Apparently they had killed a Moose, as their dung was full
of Moose hair.
We were now in the Canyon of the Athabaska and from this on our
journey was a fight with the rapids. One by one my skilful boatmen
negotiated them; either we tracked up or half unloaded, or landed
and portaged, but it was hard and weary work. My journal entry for
the night of the 18th runs thus:
"I am tired of troubled waters. All day to-day and for five days
back we have been fighting the rapids of this fierce river. My
place is to sit in the canoe-bow with a long pole, glancing here
and there, right, left, and ahead, watching ever the face of this
snarling river; and when its curling green lips apart betray a
yellow brown gleam of deadly teeth too near, it is my part to ply
with might and main that pole, and push the frail canoe aside to
where the stream is in milder, kindlier mood.' Oh, I love not a
brawling river any more than a brawling woman, and thoughts of the
broad, calm Slave, with its majestic stretches of level flood, are
now as happy halcyon memories of a bright and long-gone past."
My men were skilful and indefatigable. One by one we met the hard
rapids in various ways, mostly by portaging, but on the morning
of the 19th we came to one so small and short that all agreed the
canoe could be forced by with poles and track-line. It looked an
insignificant ripple, no more than a fish might make with its tail,
and what happened in going up, is recorded as follows:
CHAPTER XLV
THE RIVER SHOWS ITS TEETH
"Oct. 20, 1907. - Athabaska River. In the Canyon. This has been
a day of horrors and mercies. We left the camp early, 6.55 - long
before sunrise, and portaged the first rapid. About 9 we came to
the middle rapid; this Billy thought we could track up, so with
two ropes he and Rob were hauling us, I in bow, Preble in stem;
but the strong waters of the middle part whirled the canoe around
suddenly, and dashed her on a rock. There was a crash of breaking
timber, a roar of the flood, and in a moment Preble and I and, all
the stuff were in the water.
"'My journals,' I shouted as I went down, and all the time the
flood was boiling in my ears my thought was, 'My journals,' - 'my
journals.'
"The moment my mouth was up again above the water, I bubbled out,
'My journals, - save my journals,' then struck out for the shore.
Now I saw Preble hanging on to the canoe and trying to right it.
His face was calm and unchanged as when setting a mousetrap.
