288 THE ARCTIC PRAIRIES 



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 re- 

 corded as follows: 



