desert Symons +found it, but it is still far from being quite the Paradise +Ross seemed to think it was. As the only considerable +plain touching the Columbia at any point in +its course, this region of the Snake can never make the +scenic appeal of the hundreds of miles of cliff-walled +gorges above and below; but it is a land of great potential +richness. With water and power available +from the two greatest rivers of the West, there can be +no question of its future, both agriculturally and industrially. +Pasco will yet more than fulfil the promises +made for that mushroom town in its early boom +days. “KEEP YOUR EYE ON PASCO!” was +a byword from one end of the country to the other in +the nineties, and this hustling rail and agricultural<span class="pagenum">[Pg 326]</span> +centre at the junction of the Columbia and the Snake +should not be lost sight of even to-day.</p> + +<p>The lighter-hued water of the Snake was pretty +well churned into the flood of the Columbia at the end +of a mile, leaving a faint suggestion of cloudiness in +the transparent green that the latter had preserved +all the way from the Arrow Lakes. The long bridge +of the Spokane, Portland and Seattle Railway +spanned the Columbia just below the Snake, and +from there on paralleled the river closely right down +to the Willamette. After the Oregon-Washington +Railway and Navigation Company tracks appeared +on the south bank below the Walla Walla, it was only +at rare intervals that I was out of sight of a grade, or +out of sound of a train, for the remainder of my voyage. +In a day or two the trainmen, running back and +forth between divisional points, came to recognize +the bright green skiff plugging on down the dark +green river (mighty small she must have looked to +them from the banks) and never failed to give her a +hail or a wave in passing. On a certain memorable +occasion one of them (doubtless in direct defiance of +rules) ventured even further in the way of a warning +... but I will tell of that in its place.</p> + +<p>Homley Rapids, seven miles below Pasco ferry, +are formed by a rough reef of bedrock running half +way across the river from the right bank. Approached +from the right side of the long gravel island that divides +the river just above them, one might get badly +tangled up before he got through; by the left-hand +channel the going is easy if one keeps an eye on the +shallowing water at the bars. A sky-line of brown<span class="pagenum">[Pg 327]</span> +mountains, with a double-turreted butte as their most +conspicuous feature, marks the point where the Columbia +finally turns west for its assault on the Cascades +and its plunge to the Pacific. That bend is the +boundary of the fertile plains extending from the +Yakima to the Walla Walla, and the beginning of a +new series of gorges, in some respects the grandest of +all. The matchless panorama of the Cascade gorges +is a fitting finale to the stupendous scenic pageant +that has been staged all the way from the glacial +sources of the Columbia.</p> + +<p>A low sandy beach just above the mouth of the +rather insignificant Walla Walla comes pretty near +to being the most historically important point on the +Columbia. Here Lewis and Clark first came to the +waters of the long-struggled-toward Oregon; here +came Frémont, the “Pathfinder;” here Thompson +planted his pious proclamation claiming all of the +valley of the Columbia for the Northwest Company; +and by here, sooner or later, passed and repassed +practically every one of the trappers, missionaries, +settlers and other pioneers who were finally to bring +Oregon permanently under the Stars and Stripes.</p> + +<p>The double-topped butte, an outstanding landmark +for <i>voyageurs</i> for a hundred years, has long been +called “The Two Virgins.” The story is told locally +of a Catholic priest who saved his life by taking refuge +in a cave between the castellated turrets during +an Indian massacre, but who got in rather serious +trouble with the Church afterwards as a consequence +of sending words of his deliverance by a French-Canadian +half-breed <i>voyageur</i>. The latter got the<span class="pagenum">[Pg 328]</span> +salient details of the story straight, but neglected to +explain that the two virgins were mountains. The +result was that the unlucky priest narrowly missed +excommunication for saving his life at the expense of +breaking his vows. I got no affidavit with the story; +but local “stock” yarns are always worth preserving +on account of their colour.</p> + +<p>There were a number of big black rocks where the +river began its bend to the west, but the channel to the +right was not hard to follow. Neither did Bull Run +Rapids, a few miles farther down, offer any difficulties. +I followed the steamer channel as having the +swiftest current, but could have passed without +trouble on either side of it in much quieter water. +Brown and terra-cotta-tinged cliffs reared higher and +higher to left and right, encroaching closely on the +river. There was little room for cultivation at any +point, and often the railways had had to resort to +heavy cutting and tunnelling to find a way through +some jutting rock buttress. There were no trees, and +the general aspect of the country was desolate in the +extreme.</p> + +<p>It was toward the end of a grey afternoon that I +headed <i>Imshallah</i> into the first pitch of Umatilla +Rapids. The sun had dissolved into a slowly thickening +mist about three o’clock, and from then on the +whole landscape had been gradually neutralizing itself +by taking on shade after shade of dull, inconspicuous +grey. From the grey-white mistiness of the sky to +the grey-green murkiness of the river there was nothing +that contrasted with anything else; every object +was blended, dissolved, all but quenched. The foam-<span class="pagenum">[Pg 329]</span>ruffles +above even the sharpest of the riffles blurred +like the streaking of clouded marble at a hundred +feet, and it took the livest kind of a lookout to avoid +the ones with teeth in them. Neither the first nor the +second riffle had any very bad water, but my neck was +stiff from watching over my shoulder even as they +were. I had rather intended avoiding this trouble by +drifting down anything that looked very threatening +stern first, but that would have involved retrimming +the boat and greatly reducing her speed. If I was +going to make Umatilla by dark, there was no time +to lose.</p> + +<p>From the head of the first riffle of Umatilla Rapids +to the head of the third or main one is a mile and a +half. There was a slight up-river breeze blowing in +the mist, and the heavy rumble of the big fall came +to my ears some distance above the opening riffle. +The distant roar augmented steadily after that, and +the sharper grind of the more imminent riffles was +never loud enough to drown it out entirely. The +fact that it had a certain “all pervasive” quality, seeming +to fill the whole of the gorge with its heavy beat, +told me that it was an unusually long rapid, as well as +an unusually rough one. That, it seemed, was about +all I was going to be able to find out. No one was in +sight on the left bank, which I was skirting, and the +right bank was masked with mist. With none to seek +information from, and with not enough light to see +for myself, the alternatives were very simple: I +could either land, line as far as I could while light +lasted and then seek Umatilla on foot for the night, +or I could take my chance at running through. It<span class="pagenum">[Pg 330]</span> +was the delay and uncertainty sure to be attendant +upon lining that was the principal factor in deciding +me to try the latter course. Also, I knew that there +was an open channel all the way through, and that the +rapid was a comparatively broad and shallow one, +rather than constricted and deep. This meant that +it would be straight white water—a succession of +broken waves—I was going into, rather than heavy +swirls and whirlpools; just the water in which the +skiff had already proved she was at her best. These +points seemed to minimize the risk of going wrong to +a point where the chance of running was worth taking +for the time and trouble it would save. If I had not +known these things in advance, I should never, of +course, have risked going into so strong a rapid under +such conditions of light.</p> + +<p>I shall always have a very grateful feeling toward +that Pasco ferry-man for those few words he dropped +about the run of the reef and the set of the current at +Umatilla Rapid. This is one of the few great rapids +I have ever known on any river where the main drift +of the current will not carry a boat to the deepest +channel. This is due to the fact that the great reef +of native rock which causes the rapid is sufficiently +submerged even at middle water to permit a considerable +flow directly across it. The consequence of this +is that a boat, large or small, which follows the current +and does not start soon enough working over toward +the point where a channel has been blasted through +the reef, is almost certain to be carried directly upon +the latter. This has happened to a good many steam<span class="pagenum">[Pg 331]</span>ers, +the latest having been wrecked not long before +my voyage.</p> + +<p>With a rough idea of the lay of things in my mind, +I had edged a good deal farther out across the current +than would have been the case had I been trusting to +my own judgment of the way the rapid <i>ought</i> to develop +in the light of my past experience. The smooth +but swiftly-flowing water to the left looked almost +empty of threat, and it was not until I was within a +hundred feet of the barrier that I saw it was flowing +directly over the latter and went tumbling down the +farther side in an almost straight fall. At the same +instant I saw that I was still heading forty or fifty +feet to the left of where the “intake” dipped through +the break in the reef. Realizing that I could never +make it by heading straight, I swung the skiff round +and pulled quartering to the current with her head +up-stream. Even then it was a nearer squeak than I +like to think of. I missed the middle of the “V” by +ten feet as I swung her head down-stream again, and +as the racing current carried her up against the back-wave +thrown off the end of the break in the reef she +heeled heavily to starboard, like an auto turning on a +steeply-banked track. Then she shot out into the +big white combers in mid-channel and started slap-banging +down through them. It looked beastly rough +ahead, but in any event it was better than hanging up +on the reef at the outset. We were going to have run +for our money whatever happened.</p> + +<p>The only precautions there had been time to take +were slipping into my “Gieve” and throwing all my<span class="pagenum">[Pg 332]</span> +luggage aft. Half-inflated, the rubber-lined jacket +was no handicap in rowing, and the tube hung ready +to receive more air if necessity arose. As for the trim, +it had been my snap judgment at the last moment +that it would be better to give the skiff her head in the +rollers that I <i>knew</i> were coming, and let her take her +chance in being down by the stern in whirlpools that +might never materialize. I still think that was the +best thing to have done under the circumstances.</p> + +<p>Not until I was right down into that wild wallow +of rock-churned foam was there a chance to get an +idea of the rather remarkable bedrock formation +which is responsible for making Umatilla Rapids the +worrisome problem they have always been for river +skippers. After piercing the black basaltic barrier +of the reef, the channel shoots to the left and runs for +a quarter of a mile or more (I was too busy to judge +distances accurately) right along the foot of it. With +a considerable stream of water cascading over the +reef at almost right angles to the channel, a queer sort +of side-kick is thrown into the waves of the latter +which make it one of the most “unrhythmic” rapids I +ever ran. <i>Imshallah</i> pounded horribly, but gave not +the savagest of the twisting combers a chance to put +anything solid over her high held head. My erratic +pecking strokes did not find green water often enough +to give her much way over the current, but she responded +instantly every time I dug deep to throw her +head back after she had been buffeted sideways by +an arrogant ruffian of a roller.</p> + +<p>As soon as I saw the way she was riding the roughest +of the water, I realized that the only chance of a<span class="pagenum">[Pg 333]</span> +bad mess-up would come through my failure to keep +her head to the enemy. Knowing this wasn’t likely +to happen unless I broke an oar, I eased a bit on my +pulling and gave just a quick short-arm jerk now and +then to hold her steady. She was never near to +broaching-to, and I’m mighty glad she wasn’t. Umatilla +is the sort of a rapid that hasn’t quite the teeth to +get the best of a carefully handled boat that is running +in good luck, but which has the power, with a mile to +spare, to grind to match-wood any craft that gets into +trouble on its own account. It was an eerie run that—with +the snarling cascade of the reef on one side, the +ghostly dance of the rollers on the other, and the impenetrable +grey curtain of the mist blanking everything +beyond a radius of a hundred feet; but <i>Imshallah</i> +went through it with her head in the air and came +waltzing out into the swirls below as cocky as a partridge. +Indeed, that was just the trouble. The pair +of us were just a bit <i>too</i> cocky over the way we had +gone it blind and come through so smartly. It remained +for a couple of lesser rapids to reduce both +of us to a proper humility of spirit.</p> + +<p>I had been prepared to make a quick shift to the +forward thwart in case there was a bad run of whirlpools +following the rapid, and so bring her up by the +stern. This did not prove necessary, however, as the +rapidly broadening river was too shallow for dangerous +under-currents. A short run in slackening water +brought me to the town of Umatilla just as the lights +were beginning to twinkle in the windows. Landing +in the quiet water below a short stone jetty, I left my +stuff in a nearby shack and sought the hotel. The<span class="pagenum">[Pg 334]</span> +pool-room “stove-decorators” refused to believe I had +come through the rapid until I described it to them. +Then they said it was better to be a lucky darnfool +on the Columbia than an unlucky school-teacher. +“School-teacher,” it appeared, was the local apotheosis +of Wisdom, and stood at the opposite pole from +“darnfool.” It seems that there had been two male +school-teachers drowned in Umatilla that summer and +only one darnfool, and they were rather put out at +me for having failed to even up the score. Then they +tried to spoil my evening by telling me all the things +that had happened to people in Devil’s Run Rapids, +which I would go into just below the mouth of the +river the first thing in the morning. They had me +rather fussed for a while, too—until they told one +about a farmer who, after having had his launch upset +on his way home from his wedding, swam out with his +bride in his arms. I told them I’d try to get that lusty +swimmer to tow me through Devil’s Run in the morning, +and turned in for a good sleep.</p> + +<p>Umatilla is a decrepit little old town that knew its +best days away back in the last century, when it was +the head of steamer navigation on the Columbia and +the terminus of the freighting route to Idaho and +eastern Washington. There are rich irrigated lands +farther up the Umatilla River, but the development +of these seems to have done little for the stagnating +old settlement by the Columbia, which has little left +but its historic memories. It was by the Umatilla +that the rugged Hunt and the remnants of the Astor +overland party came to the Columbia, after what was +perhaps the most terrible journey ever made across<span class="pagenum">[Pg 335]</span> +the continent. And all through the time of the <i>voyageurs</i>, +the trappers and the pioneers, Umatilla was +only less important as a halting and portage point +than the Cascades and the Dalles.</p> + +<p>I pulled away from the jetty of Umatilla at eight +o’clock in the morning of November fifteenth. The +sky was clear and there was no trace of the mist of +the previous evening. There was brilliant, diamond-bright +visibility on the river, with the usual early +morning mirage effects, due to the chill stratum of +air lying close to the water. This exaggerated considerably +the height of distant riffles, lifting them up +into eye-scope much sooner than they would have +been picked up ordinarily. I put on my “Gieve” and +blew it up in anticipation of a stiff fight at Devil’s +Run, only to find just enough rocks and riffles there +to make me certain of locating them. I could see, +however, that the formation was such that there might +have been very troublesome water there at higher, and +possibly lower, stages. Out of charity for the tellers +of a good many awesome tales I had to listen to in +respect of rapids I subsequently found to be comparatively +innocuous, I am inclined to believe that a number +of them were substantially straight accounts of +disasters which had actually occurred in flood season, +or at times when other water levels than those I encountered +made the riffles in question much more +troublesome.</p> + +<p>I had an easy day of it for rapids, but, as a consequence +of the comparatively slow water, rather a hard +one for pulling. Canoe Encampment Rapids, twenty +miles below Devil’s Run, gave me a good lift for a<span class="pagenum">[Pg 336]</span> +mile or more, but not enough to make much of a respite +from the oars if I was going to make the fifty +miles I had set for my day’s run. I was still ten miles +short of that at four o’clock when a drizzling rain setting +in from the south-west decided me to land for +shelter at Hepburn Junction, on the left bank. That +was the first rain I had encountered since passing the +Canadian Boundary, after a month of practically continuous +storms. There was nothing but a railway +station at the Junction, but a nearby road-camp offered +the chance of food and shelter. The young contractor—he +was doing the concrete work on a State +Highway bridge at that point—eyed my bedraggled +figure somewhat disapprovingly at first, at a loss, +apparently, as to whether I was a straight hobo or +merely a disguised boot-legger. An instant later we +had recognized each other as football opponents of +Los Angeles-Pasadena school-days. His name was +Walter Rees, of a family prominent among early +Southern California pioneers. With the rain pattering +on the tent roof, we talked each other to sleep lamenting +the good old days of the “flying wedge” and +massed play in football.</p> + +<p>It was clear again the following morning, but with +a mistiness to the west masking Mount Hood and the +Cascades, to which I was now coming very near. The +cliffs had been rearing up higher and higher at every +mile, great walls of red-brown and black rock strongly +suggestive, in their rugged barrenness, of the buttressed, +turreted and columned formation through +which the river runs below the mouth of the Spokane. +Owyhee, Blalock and Four O’clock rapids were easy<span class="pagenum">[Pg 337]</span> +running, but the sustained roar which the slight up-river +breeze brought to my ears as the black, right-angling +gorge of Rock Creek came in sight was fair +warning that there was really rough water ahead. +Although I had been able to gather very little information +along the way, the fact that I had so far descended +but a small part of the two hundred feet of +drop between Umatilla and Celilo Falls meant that +the several rapids immediately ahead would have to +make up for the loafing the Columbia had been guilty +of for the last sixty miles.</p> + +<p>Taking advantage of the quiet stretch of water below +Four O’clock Rapids, I went all over the skiff as +she drifted in the easy current, tuning her up for the +slap-banging she could not fail to receive in the long +succession of sharp riffles which began at Rock Creek. +In tightening up the brass screws along the gunwale, +I removed and threw into the bottom of the boat both +of my oar-locks. When I started to restore them to +place as the roar of the nearing rapid grew louder, I +found that one of them—the left—had been kicked +out of reach under the bottom-boards. Rather than +go to the trouble of tearing up the latter just then, I +replaced the missing lock with one from my duffle-bag, +a roughly-smithed piece of iron that I had carried +away as a mascot from an old <i>batteau</i> at Boat +Encampment. It proved quite a bit too snug for its +socket, besides being a deal wider than it should have +been for the shaft of my light oar. There was a +spoon oar, with a ring lock, under the thwarts, but I +was somewhat chary of using it since its mate had +snapped with me below Rock Island Rapids.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 338]</span>The river narrowed sharply above Rock Creek, +and, standing on a thwart as the skiff drifted down, +I saw that the rapid dropped away in a solid stretch +of white foam tumbling between black basaltic walls. +There was a good, stiff fall, but it was reassuring that +I could see right away to the end of the white water, +which did not appear to continue around the ninety-degree +bend at the foot. It was just the sort of water +<i>Imshallah</i> was at her best in running, so I decided it +was simply a matter of choosing the clearest channel +and letting her go. A white cross-barred post on the +mountainside at the angle of the bend gave me the +bearing for the channel a minute or two before I +made out the dip of the “intake.” Stowing everything +well aft, as I had done at Umatilla, I took up +my oars and put her straight over the jade-green tip +of the “V.”</p> + +<p>That was rough-and-rowdy water, and no mistake. +Every roller meant a slam, and every slam meant a +shower-bath; but withal, it was mostly spray that +came over her bows—nothing really to bother about. +And so <i>Imshallah</i> would have run it right through—had +not a sharp dig I gave with my left oar jerked +the latter out of that “open-faced” Boat Encampment +mascot lock and sent me keeling over backwards. +The next moment she was wallowing, beam-on, into +the troughs and over the crests of the combers, dipping +green water at every roll.</p> + +<p>Recovering my seat as quickly as possible, I tried +to bring her head up again by backing with the right +oar. She swung obediently enough, but I could not +hold her bow down-stream once she was headed right. +<span class="pagenum">[Pg 339]</span>Rather than chance that “mascot” oar-lock again, I +tumbled aft and did what I could with the paddle. +Down as she was by the stern, that brought her head +right out of the water and made it rather hopeless getting +any way on her. She tumbled on through to the +foot of the rapid without putting a gunwale under +again, however, a circumstance for which I was highly +thankful. She already had five or six inches of water +in her, as I found as soon as I began to bail. It is +just as well the trouble didn’t occur at the head of the +rapid. We were half way down when I ceased to +function, and <i>Imshallah</i> had about all she wanted to +navigate the remainder. I was also duly thankful +that there was nothing more than a few bad swirls at +the foot of the rapid. Standing on her tail as she +was after I plumped down in the stern with the +paddle, a good strong whirlpool, such as must form +at that sharp bend at high-water, would have made +not more than one comfortable mouthful of her.</p> + +<p>From the foot of Rock Creek Rapids to the head +of Squally Hook Rapids is something less than four +miles of not very swift water. It took me about all +the time the boat was drifting that distance to get her +bailed out enough to retrieve my lost oar-lock from +under the bottom-boards. Squally Hook, I could see, +was much the same sort of a short, sharp, savage rapid +as Rock Creek. There was the same restricted “intake,” +and the same abrupt bend just beyond the foot; +only below Squally Hook the river turned to the left, +where at Rock Creek it had turned to the right.</p> + +<p>The sheer two-thousand-foot cliff on the inside of +the bend that gives its name to the rapid is well called<span class="pagenum">[Pg 340]</span> +Squally Hook. What had been a gentle ten-miles-an-hour +breeze on the river above began resolving +itself into a succession of fitful gusts of twenty or +thirty as I approached the rock-walled bend. Even a +steady head-wind makes steering awkward in going +into a rapid; a gusty one is a distinct nuisance. To +avoid the necessity of any sharp change of course +after I was once among the white-caps, I resolved to +use every care in heading into the rapid at exactly the +right place. That was why, when I became aware +that two girls from a farm-house on a bench above the +right bank were motioning me imperiously in that +direction, I swerved sharply from the course I had +decided upon in an endeavour to locate the channel +into which I was sure they were trying to tell me to +head. Just what those confounded half-breed Loreli +were <i>really</i> driving at I never did learn. Perhaps +they had apples to sell, or some sweet cider; or perhaps +they thought I had some cider that was not +sweet. Perhaps it was pure sociability—the desire of +a bit of a “talky-talk” with the green-boated <i>voyageur</i>. +At any rate, they were certainly <i>not</i> trying +to pilot me into a clear channel. That fact walloped +me right between the eyes the instant I discovered +that I had pulled beyond the entrance of a perfectly +straight channel and that there was a barely submerged +barrier of rock blocking the river all the way +on to the right bank.</p> + +<p>That, of course, left me no alternative but to pull +back for all that was in me to wait the “intake.” It +was a very similar predicament to the one in which the +mist had tricked me at the head of Umatilla; only<span class="pagenum">[Pg 341]</span> +there I had room to make the channel and here I +didn’t. The current, running now like a mill-race, +carried me onto the reef sixty feet to the right of the +smooth green chute of the “fairway.”</p> + +<p>If it had taken half an hour instead of half a second +to shoot out across the shoaling shelf of that froth-hidden +reef there might have been time for a goodly +bit of worrying anent the outcome. As it was, there +was just the sudden thrill of seeing the bottom of the +river leaping up to hit the bottom of the boat, the instant +of suspense as she touched and dragged at the +brink, and then the dizzy nose-dive of two or three +feet down into deeper water. It was done so quickly +that a stroke checked by the rock of the reef was +finished in the up-boil below the little cascade. With +an inch or two less of water she might have hung at +the brink and swung beam-on to the current, which, +of course, would have meant an instant capsize. +The way it was, she made a straight clean jump of it, +and only buried her nose in the souse-hole for the +briefest part of a second when she struck. The rest +was merely the matter of three hundred yards of +rough running down a rock-clear channel.</p> + +<p>The authors of my near-mess-up came capering +down the bank in pursuit as I swung out into the +smoothening swirls, but I only shook my fist at them +and resumed my oars. Darn women, anyway!—when +a man’s running rapids, I mean.</p> + +<p>Now one would have thought that those two performances +were enough for one afternoon, especially +as both were very largely due to my own carelessness; +but I suppose the “trilogy of trouble” had to be<span class="pagenum">[Pg 342]</span> +rounded out complete. From the foot of Squally +Hook Rapids to the head of Indian Rapids is about +three miles. The water became ominously slack as I +neared what appeared to be a number of great rock +islands almost completely barring the river. It was +not until I was almost even with the first of them that +a channel, very narrow and very straight, opened up +along the left bank. Various other channels led off +among the islands, but with nothing to indicate how +or where they emerged. That flume-like chute down +the left bank was plainly the way the steamers went, +and certainly the quickest and most direct course on +down the river. Peering through the rocky vista, I +could see a rain storm racing up the Columbia, with +the grey face of it just blotting out a wedge-shaped +gorge through the southern cliffs which I knew must +be the mouth of the John Day. That storm was +another reason why I should choose the shortest and +swiftest channel. There ought to be some kind of +shelter where this important southern tributary met +the Columbia.</p> + +<p>Of course, I knew all about still water running deep +(which was of no concern to me) and “twisty” (which +was of considerable concern). I should certainly have +given more thought to the matter of trimming for +what was sure to be waiting to snap up <i>Imshallah</i> at +the foot of that speeding chute of green-black water +had not an old friend of mine breezed along just then. +He was the engineer of the way freight on the “South-bank” +line. We had been exchanging signals in passing +for three days now—twice on his down run and<span class="pagenum">[Pg 343]</span> +once on his up. This was the first opportunity I had +had to show him how a rapid should be run, and I +noted with gratification that he appeared to be slowing +down so as to miss none of the fine points. On my +part, dispensing with my wonted preliminary “look-see,” +I swung hard on the oars in an effort to get into +the swiftest water before the spectators were out of +sight.</p> + +<p>As the engine drew up even with me, I balanced +my oars with my right hand for a moment and waved +the engineer greetings with my left; he, in turn, ran +the locomotive with his left hand and waved with his +right. Then I saw that the fireman was also waving, +and, farther back, the brakeman, from the top of a +car, and the conductor from the “lookout” of the +caboose. The occupants of the “dirigible grandstand” +at the Poughkeepsie regattas had nothing on the +crew of that way freight. And the latter, moreover, +were treated to a burst of speed such as no man-propelled +boat in still water ever came close to. I was +not pulling over four or five miles an hour myself, but +that smooth, steep, unobstructed chute must have +been spilling through its current at close to twenty. +In a couple of hundred yards I pulled up three or +four car-lengths on the comparatively slow-moving +train, and I was still gaining when a sudden “<i>toot-a-too-toot!</i>” +made me stop rowing and look around. I +had recognized instantly the familiar danger signal, +and was rather expecting to see a cow grazing with +true bovine nonchalance on the weeds between the +ties. Instead, it was the engineer’s wildly gesticulat<span class="pagenum">[Pg 344]</span>ing +arm that caught my back-cast eye. He was pointing +just ahead of me, and down—evidently at something +in the water.</p> + +<p>Then I saw it too—a big black funnel-shaped hole +down which a wide ribbon of river seemed to be taking +a sort of a spiral tumble. It was that entirely +well-meant <i>toot-a-toot</i>, which was intended to prod +me, not a cow, into activity, that was primarily responsible +for what followed. Had I not ceased rowing +on hearing it, it is probable that the skiff would +have had enough way when she did strike that +whirlpool to carry her right on through. As it +was <i>Imshallah</i> simply did an undulant glide into +the watery tentacles of the lurking octopus, snuggled +into his breast and prepared to spend the +night reeling in a dervish dance with him. I must +do the jade the justice of admitting that she had +no intention of outraging the proprieties by going +any further than a nocturnal terpsichorean revel. +Going home for the night with him never entered her +mind; so that when he tried to pull the “Cave-Man +stuff” and drag her down to his under-water grottoes, +she put up the most virtuous kind of resistance. +The trouble was that I didn’t want to go even as far +as she did. Dancing was the last thing I cared for, +with that rain-storm and night coming on. Yet—at +least as far as my friends on the way freight ever +knew—an all-night <i>Danse d’Apache</i> looked very +much like what we were up against; for I recall distinctly +that when the train was disappearing round +the next bend <i>Imshallah</i>, her head thrown ecstatically +skyward, was still spinning in circles, while I<span class="pagenum">[Pg 345]</span> +continued to fan the air with my oars like an animated +Dutch windmill.</p> + +<p>It was a mighty sizeable whirlpool, that black-mouthed +maelstrom into which <i>Imshallah’s</i> susceptibility +had betrayed both of us. I should say that +it was twice the diameter of the one which had given +us such a severe shaking just above the Canadian +Boundary, and with a “suck” in proportion. What +helped the situation now, however, was the fact that +the skiff carried rather less than half the weight she +did then. At the rate she was taking water over the +stern during that first attack, she could not have survived +for more than half a minute; now she was riding +so much more buoyantly that she was only dipping +half a bucket or so once in every two or three rounds. +When I saw that she could probably go on dancing +for an hour or two without taking in enough water to +put her under, something of the ludicrousness of the +situation began to dawn on me. Missing the water +completely with half of my strokes, and only dealing +it futile slaps with the rest, I was making no more +linear progress than if I had been riding a merry-go-round. +I didn’t dare to put the stern any lower by +sliding down there and trying to paddle where there +was water to be reached. Crowding her head down by +working my weight forward finally struck me as the +only thing to do.</p> + +<p>With the forward thwart almost above my head +this was not an easy consummation to effect, especially +with an oar in either hand. Luckily, I was now using +the “ring” oar-locks, so that they came along on the +oars when I unshipped the latter. Standing up was,<span class="pagenum">[Pg 346]</span> +of course, out of the question. I simply slid off backwards +on to the bottom and wriggled forward in a +sitting position until I felt my spine against the +thwart. That brought her nose out of the clouds, and +she settled down still farther when, after getting my +elbows over the seat behind me, I worked up into a +rowing position.</p> + +<p>The whirlpool was spinning from right to left, and +one quick stroke with my left oar—against the current +of the “spin,” that is—was enough to shoot her +clear. Bad swirls and two or three smaller “twisters” +made her course a devious one for the next hundred +yards, but she never swung in a complete revolution +again. I pulled into smooth water just as the first +drops of the storm began to patter on the back of my +neck.</p> + +<p>The first riffle of John Day Rapids sent its warning +growl on the up-river wind before I was a quarter +of a mile below the whirlpool, and ahead loomed a +barrier of rock islands, rising out of the white foam +churned up as the Columbia raced between them. I +had to run the first riffle—an easy one—to make the +mouth of the John Day, but that was as far as I went. +I reckoned there had been quite enough excitement +for one afternoon without poking into any more rough +water against a rain and head wind. Dropping below +the gravel bar off the mouth of the Day, I pulled +fifty yards up-stream in a quiet current and moored +<i>Imshallah</i> under the railway bridge. I camped for +the night with a couple of motor tourists in a shack +near the upper end of the bridge. My hosts were two +genial souls, father and son, enjoying an indefinite<span class="pagenum">[Pg 347]</span> +spell of fishing, hunting and trapping on a stake the +former had made in the sale of one of his “prospects” +in southern Oregon. They were bluff, big-hearted, +genuine chaps, both of them, and we had a highly +delightful evening of yarning.</p> + +<p>It was clear again the next morning, but with the +barometer of my confidence jolted down several +notches by what had occurred the previous afternoon. +I pulled across the river and sought a quieter way +through the second riffle of John Day Rapids than +that promised by the boisterous steamer channel. By +devious ways and sinuous, I wound this way and that +among the black rock islands, until a shallow channel +along the right bank let me out of the maze at the +lower end. This waste of time and effort was largely +due to funkiness on my part, and there was no necessity +for it. The steamer channel is white and rough, +with something of a whirlpool on the left side at the +lower end, but nothing that there is any real excuse +for avoiding. The third riffle was nothing to bother +about; nor did Schofield’s Rapids, two miles below, +offer any difficulties. As a matter of fact, Adventure, +having had its innings, was taking a day off, leaving +me to follow the Golden Trail of Romance. To-day +was “Ladies’ Day” on the Columbia.</p> + +<p>Romance first showed her bright eyes at a little +farm on the right bank, three miles below Schofield’s +Rapids. Landing here to ask about the channel +through a rather noisy rapid beginning to boom ahead, +I found a delectable apple-cheeked miss of about +twelve in charge, her father and mother having gone +across to Biggs for the day. She was in sore trouble<span class="pagenum">[Pg 348]</span> +at the moment of my advent because her newly-born +brindle bull calf—her really-truly very own—wouldn’t +take nourishment properly. Now as luck +would have it, teaching a calf table-manners chanced +to be one of the few things I knew about stock-farming. +So I showed her how to start in by letting <i>Cultus</i> +(that was merely a temporary name, she said, because +he was so bad) munch her own finger for a +spell, from which, by slow degrees, the lacteal liaison +with “Old Mooley” was established. It took us half +an hour to get <i>Cultus</i> functioning on all fours, and +rather longer than that to teach her collie, tabby +cat, and the latter’s three kittens to sit in a row and +have their mouths milked into. It didn’t take us long +to exhaust “Old Mooley’s” milk supply at that game, +and when I finally climbed over the barnyard fence +on the way down to my boat, poor <i>Cultus</i> was left +butting captiously at an empty udder. “Apple +Cheek” rather wanted me to stay until her father +came back, saying that he had gone to Biggs to get +a ’breed for a hired man, and that, if he didn’t get +the ’breed, maybe I would do. She almost burst into +tears with shame when I told her I was a moving picture +actor seeking rest and local colour on the Columbia. +“You a actor, and I made you milk ‘Old +Mooley!’” she sobbed; and it took all my lunch ration +of milk chocolate to bring back her smile. Then, like +the Scotch bride at Windermere, she asked me if I was +Bill Hart. Somehow, I wasn’t quite base enough to +tell her a concrete lie like that; so I compromised with +a comparative abstraction. I was a rising star in the +movie firmament, I said; an eclectic, taking the best<span class="pagenum">[Pg 349]</span> +of all the risen stars, of whom much would be heard +later. She was still pondering “<i>eclectic</i>” when I +pushed off into the current. Bless your heart, little +“Apple Cheek,” I hope you didn’t get a spanking for +wasting all of <i>Cultus’</i> dinner on the dogs and cats +and the side of the barn! You were about the first +person I met on the Columbia who didn’t accuse me +of being a boot-legger, and the only one who believed +me hot off the bat when I said I was a movie star.</p> + +<p>The rapid ahead became noisier as I drew nearer, +and when I saw it came from a reef which reached +four-fifths of the way across the river from the left +bank, I pulled in and landed at Biggs to inquire about +the channel. The first man I spoke to called a second, +and the latter a third, and so on <i>ad infinitum</i>. Pretty +near to half the town must have been gathered at the +railway station giving me advice at the end of a quarter +of an hour. Each of them had a different suggestion +to make, ranging from dragging through a half-empty +back channel just below the town to taking +the boat out and running it down the track on a +push-cart. As they all were agreed that the steamers +used to go down the opposite side, I finally decided +that would be the best way through. Not to run too +much risk of being carried down onto the reef in pulling +across, I lined and poled a half mile up-stream +before pushing off. Once over near the right bank, +I found a channel broad and deep enough to have run +at night.</p> + +<p>A couple of miles below Biggs the Columbia is +divided by a long narrow rocky island. The deep, +direct channel is that to the right, and is called Hell<span class="pagenum">[Pg 350]</span> +Gate—the third gorge of that hackneyed name I had +encountered since pushing off from Beavermouth. +Possibly it was because I was fed-up with the name +and all it connoted that I avoided this channel; more +likely it was because Romance was at the tow-line. +At any rate, I headed into the broad shallow channel +that flows by the mouth of the River Des Chutes. It +was up this tumultuous stream that Frémont, after +camping at the Dalles and making a short boat voyage +below, started south over the mountains in search +of the mythical river that was supposed to drain from +the Utah basin to the Pacific in the vicinity of San +Francisco—one of the indomitable “Pathfinder’s” +hardest journeys.</p> + +<p>Just beyond where the River of the Falls, true to +name to the last, came cascading into the Columbia, +Romance again raised her golden head—this time out +of the steam rising above an Indian “Turkish-bath.” +The first time I had found her in the guise of a twelve-year-old; +this time it was more like a hundred and +twelve. One can’t make certain within a year or two +about a lady in a Turkish-bath; it wouldn’t be seemly +even to <i>try</i> to do so. Pulling in close to the left bank +to look at some queer mud-plastered Indian wickiups, +a rush of steam suddenly burst from the side of the +nearest one, and out of that spreading white cloud, +rising like Aphrodite from the sea-foam, emerged +the head and shoulders of an ancient squaw. She was +horribly old—literally at the sans eyes, sans hair, sans +teeth, sans everything (including clothes) stage. +Cackling and gesticulating in the rolling steam, she<span class="pagenum">[Pg 351]</span> +was the <i>belle ideal</i> of the witch of one’s fancy, muttering +incantations above her boiling cauldron.</p> + +<p>Frémont, in somewhat humorous vein, tells of visiting +an Indian camp in this vicinity on the Columbia, +and of how one of the squaws who had rushed forth in +complete <i>déshabille</i> on hearing the voices of strangers, +“properized” herself at the last moment by using her +papoose—as far as it would go—as a shield. But +this old “Aphrodite” I had flushed from cover was so +old that, if her youngest child had been ready to hand, +and that latter had had one of her own children within +reach, and this third one had had a child available, I +am certain that still another generation or two would +have had to be descended before a papoose sufficiently +young enough to make “properization” prop“r would +have been found. I trust I make that clear. And +when you <i>have</i> visualized it, isn’t it a funny pyramid?</p> + +<p>With two or three more “Aphrodites” beginning to +bubble up through the steam, it is just possible that +some such an ocular barrage actually was in process +of formation; but I think not. My hard-plied oars +had hardly lengthened my interval to much over fifty +yards, when the whole lot of them trooped down to the +river—steaming amazingly they were at the touch of +the sharp early winter air—and plunged into the icy +water. I learned later that this “sweat-bath” treatment +is the favourite cure-all with the Indians of that +part of the Columbia Basin.</p> + +<p>Where the left-hand channel returned to the main +Columbia a mile or more below the mouth of the +River Des Chutes I encountered an extensive series<span class="pagenum">[Pg 352]</span> +of rock-reefs which, until I drew near them, seemed to +block the way completely. It was a sinuous course I +wound in threading my way through the ugly basaltic +outcroppings, but the comparatively slow water +robbed it of any menace. Once clear of the rocks, I +found myself at the head of the long, lake-like stretch +of water backed up above Celilo Falls. The low rumble +of the greatest cataract of the lower Columbia +was already pulsing in the air, while a floating cloud +of “water-smoke,” white against the encroaching +cliffs, marked its approximate location. I was at last +approaching the famous “long portage” of the old +<i>voyageurs</i>, a place noted (in those days) for the worst +water and the most treacherous Indians on the river. +Now, however, the Indians no longer blocked the way +and exacted toll, while the portage had been bridged +by a Government canal. I caught the loom of the +head-gate of the latter about the same time that the +bridge of the “North-Bank” branch line, which spans +the gorge below the falls, began rearing its blurred +fret-work above the mists. Then, once again, Romance. +“Ladies’ Day” was not yet over. As I +pulled in toward the entrance to the canal, at the left +of the head of the falls, I observed a very gaily-blanketed +dame dancing up and down on the bank and +gesticulating toward the opposite side of the river. +As I landed and started to pull the skiff up on the +gravelly beach, she came trotting down to entreat, in +her best “Anglo-Chinook,” that I ferry her to the +opposite bank, where her home was, and, where, apparently, +she was long overdue. She wasn’t a beggar, +she assured me, but—jingling her beaded bag under<span class="pagenum">[Pg 353]</span> +my nose—was quite willing to pay me “<i>hiyu chickamon</i>” +for my services. Nor was she unduly persistent. +No sooner had I told her that I was in a “<i>hiyu rush</i>” +and hadn’t the time just then to be a squire of dames, +than she bowed her head in stoical acquiescence and +went back to her waving and croaking. It was that +futile old croak (with not enough power behind it to +send it a hundred yards across a mile-wide river) that +caved my resolution. Shoving <i>Imshallah</i> back into +the water, I told her to pile in.</p> + +<p>And so Romance drew near to me again, this time +perched up in the long-empty stern-sheets of my +boat. This one was neither an infant nor a centurienne, +but rather a fair compromise between the two. +Nor was she especially fair nor especially compromising +(one couldn’t expect that of a sixty-year-old +squaw); but she was the most trusting soul I ever +met, and that’s something. The falls were thundering +not fifty yards below—near enough to wet us with +their up-blown spray,—and yet not one word of warning +did she utter about giving the brink a wide birth +in pulling across. Not that I needed such a warning, +for the first thing I did was to start pulling up-stream +in the slack water; but, all the same, it was a +distinct compliment to have it omitted. As it turned +out, there was nothing to bother about, for the current +was scarcely swifter in mid-stream than along +the banks. It was an easy pull. Romance beamed +on me all the way, and once, when one of her stubby +old toes came afoul of my hob-nailed boot, she bent +over and gave a few propitiary rubs to—the boot +... as if <i>that</i> had lost any cuticle. And at parting,<span class="pagenum">[Pg 354]</span> +when I waved her money-bag aside and told her to +keep her <i>chickamon</i> to spend on the movies, she came +and patted me affectionately on the shoulder, repeating +over and over “<i>Close tum-tum mika!</i>” And that, +in Chinook, means: “You’re very much all right!” +As far as I can remember, that is the only unqualified +praise I ever had from a lady—one of that age, I +mean. Squiring squaws—especially dear old souls +like that one—is a lot better fun than a man would +think.</p> + +<p><a id="page354" name="page354"></a></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 462px;"> +<img src="images/illo_426.jpg" width="462" height="600" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">LIFTED DRAWBRIDGE ON CELILO CANAL (<i>above</i>)<br /> +TUMWATER GORGE OF THE GRAND DALLES (<i>below</i>)</span> +</div> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p><a id="page355" name="page355"></a></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> +<img src="images/illo_427.jpg" width="600" height="464" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“IMSHALLAH” IN THE LOCK AT FIVE-MILE (<i>left</i>)<br /> +“IMSHALLAH” HALF WAY THROUGH THE CELILO CANAL (<i>right</i>)</span> +</div> + +<p>It was four o’clock when I turned up at the lock-master’s +house at Celilo, and then to find that that +worthy had just taken his gun and gone off up on the +cliffs to try and bag a goose. As it would probably +be dark before he returned, his wife reckoned I had +better put up with them for the night and make an +early start through the Canal the following morning. +The lock-master, a genial Texan, came down with his +goose too late it get it ready for supper, but not to get +it picked that night. Indeed, we made rather a gala +occasion of it. “Mistah” Sides got out his fiddle and +played “The Arkansaw Traveller” and “Turkey in +the Straw,” the while his very comely young wife accompanied +on the piano and their two children, the +village school-marm and myself collaborated on the +goose. It was a large bird, but many hands make +light work; that is, as far as getting the feathers off +the goose was concerned. Cleaning up the kitchen +was another matter. As it was the giddy young +school-teacher who <i>started</i> the trouble by putting +feathers down my neck, I hope “Missus” Sides made +that demure-eyed minx swab down decks in the morn<span class="pagenum">[Pg 355]</span>ing +before she went to teach the young idea how to +shoot.</p> + +<p>There is no lock at the head of the Celilo Canal, +but a gate is maintained for the purpose of regulating +flow and keeping out drift. Sides, silhouetted against +the early morning clouds, worked the gates and let +me through into the narrow, concrete-walled canal, +down which I pulled with the thunder of the falls on +one side and on the other the roar of a passing freight. +The earth-shaking rumbles died down presently, and +beyond the bend below the railway bridge I found +myself rowing quietly through the shadow of the +great wall of red-black cliffs that dominate the Dalles +from the south.</p> + +<p>Celilo Falls is a replica on a reduced scale of the +Horse-shoe cataract at Niagara. At middle and +low-water there is a drop of twenty feet here, but at +the flood-stage of early summer the fall is almost +wiped out in the lake backed up from the head of the +Tumwater gorge of the Dalles. The Dalles then +form one practically continuous rapid, eight or nine +miles in length, with many terrific swirls and whirlpools, +but with all rocks so deeply submerged that it +is <i>possible</i> for a well-handled steamer to run through +in safety—provided she is lucky. With the completion +of the Canal this wildest of all steamer runs was +no longer necessary, but in the old days it was attempted +a number of times when it was desired to take +some craft that had been constructed on the upper +river down to Portland. The first steamer was run +through successfully in May, 1866, by Captain T. J. +Stump, but the man who became famous for his suc<span class="pagenum">[Pg 356]</span>cess +in getting away with this dare-devil stunt was +Captain James Troup, perhaps the greatest of all +Columbia skippers. Professor W. D. Lyman gives +the following graphic account of a run through the +Dalles with Captain Troup, on the <i>D. S. Baker</i>, in +1888.</p> + +<blockquote><p>“At that strange point in the river, the whole vast volume +is compressed into a channel but one hundred and sixty feet +wide at low water and much deeper than wide. Like a huge +mill-race the current continues nearly straight for two miles, +when it is hurled with frightful force against a massive bluff. +Deflected from the bluff, it turns at a sharp angle to be +split asunder by a low reef of rock. When the <i>Baker</i> was +drawn into the suck of the current at the head of the ‘chute’ +she swept down the channel, which was almost black, with +streaks of foam, to the bluff, two miles in four minutes. +There feeling the tremendous refluent wave, she went careening +over toward the sunken reef. The skilled captain had her +perfectly in hand, and precisely at the right moment rang the +signal bell, ‘Ahead, full speed,’ and ahead she went, just +barely scratching her side on the rock. Thus close was it +necessary to calculate distance. If the steamer had struck +the tooth-like point of the reef broadside on, she would have +been broken in two and carried in fragments on either side. +Having passed this danger point, she glided into the beautiful +calm bay below and the feat was accomplished.”</p></blockquote> + +<p>There is a fall of eighty-one feet in the twelve miles +from the head of Celilo Falls to the foot of the Dalles. +This is the most considerable rate of descent in the +whole course of the Columbia in the United States, +though hardly more than a third of that over stretches<span class="pagenum">[Pg 357]</span> +of the Big Bend in Canada. It appeared to be customary +for the old <i>voyageurs</i> to make an eight or ten +miles portage here, whether going up or down stream, +though there were doubtless times when their big +<i>batteaux</i> were equal to running the Dalles below +Celilo. I climbed out and took hurried surveys of +both Tumwater and Five-Mile (sometimes called +“The Big Chute”) in passing, and while they appeared +to be such that I would never have considered +taking a chance with a skiff in either of them, +it did look as though a big double-ender, with an experienced +crew of oarsmen and paddlers, would have +been able to make the run. That was a snap judgment, +formed after the briefest kind of a “look-see,” +and it may well be that I was over optimistic.</p> + +<p>The Celilo Canal, which was completed by the Government +about five years ago, is eight and a half miles +long, has a bottom width of sixty-five feet, and a +depth of eight feet. It has a total lift of eighty feet, +of which seventy are taken by two locks in flight at +the lower end. That this canal has failed of its object—that +of opening up through navigation between +tide-water and the upper Columbia—is due to no defect +of its own from an engineering standpoint, but +rather to the fact that, first the railway, and now the +truck, have made it impossible for river steamers to +pay adequate returns in the face of costly operation +and the almost prohibitive risks of running day after +day through rock-beset rapids. There is not a +steamer running regularly on the Columbia above +the Dalles to-day. The best service, perhaps, which +the Celilo Canal rendered was the indirect one of<span class="pagenum">[Pg 358]</span> +forcing a very considerable reduction of railway +freight rates. That alone is said to have saved the +shippers of eastern Oregon and Washington many +times the cost of this highly expensive undertaking.</p> + +<p>I pulled at a leisurely gait down the Canal, stopping, +as I have said, at Tumwater and Five-Mile, +and at the latter giving the lock-master a hand in +dropping <i>Imshallah</i> down a step to the next level. +Rowing past a weird “fleet” of laid-up salmon-wheels +in the Big Eddy Basin, I sheered over to the left bank +in response to a jovial hail, and found myself shaking +hands with Captain Stewart Winslow, in command of +the Government dredge, <i>Umatilla</i>, and one of the +most experienced skippers on the upper river. He +said that he had been following the progress of my +voyage by the papers with a good deal of interest, +and had been on the lookout to hold me over for a +yarn. As I was anxious to make the Dalles that +night, so as to get away for an early start on the +following morning, he readily agreed to join me for +the run and dinner at the hotel.</p> + +<p>While Captain Winslow was making a hurried +shift of togs for the river, I had a brief but highly +interesting visit with Captain and Mrs. Saunders. +Captain Saunders, who is of the engineering branch +of the army, has been in charge of the Celilo Canal +for a number of years. Mrs. Saunders has a very +large and valuable collection of Indian relics and +curios, and at the moment of my arrival was following +with great interest the progress of a State Highway +cut immediately in front of her door, which was +uncovering, evidently in an old graveyard, some stone<span class="pagenum">[Pg 359]</span> +mortars of unusual size and considerable antiquity. +When Captain Winslow was ready, we went down +to the skiff, and pulled along to the first lock. With +Captain Saunders and a single helper working the +machinery, passing us down to the second lock and +on out into the river was but the matter of a few +minutes.</p> + +<p>Big Eddy must be rather a fearsome hole at high +water, but below middle stage there is not enough +power behind its slow-heaving swirls to make them +troublesome. It was a great relief to have a competent +river-man at the paddle again, and my rather +over-craned neck was not the least beneficiary by the +change. The narrows at Two-Mile were interesting +rather for what they might be than what they were. +Beyond a lively snaking about in the conflicting currents, +it was an easy passage through to the smooth +water of the broadening river below. One or two +late salmon-wheels plashed eerily in the twilight as +we ran past the black cliffs, but fishing for the season +was practically over weeks before. We landed just +above the steamer dock well before dark, beached the +skiff, stowed my outfit in the warehouse, and reached +the hotel in time to avoid an early evening shower. +Captain Winslow had to dine early in order to catch +his train back to Big Eddy, but we had a mighty +good yarn withal.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page360" name="page360">[Pg 360]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER XIV<br /> +<br /> +THE HOME STRETCH</h2> + +<p>The Dalles was the largest town I touched on the +Columbia, and one of the most attractive. Long one +of the largest wool-shipping centres of the United +States, it has recently attained to considerable importance +as a fruit market. It will not, however, +enter into anything approaching the full enjoyment +of its birthright until the incalculably enormous +power possibilities of Celilo Falls and the Dalles +have been developed. So far, as at every other point +along the Columbia with the exception of a small +plant at Priest Rapids, nothing has been done along +this line. When it is, The Dalles will be in the way +of becoming one of the most important industrial +centres of the West.</p> + +<p>In the days of the <i>voyageurs</i> The Dalles was notorious +for the unspeakably treacherous Indians who +congregated there to intimidate and plunder all who +passed that unavoidable portage. They were lying, +thieving scoundrels for the most part, easily intimidated +by a show of force and far less prone to stage +a real fight than their more warlike brethren who +disputed the passage at the Cascades. That this +“plunderbund” tradition is one which the present-day +Dalles is making a great point of living down, +I had conclusive evidence of through an incident +that arose in connection with my hotel bill. I had<span class="pagenum">[Pg 361]</span> +found my room extremely comfortable and well appointed, +so that the bill presented for it at my departure, +far from striking me as unduly high, seemed +extremely reasonable. I think I may even have said +something to that effect; yet, two days later in Portland, +I received a letter containing an express order +for one dollar, and a note saying that this was the +amount of an unintentional over-charge for my room. +That was characteristic of the treatment I received +from first to last in connection with my small financial +transactions along the way. I never dreamed +that there were still so many people in the world +above profiteering at the expense of the passing +tourist until I made my Columbia voyage.</p> + +<p>I had intended, by making an early start from +The Dalles, to endeavour to cover the forty odd miles +to the head of the Cascades before dark of the same +day. Two things conspired to defeat this ambitious +plan: first, some unexpected mail which had to be +answered, and, second, my equally unexpected booking +of a passenger—a way passenger who had to be +landed well short of the Cascades. Just as I was +cleaning up the last of my letters, the hotel clerk +introduced me to the “Society Editor” of The Dalles +<i>Chronicle</i>, who wanted an interview. I told her that +I was already two hours behind schedule, but that if +she cared to ride the running road with me for a while, +she could have the interview, with lunch thrown in, +on the river. She accepted with alacrity, but begged +for half an hour to clean up her desk at the <i>Chronicle</i> +office and change to out-door togs. Well within that +limit, she was back again at the hotel, flushed, pant-<span class="pagenum">[Pg 362]</span>ing +and pant-ed, and announced that she was ready. +Picking up a few odds and ends of food at the nearest +grocery, we went down to the dock, where I +launched and loaded up <i>Imshallah</i> in time to push +off at ten o’clock. I had, of course, given up all idea +of making the Cascades that day, and reckoned that +Hood River, about twenty-five miles, would be a comfortable +and convenient halting place for the night. +And so it would have been....</p> + +<p><a id="page362" name="page362"></a></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 440px;"> +<img src="images/illo_436.jpg" width="440" height="600" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">PALISADE ROCK, LOWER COLUMBIA RIVER</span> +</div> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<p><a id="page363" name="page363"></a></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 456px;"> +<img src="images/illo_437.jpg" width="456" height="600" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">MULTNOMAH FALLS COLUMBIA RIVER HIGHWAY, NEAR PORTLAND</span> +</div> + +<p>I don’t remember whether or not we ever got very +far with the “interview,” but I do recall that Miss +S—— talked very interestingly of Johan Bojer and +his work, and that she was in the midst of a keenly +analytical review of “The Great Hunger” when a +sudden darkening of what up to then had been only +a slightly overcast sky reminded me that I had been +extremely remiss in the matter of keeping an eye on +the weather. Indeed, up to that moment the menace +of storms on the river had been of such small moment +as compared to that of rapids that I had come +to rate it as no more than negligible. Now, however, +heading into the heart of the Cascades, I was approaching +a series of gorges long notorious among +river <i>voyageurs</i> as a veritable “wind factory”—a +“storm-breeder” of the worst description. After all +that I had read of the way in which the early pioneers +had been held up for weeks by head winds between +the Dalles and the Cascades, there was no excuse for +my failure to keep a weather eye lifting at so treacherous +a point. The only <i>alibi</i> I can think of is Adam’s: +“The woman did it.” Nor is there any ungallantry +in that plea. Quite the contrary, in fact; for I am +<span class="pagenum">[Pg 363]</span>quite ready to confess that I should probably fail to +watch the clouds again under similar circumstances.</p> + +<p>There were a few stray mavericks of sunshine +shafts trying to struggle down to the inky pit of the +river as I turned to give the weather a once-over, but +they were quenched by the sinister cloud-pall even as +I looked. The whole gorge of the river-riven Cascades +was heaped full of wallowing nimbus which, +driven by a fierce wind, was rolling up over the water +like an advancing smoke-barrage. The forefront of +the wind was marked by a wild welter of foam-white +water, while a half mile behind a streaming curtain +of gray-black indicated the position of the advancing +wall of the rain. It would have been a vile-looking +squall even in the open sea; here the sinister threat of +it was considerably accentuated by the towering cliffs +and the imminent outcrops of black rock studding the +surface of the river. I had no serious doubt that +<i>Imshallah</i>, after all the experience she had had in +rough water, would find any great difficulty in riding +out the blow where she was, but since it hardly seemed +hospitable to subject my lady guest to any more of a +wetting than could be avoided, I turned and headed +for the lee shore. Miss S—— was only about half +muffled in the rubber saddle <i>poncho</i> and the light +“shed” tent I tossed to her before resuming my oars +when the wall of the wind—hard and solid as the side +of a flying barn—struck us full on the starboard beam. +It was rather careless of me, not heading up to meet +that squall before it struck; but the fact was that I +simply couldn’t take seriously anything that it seemed +possible <i>could</i> happen on such a deep, quiet stretch of<span class="pagenum">[Pg 364]</span> +river. The consequence of taking that buffet on the +beam was quite a merry bit of a mix-up. The shower-bath +of blown spray and the dipping under of the +lee rail were rather the least of my troubles. What +did have me guessing for a minute, though, was the +result of the fact that that confounded fifty-miles-an-hour +zephyr got under the corners of the tent and, +billowing it monstrously, carried about half of it overboard; +also a somewhat lesser amount of Miss S——, +who was just wrapping herself in it. I had to drop +my oars to effect adequate salvage operations, and so +leave the skiff with her port gunwale pretty nearly +hove under. As soon as I got around to swing her +head up into the teeth of the wind things eased off a +bit.</p> + +<p>The river was about a mile wide at this point—ten +miles below The Dalles and about opposite the station +of Rowena—and, save for occasional outcroppings +of black bedrock, fairly deep. The north shore was +rocky all the way along, but that to the south (which +was also the more protected on account of a jutting +point ahead) was a broad sandy beach. That beach +seemed to offer a comparatively good landing, and, +as it extended up-stream for half a mile, it appeared +that I ought to have no great difficulty in fetching it. +The first intimation I had that this might not be as +easy as I had reckoned came when, in spite of the fact +that I was pulling down-stream in a three or four-mile +current, the wind backed the skiff up-stream +past a long rock island at a rate of five or six miles +an hour. That was one of the queerest sensations I +experienced on the whole voyage—having to avoid<span class="pagenum">[Pg 365]</span> +bumping the <i>lower</i> end of a rock the while I could +see the riffle where a strong current was flowing +around the <i>upper</i> end.</p> + +<p>I settled down to pulling in good earnest after +that rather startling revelation, trying to hold the +head of the skiff just enough to the left of the eye of +the wind to give her a good shoot across the current. +Luckily, I had been pretty well over toward the south +bank when the wind struck. There was only about a +quarter of a mile to go, but I was blown back just +about the whole length of that half mile of sandy beach +in making it. The last hundred yards I was rowing +“all out,” and it was touch-and-go as to whether the +skiff was going to nose into soft sand or the lower end +of a long stretch of half-submerged rocks. I was a +good deal relieved when it proved to be the beach—by +about twenty feet. We would have made some +kind of a landing on the rocks without doubt, but +hardly without giving the bottom of the boat an +awful banging.</p> + +<p>The sand proved unexpectedly soft when I jumped +out upon it, but I struck firm bottom before I had +sunk more than an inch or two above my boot tops +and managed to drag the skiff up far enough to escape +the heaviest of the wash of the waves. It was +rather a sodden bundle of wet canvas that I carried +out and deposited under a pine tree beyond high-water +mark, but the core of it displayed considerable +life after it had been extracted and set up to dry before +the fire of pitchy cones that I finally succeeded +in teasing into a blaze. To show Miss S—— that the +storm hadn’t affected my equanimity, I asked her<span class="pagenum">[Pg 366]</span> +to go on with her review of “The Great Hunger;” but +she replied her own was more insistent, and reminded +me that I hadn’t served lunch yet. Well, rain-soaked +biscuit and milk chocolate are rather difficult to take +without a spoon; but a pound of California seedless +raisins, if munched slowly, go quite a way with two +people.</p> + +<p>The worst of the squall was over in half an hour, +and, anxious to make hay while the sun shone, I +pushed off again in an endeavor to get on as far as +I could before the next broadside opened up. Miss +S—— and I landed at the Rowena Ferry, to +catch the afternoon train back to The Dalles. She was a good +ship-mate, and I greatly regret she had the bad luck +to be my passenger on the only day I encountered a +really hard blow in all of my voyage.</p> + +<p>There was another threatening turret of black +cloud beginning to train its guns as I pulled out into +the stream beyond Rowena, and it opened with all +the big stuff it had before I had gone a mile. While +it lasted, the bombardment was as fierce as the first +one. Fortunately, its ammunition ran out sooner. +I kept the middle of the current this time, pulling as +hard as I could against the wind. I got a thorough +raking, fore-and-aft, for my temerity, but, except at +the height of the wind, I managed to avoid the ignominy +of being forced back against the stream.</p> + +<p>The third squall, which opened up about three-thirty, +was a better organized assault, and gave me a +pretty splashy session of it. When that blow got the +range of me I was just pulling along to the left of a +desolate tongue of black basalt called Memaloose<span class="pagenum">[Pg 367]</span> +Island. For many centuries this rocky isle was used +by the Klickatats as a burial place, which fact induced +a certain Indian-loving pioneer of The Dalles, Victor +Trevett by name, to order his own grave dug +there. A tall marble shaft near the lower end of the +island marks the spot. Now I have no objection to +marble shafts in general, nor even to this one in particular—as +a shaft. I just got tired of seeing it, that +was all. If any skipper on the Columbia ever passed +Vic Trevett’s monument as many times in a year as +I did in an hour, I should like to know what run he +was on.</p> + +<p>Swathed in oilskins, my potential speed was cut +down both by the resistance my augmented bulk offered +to the wind and the increased difficulty of pulling +with so much on. Down past the monument I +would go in the lulls, and up past the monument I +would go before the gusts. There, relentless as the +<i>Flying Dutchman</i>, that white shaft hung for the best +part of an hour. I only hope what I said to the wind +didn’t disturb old Vic Trevett’s sleep. Finally, a +quarter of an hour’s easing of the blow let me double +the next point; and then it turned loose with all its +guns again. Quite gone in the back and legs, I gave +up the unequal fight and started to shoot off quartering +toward the shore. Glancing over my shoulder in +an endeavour to get some kind of an idea of where, and +against what, I might count on striking, an astounding +sight met my eyes, a picture so weird and infernal +that I had to pause (mentally) and assure myself +that those raisins I had for lunch had not been “processed.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 368]</span>Of all the sinister landscapes I ever saw—including +the lava fields of a good many volcanoes and a number +of the world’s most repulsive “bad lands”—that +which opened up to me as I tried to head in beyond +that hard-striven-for point stands alone in my memory +for sheer awesomeness. The early winter twilight +had already begun to settle upon the gloomy +gorge, the duskiness greatly accentuating the all-pervading +murk cast upon the river by the pall of the +sooty clouds. All round loomed walls of black basalt, +reflecting darkly in water whose green had been +completely quenched by the brooding purple shadows. +The very pines on the cliffs merged in the solid +opacity behind their scraggly forms, and even the +fringe of willows above high-water-mark looped round +the crescent of beach below like a fragment of mourning +band. And that stretch of silver sand—the one +thing in the whole infernal landscape whose whiteness +the gloom alone could not drown: how shall I +describe the jolt it gave me when I discovered that +six or seven black devils were engaged in systematically +spraying it with an inky liquid that left it as +dark and dead to the eye as a Stygian strand of anthracite? +It was a lucky thing those raisins had <i>not</i> +been “processed;” else I might not have remembered +readily what I had heard of the way the “South-Bank” +railway had been keeping the sand from drifting +over its tracks by spraying with crude oil the +bars uncovered at low water.</p> + +<p>With that infernal mystery cleared up, my mind +was free to note and take advantage of a rather remarkable +incidental phenomenon. The effect of oil<span class="pagenum">[Pg 369]</span> +on troubled waters was no new thing to me, for on a +number of occasions I had helped to rig a bag of kerosene-soaked +oakum over the bows of a schooner +hove-to in a gale; but to find a stretch of water already +oiled for me at just the time and place I was in +the sorest need of it—well, I couldn’t see where those +manna-fed Children of Israel wandering in the desert +found their advance arrangements looked to any better +than that. The savage wind-whipped white-caps +that were buffeting me in mid-stream dissolved into +foam-streaked ripples the moment they impinged +upon the broadening oil-sleeked belt where the petroleum +had seeped riverward from the sprayed beach. +A solid jetty of stone could not have broken the +rollers more effectually. On one side was a wild wallow +of tossing water; on the other—as far as the surface +of the river was concerned—an almost complete +calm.</p> + +<p>It was a horrible indignity to heap upon <i>Imshallah</i> +(and, after the way she had displayed her resentment +following her garbage shower under the Wenatchee +bridge, I knew that spirited lady would make me +pay dear for it if ever she had the chance); still—dead +beat as I was—there was nothing else to do but to +head into that oleaginous belt of calm and make the +best of it. The wind still took a deal of bucking, but +with the banging of the waves at an end my progress +was greatly accelerated. Hailing the black devils on +the bank, I asked where the nearest village was concealed, +to learn that Moosier was a couple of miles +below, but well back from the river. They rather +doubted that I could find my way to the town across<span class="pagenum">[Pg 370]</span> +the mudflats, but thought it might be worth trying in +preference to pushing on in the dark to Hood River.</p> + +<p>Those imps of darkness were right about the difficulty +of reaching Moosier after nightfall. A small +river coming in at that point seemed to have deposited +a huge bar of quicksand all along the left bank, and +I would never have been able to make a landing at +all had not a belated duck-hunter given me a hand. +After tying up to an oar, he very courteously undertook +to pilot me to the town through the half-overflowed +willow and alder flats. As a consequence of +taking the lead, it was the native rather than the visitor +who went off the caving path into the waist-deep little +river. Coming out of the woods, a hundred-yards of +slushing across a flooded potato-patch brought us to +the railway embankment, and from there it was comparatively +good going to the hotel. Luckily, the latter +had a new porcelain tub and running hot water, +luxuries one cannot always be sure of in the smaller +Columbia River towns.</p> + +<p><a id="page370" name="page370"></a></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> +<img src="images/illo_446.jpg" width="600" height="415" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">CITY OF PORTLAND WITH MT. HOOD IN THE DISTANCE</span> +</div> + +<p>It was just at the close of the local apple season, and +I found the hotel brimming over with departing packers. +Most of the latter were girls from Southern +California orange-packing houses, imported for the +season. Several of them came from Anaheim, and +assured me that they had packed Valencias from a +small grove of mine in that district. They were a +good deal puzzled to account for the fact that a man +with a Valencia grove should be “hobo-ing” round +the country like I was, and seemed hardly to take me +seriously when I assured them it was only a matter +of a year or two before all farmers would be hobos. +<span class="pagenum">[Pg 371]</span>It’s funny how apple-packing seems to bring out all +the innate snobbery in a lady engaging in that lucrative +calling; they didn’t seem to think tramping was +quite respectable. I slept on the parlour couch until +three in the morning, when I “inherited” the room +occupied by a couple of packettes departing by the +Portland train. As they seem to have been addicted +to “<i>attar of edelweiss</i>,” or something of the kind, and +there hadn’t been time for fumigation, I rather regretted +making the shift.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<p><a id="page371" name="page371"></a></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 417px;"> +<img src="images/illo_447.jpg" width="417" height="600" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">BRIDGE ON COLUMBIA HIGHWAY NEAR PORTLAND, OREGON</span> +</div> + +<p>When I had splashed back to the river in the morning, +I found that <i>Imshallah</i> anxious to hide the +shame of that oil-bath, had spent the night trying to +bury herself in the quicksand. Dumping her was +out of the question, and I sank mid-thigh deep two +or three times myself before I could persuade the +sulking minx even to take the water. I knew she +would take the first chance that offered to rid herself +of the filth, just as she had before; but, with no swift +water above the Cascades, there seemed small likelihood +of her getting out-of-hand. Knowing that she +was quite equal to making a bolt over the top of that +terrible cataract if she hadn’t managed to effect some +sort of purification before reaching there, I made an +honest attempt at conciliation by landing at the first +solid beach I came to and giving her oily sides a good +swabbing down with a piece of carpet. That seemed +to mollify the temperamental lady a good deal, but +just the same I knew her too well to take any chances.</p> + +<p>Of all the great rivers in the world, there are only +two that have had the audacity to gouge a course +straight through a major range of mountains. These<span class="pagenum">[Pg 372]</span> +are the Brahmaputra, which clove a way through the +Himalaya in reaching the Bay of Bengal from Tibet, +and the Columbia, which tore the Cascades asunder +in making its way to the Pacific. But the slow process +of the ages by which the great Asian river won its +way to the sea broke its heart and left it a lifeless +thing. It emerges from the mountains with barely +strength enough to crawl across the most dismal of +deltas to lose its identity in the brackish estuaries at +its many insignificant mouths. The swift stroke by +which the Cascades were parted for the Columbia +left “The Achilles of Rivers” unimpaired in vigour. +It rolls out of the mountains with a force which endless +æons have not weakened to a point where it was +incapable of carrying the silt torn down by its erosive +actions far out into the sea. It is the one great +river that does not run for scores, perhaps hundreds, +of miles through a flat, monotonous delta; the one +great stream that meets the ocean strength for +strength. The Nile, the Niger, the Amazon, the +Yangtse, the Mississippi—all of the other great rivers—find +their way to the sea through miasmic swamps; +only the Columbia finishes in a setting worthy of that +in which it takes its rise. Nay, more than that. Superlative +to the last degree as is the scenery along the +Columbia, from its highest glacial sources in the +Rockies and Selkirks right down to the Cascades, +there is not a gorge, a vista, a panorama, a cascade +of which I cannot truthfully say: “That reminds me +of something I have seen before.” The list would +include the names of most of the scenic wonders that +the world has come to know as the ultimate expression<span class="pagenum">[Pg 373]</span> +of the grand and the sublime; but in time my record +of comparisons would be complete. But for the distinctive +grandeur of that fifty miles of cliff-walled +gorge where the Columbia rolls through its Titan-torn +rift in the Cascades, I fail completely to find a +comparison. It is unique; without a near-rival of its +kind.</p> + +<p>Because so many attempts—all of them more or +less futile—have been made to describe the Cascade +Gorge of the Columbia, I shall not rush in here with +word pictures where even railway pamphleteers have +failed. The fact that several of the points I attained +in the high Selkirks are scarcely more than explored, +and that many stretches I traversed of the upper +river are very rarely visited, must be the excuse for +such essays at descriptions as I have now and then +been tempted into in the foregoing chapters. That +excuse is not valid in connection with the Cascade +Gorge, and, frankly, I am mighty glad of the chance +to side-step the job. I must beg leave, however, to +make brief record of an interesting “scenic coincidence” +that was impressed on my mind the afternoon +that I pulled through the great chasm of the Cascades.</p> + +<p>It was a day of sunshine and showers, with the +clouds now revealing, now concealing the towering +mountain walls on either hand. The almost continuous +rains of the last four days had greatly augmented +the flow of the streams, and there was one time, along +toward evening, that I counted seven distinct waterfalls +tumbling over a stretch of tapestried cliff on the +Oregon side not over two miles in length. And while +these shimmering ribbons of fluttering satin were still<span class="pagenum">[Pg 374]</span> +within eye-scope, a sudden shifting of the clouds uncovered +in quick succession three wonderful old volcanic +cones—Hood, to the south, Adams, to the north, +and a peak which I think must have been St. Helens +to the west. Instantly the lines of Tennyson’s <i>Lotos +Eaters</i> came to my mind.</p> + +<div class="poem" style="width: 28em;"> +<span class="i0">“A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke,</span> +<span class="i0">Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go;</span> +<span class="i0">And some thro’ wavering lights and shadows broke,</span> +<span class="i0">Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below.</span> +<span class="i0">They saw the gleaming river seaward flow</span> +<span class="i0">From the inner land: far off, three mountain-tops,</span> +<span class="i0">Three silent pinnacles of aged snow,</span> +<span class="i0">Stood sunset-flushed; and, dew’d with showery drops,</span> +<span class="i0">Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse.”</span> +</div> + +<p>Tennyson, of course, was writing of some tropic +land thirty or forty degrees south of Oregon, for in +the next verse he speaks of palms and brings the +“mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters” swimming +about the keel; and yet there is his description, perfect +to the last, least word, of what any one may see +in a not-too-cloudy day from the right point on the +lower Columbia.</p> + +<p>The Hood and the White Salmon flow into the +Columbia almost opposite each other, the former from +Mount Hood, to the south, and the latter from Mount +Adams, to the north. White Salmon, perched on the +mountains of the Washington side, is, so far as I can +recall, the “Swiss-iest” looking village in America. +At close range it would doubtless lose much of its +picturesqueness, but from the river it is a perfect bit<span class="pagenum">[Pg 375]</span> +of the Tyrol or the Bernese-Oberland. The Hood +River Valley is one of the very richest in all the West, +running neck-and-neck with Yakima and Wenatchee +for the Blue Ribbon honours of Northwestern apple +production. It is also becoming a dairying centre of +considerable importance. I was genuinely sorry that +my “through” schedule made it impossible to visit +a valley of which I had heard so much and so favourably.</p> + +<p>Nearing the Cascades, I headed over close to the +Oregon bank for a glimpse of the famous “sunken +forest.” This is one of the strangest sights on the +lower river. For a considerable distance I pulled +along the stumps of what had once been large +forest trees, the stubby boles showing plainly through +the clear water to a very considerable depth. There +is some division of opinion as to whether these trees +were submerged following the damming up of the +river by the slide which formed the Cascades, or +whether they have slid in from the mountainside at a +later date. As there is still enough of a riverward +earth-movement to necessitate a realignment of the +rails on the south bank of the Cascades, it is probable +that the latter is the correct theory. The self-preservative +character of Oregon pine is proverbial, but it +hardly seems reasonable to believe that it would last +through the very considerable geologic epoch that +must have elapsed since the Cascades were formed.</p> + +<p>Hugging the Oregon shore closely, I pulled down +toward the head of the Cascades canal. The water +continued almost lake-like in its slackness even after +the heavy rumble of the fall began to beat upon the<span class="pagenum">[Pg 376]</span> +air. I was taking no chances of a last-minute bolt +from the still restive <i>Imshallah</i>, however, and skirted +the sandy bank so closely that twice I found myself +mixed up in the remains of the past season’s salmon-traps. +Passing a big sawmill, I entered the canal and +kept rowing until I came plump up against the lofty +red gates. An astonishingly pretty girl who peered +down from above said she didn’t know what a lock-master +was (being only a passenger waiting for the +steamer herself), but thought a man hammering on +the other side of the gate looked like he might be +something of that kind. She was right. The lock-master +said he would gladly put me through, but +would be greatly obliged if I would wait until he +locked down the steamer, as he was pretty busy at the +moment. That would give me half an hour to go +down and size up the tail of the Cascades, which I +would have to run immediately on coming out at the +foot of the lock.</p> + +<p>There is a fall of twenty-five feet at the Cascades, +most of it in the short, sharp pitch at the head. It is +this latter stretch that is avoided by the canal and +locks, the total length of which is about half a mile. +The two lock chambers are identical in dimensions, +each being ninety feet by four hundred and sixty-five +in the clear. They were opened to navigation in 1896, +and were much used during the early years of the +present century. With the extension of the railways, +(especially with the building of the “North-bank” +line), and the improvement of the roads, with +the incidental increase of truck-freighting, it became +more and more difficult for the steamers to operate<span class="pagenum">[Pg 377]</span> +profitably even on the lower river. One after another +they had been taken off their runs, until the <i>J. N. +Teal</i>, for which I was now waiting, was the last +steamer operating in a regular service on the Columbia +above Portland.</p> + +<p>Opening the great curving gates a crack, the lock-master +admitted <i>Imshallah</i> to the chamber, from +where—in the absence of a ladder—I climbed up fifty +feet to the top on the beams of the steel-work. That +was a pretty stiff job for a fat man, or rather one who +had so recently been fat. I was down to a fairly +compact two hundred and twenty by now, but even +that required the expenditure of several foot-tons of +energy to lift it out of that confounded hole. The +main fall of the Cascades was roaring immediately on +my right, just beyond the narrow island that had been +formed when the locks and canal were constructed. +It was indeed a viciously-running chute, suggesting to +me the final pitch of the left-hand channel of Rock +Island Rapids rather than Grand Rapids, to which it +is often compared. I had heard that on rare occasions +steamers had been run down here at high water; at the +present stage it looked to me that neither a large nor +a small boat would have one chance in a hundred of +avoiding disaster.</p> + +<p>The canal and locks avoided that first heavy fall of +the Cascades completely, but the swift tumble of +waters below was quite rough enough to make a preliminary +survey well worth while. The steamer +channel was on the Washington side, so that it was +necessary for a boat to head directly across the current +immediately on emerging from the lower lock<span class="pagenum">[Pg 378]</span> +chamber. The Oregon side of the river was thick with +rocks right away round the bend, with not enough +clear water to permit the passage of even a skiff. My +course, therefore, would have to be the same as that +of the steamer—just as sharply across to the opposite +side as oars would take me. I had put <i>Imshallah</i> +through worse water than that a score of times, and, +while it wasn’t the sort of a place where one would +want to break an oar or even catch a “crab,” there was +no reason to believe that we should have the least +trouble in pulling across the hard-running swirls. +Of course, if <i>Imshallah</i> really was still smarting under +the indignity of that oil-bath.... But no—I honestly +think there was nothing of distrust of my well-tried +little skiff behind my sudden change of plans. Rather, +I should say, it was due to the fact that a remark of the +lock-master had brought me to a sudden realization +that I now arrived at what I had always reckoned as +my ultimate objective—tide-water.</p> + +<p>I had been planning to run on four miles farther to +Bonneville that afternoon, in the hope of being able +to pull through the forty miles of slackening water to +Vancouver the following day. There I would get a +tug to take the skiff up the Willamette to Portland, +where I intended to leave her. As some of the finest +scenery on the Columbia is passed in the twenty miles +below the Cascades, this promised me another memorable +day on the river—provided that there was only +an occasional decent interval between showers. It +was the lock-master’s forecast of another rainy day, +together with his assurance that the foot of the locks +was generally rated as the head of tide-water, that<span class="pagenum">[Pg 379]</span> +prompted me to change my mind a few moments before +I was due to pull out again to the river, and book +through to Portland on the <i>Teal</i>.</p> + +<p>With the idea of avoiding the wash of the steamer, +I pulled down to the extreme lower end of the locks +before she entered, taking advantage of the interval +of waiting to trim carefully and look to my oars for +the pull across the foot of the Cascades. I was intending +to let the <i>Teal</i> lock out ahead of me, and then pull +as closely as possible in her wake, so as to have her +below me to pick up the pieces in case anything went +wrong. It was close to twilight now, with the sodden +west darkening early under the blank grey cloud-mass +of another storm blowing up-river from the sea. +If that impetuous squall could have curbed its impatience +and held off a couple of minutes longer, it +might have had the satisfaction of treating me to a +good soaking, if nothing more. As it was, I flung up +my hands and <i>kamerad-ed</i> at the opening pelt of the +big rain-drops. Speaking as one Columbia River +skipper to another, I hailed the Captain of the <i>J. N. +Teal</i> and asked him if he would take me and my boat +aboard.</p> + +<p>“Where bound?” he bawled back.</p> + +<p>“Portland,” I replied.</p> + +<p>“Aw right. Pull up sta’bo’d bow lively—’fore gate +open!”</p> + +<p>A dozen husky roustabouts, urged on by an impatient +Mate, scrambled to catch the painter and give us +a hand-up. I swung over the side all right, but <i>Imshallah</i>, +hanging back a bit, came in for some pretty +rough pulling and hauling before they got her on<span class="pagenum">[Pg 380]</span> +deck. The two or three of her planks that were +started in the melée constituted about the worst injury +the little lady received on the whole voyage.</p> + +<p>And so <i>Imshallah</i> and I came aboard the <i>J. N. +Teal</i> to make the last leg of our voyage as passengers. +The gates were turning back before I had reached +the upper deck, and a few minutes later the powerfully-engined +old stern-wheeler went floundering +across the foam-streaked tail of the Cascades and off +down the river. Castle Rock—nine hundred feet +high and sheer-walled all around—was no more than +a ghostly blur in the darkness as we slipped by in the +still rapidly moving current. Multnomah’s majesty +was blanked behind the curtain of night and a driving +rain, and only a distant roar on the port beam told +where one of the loveliest of American waterfalls took +its six-hundred-foot leap from the brink of the southern +wall of the river. Cape Horn and Rooster +Rock were swathed to their foundations in streaming +clouds.</p> + +<p>Once the <i>Teal</i> was out on the comparatively open +waters of the lower river, the Captain came down for +a yarn with me—as one Columbia skipper to another. +He had spent most of his life on the Snake and lower +Columbia, but he seemed to know the rapids and canyons +below the Canadian line almost reef by reef, and +all of the old skippers I had met by reputation. He +said that he had never heard of any one’s ever having +deliberately attempted to run the Cascades in anything +smaller than a steamer, although an endless lot +of craft had come to grief by getting in there by accident. +The only time a man ever went through in a<span class="pagenum">[Pg 381]</span> +small boat and came out alive was about ten years +ago. That lucky navigator, after drinking most of +a Saturday night in the town, came down to the river +in the dim grey dawn of a Sunday, got into his boat +and pushed off. It was along toward church-time +that a ferry-man, thirty miles or more down river, +picked up a half filled skiff. Quietly sleeping in the +stern-sheets, with nothing but his nose above water, +was the only man that ever came through the Cascades +in a small boat.</p> + +<p>The Captain looked at me with a queer smile after +he told that story. “I don’t suppose you were heeled +to tackle the Cascades just like that?” he asked finally.</p> + +<p>And so, for the last time, I was taken for a boot-legger. +But no—not quite the last. I believe it was +the porter at Hotel Portland who asked me if—ahem!—if +I had got away with anything from Canada. +And for all of that incessant trail of smoke, no fire—or +practically none.</p> + +<p>The day of my arrival in Portland I delivered <i>Imshallah</i> +up to the kindest-faced boat-house proprietor +on the Willamette and told him to take his time about +finding her a home with some sport-loving Oregonian +who knew how to treat a lady right and wouldn’t +give her any kind of menial work to do. I told him I +didn’t want to have her work for a living under any +conditions, as I felt she had earned a rest; and to impress +upon whoever bought her that she was high-spirited +and not to be taken liberties with, such as +subjecting her to garbage shower-baths and similar +indignities. He asked me if she had a name, and I +told him that she hadn’t—any more; that the one she<span class="pagenum">[Pg 382]</span> +had been carrying had ceased to be in point now her +voyage was over. It had been a very appropriate +name for a boat on the Columbia, though, I assured +him, and I was going to keep it to use if I ever made +the voyage again.</p> + +<p>Portland, although it is not directly upon the Columbia, +has always made that river distinctively its +own. I had realized that in a vague way for many +years, but it came home to me again with renewed +force now that I had arrived in Portland after having +had some glimpse of every town and village from the +Selkirks to the sea. (Astoria and the lower river I +had known from many steamer voyages in the past.) +Of all the thousands living on or near the Columbia, +those of Portland still struck me as being the +ones who held this most strikingly individual of all the +world’s rivers at most nearly its true value. With +Portlanders, I should perhaps include all of those +living on the river from Astoria to The Dalles. These, +too, take a mighty pride in their great river, and regard +it with little of that distrustful reproach one remarks +so often on the upper Columbia, where the +settlers see it bearing past their parched fields the +water and the power that would mean the difference +to them between success and disaster. When this +stigma has been wiped out by reclamation (as it soon +will be), without a doubt the plucky pioneers of the +upper Columbia will see in their river many beauties +that escape their troubled eyes to-day.</p> + +<p>The early Romans made some attempt to give expression +to their love of the Tiber in monuments and +bridges. It would be hard indeed to conceive of any<span class="pagenum">[Pg 383]</span>thing +in marble or bronze, or yet in soaring spans of +steel, that would give adequate expression to the pride +of the people of the lower Columbia in their river; and +so it is a matter of felicitation that they have sought to +pay their tribute in another way. There was inspiration +behind the conception of the idea of the Columbia +Highway, just as there was genius and rare imagination +in the carrying out of that idea. I have said +that the Cascade Gorge of the Columbia is a scenic +wonder apart from all others; that it stands without +a rival of its kind. Perhaps the greatest compliment +that I can pay to the Columbia Highway is to say +that it is worthy of the river by which it runs.</p> + +<p class="title">(THE END)</p> +<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 384]</span></p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p class="title">TRANSCRIBER NOTES:</p> + +<blockquote><p>Alternate spellings and archaic words have been retained.</p> + +<p>page 82: "experienced" changed to "inexperienced" (Roos was young and +inexperienced).</p> + +<p>page 96: added closing quotation mark which was missing in the original ("... than some +the old girl’s had.").</p> + +<p>page 147: "rifflles" changed to "riffles" (four or five riffles below).</p> + +<p>page 160: "Lientenant" changed to "Lieutenant" (Lieutenant Thomas W. Symons).</p> + +<p>page 163: "avenue" changed to "Avenue" (Fifth Avenue).</p> + +<p>page 300: "spilts" changed to "splits" (the river splits upon).</p> + +<p>page 315: "goddes" changed to "goddess" (this goddess of the Columbia).</p> + +<p>page 320: "staight" changed to "straight" (straight on through to).</p> + +<p>page 331: "a" added to sentence for continuity (We were going to have a run for +our money).</p> + +<p>page 366: added "and" (Miss S—— and I).</p> + +<p>page 380: "of" changed to "or" (The two or three of her planks).</p> + +<p>page 380: "mélee" changed to "melée" (that were started in the melée).</p></blockquote> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Down the Columbia, by Lewis R. 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