SNOOTING THE RAPIDS OF THE QUINAUIT. 



189 



was only a few inches wide, while the bot- 

 tom, covered with slime from the salmon, 

 was as slick as soft soap. The river, white 

 as snow, as it rushed and roared past, was 

 doing all it could to carry us with it. The 

 canoe trembled from stem to stern, in its 

 desire to leap madly forward and crush 

 itself on the rocks. 



Half of the rocks were barely covered by 

 the water, and therefore invisible until we 

 were almost on them, George worked 

 hard, and let forth a string of unspellable 

 and untranslatable Indian oaths. 



The man in the bow was supposed to 

 pick the way, but George, having small 

 faith in the " kultus Boston man," used his 

 own judgment. It is probably due to this 

 I am permitted to tell the story. 



Suddenly our friend saw, right ahead of 

 the canoe, not more than 8 feet distant, a 

 jagged rock, barely covered by the water. 

 He drove the pole into the bottom with the 

 intention of fending off, and bore his 

 weight on it before the steel point was fast 

 in the bottom. Before he knew what had 

 happened, he was on his knees, in the bot- 

 tom of the canoe, one hand convulsively 

 grasping the rail, while the other was 

 wildly grabbing for the pole, which had 

 been dropped when he fell. A thump on 

 the side of the canoe, showed what a nar- 

 row shave it was. 



The pole was rescued, and he stood up 

 again; while his comrades favored him 

 with all manner of advice and caustic re- 

 marks. 



In one place George decided we could 

 not advance, on account of the rocks ahead. 

 So, practically unaided, he backed the 

 canoe 10 feet against the rushing, roaring 

 waters, and then worked it sidewise, more 

 than 20 yards. 



It was wonderful! as limber as a willow, 

 yet as stiff and springy as a steel rod, he 

 put his whole weight on the pole, his feet 

 alone being in the canoe for his body 

 leaned far over the water. Never once did 

 he slip or make an error. After half an 

 hour of this work, he suddenly dropped the 

 pole and seized his paddle; then we shot 

 forward between 2 great bowlders, into a 

 long, quiet pool below the rapids. The 

 poor unfortunate in the bow had to lose 

 his balance, just as it was all over, and 

 toppled over backward, on the salmon, to 

 the delight of his 2 loving friends. 



All day long we swept down the river; 

 now slowly making our way among the 

 rocks, or fairly flying as we rode on the 

 crest of some unobstructed rapid. When 

 we had camped for the night, George sug- 

 gested " iskum hiyu trout " ; so we got 

 out our rods. He sniffed at them, remark- 

 ing they were " hay-lo kloshe." 



Going into the brush, he came back with 

 a small tree, 15 feet long and 2 inches 

 through at the butt. To this he fastened a 

 line fit for tarpon, and a shark-hook; bait- 



ing with a big bunch of salmon eggs. He 

 tied the bait on with a piece of thread. 



We sat on the bank and watched the 

 native fisherman. He climbed out on a 

 jam of logs that extended nearly across the 

 river, at the head of a big pool. Here he 

 dropped his hunk of bait, weighted with a 

 heavy sinker. The line had barely sagged, 

 showing the sinker had grounded, when we 

 saw it cut through the water, while the tree 

 bent nearly double. George came clamber- 

 ing ashore as fast as he could. Reaching 

 the beach, he threw the rod over his shoul- 

 der and ran up the bank, shouting, " is- 

 kum! iskum!" (Catch him! catch him!) 



Trailing on the line, floundering over the 

 stones, came a huge dolly-varden trout, 

 over 2 feet long. It broke off of its own 

 weight, when only a few feet out of the 

 water, and a wild foot-ball dive resulted in 

 its capture. 



George was in great glee. Tying an- 

 other mass of salmon eggs on his hook he 

 returned to the jam. We promptly decided 

 to show him how trout are caught back in 

 York State; so we dropped our hooks into 

 the pool, near his line. Almost immedi- 

 ately one of us was fast, and the trout sailed 

 under the jam, as if he had no string on 

 him at all. The reel sang for a few mo- 

 ments, then the line snapped. 



George looked with supreme contempt at 

 the light tackle, and muttered again, " Hay- 

 lo kloshe." Then he repeated the perform- 

 ance of running up the beach; this time 

 landing a steelhead salmon, a 10-pounder. 



Shortly after starting, on the second day, 

 we came to a pool that appeared to termi- 

 nate in a waterfall. George landed and 

 walked down to look at it. The river ran 

 over a ledge, making a fall of 4 feet, the 

 edge of which was as smooth as the crest 

 of a mill-dam fall. The stream then ran al- 

 most straight for 200 yards, narrow and 

 deep. The centre combed far above the 

 water along the bank. 



Pushing off, we took the middle of the 

 current, everyone paddling. By the time 

 the crest was reached the canoe had gained 

 tremendous headway, and shot far out be- 

 yond the fall. For an instant we seemed 

 suspended in mid-air; then the canoe struck 

 the water with a resounding whack, the 

 foam flying, and a few buckets of water 

 shipping. To this we paid little attention, 

 for we were sailing along so fast as almost 

 to take away my breath. The trees on the 

 banks appeared only as a blur. 



In an hour we reached a jam of logs, over 

 a mile in length, and had to make our way 

 around it. Time and again we had to get 

 out and wade, dragging the canoe. Twice 

 we had to make short portages. 



Toward the middle of the forenoon our 

 ears were gladdened by the sullen roar of 

 the Pacific, and shortly after noon we 

 reached the Government agency, at the 

 mouth of the river. 



