THE FORKS OF THE RIVER TOE 317 
Blue Ridge crosses Armstrong Creek several times, 
a good preparation for the graver perils of the Toe, 
for Armstrong is one of those streams that come like 
a millrace down the mountain-side, dangerous not 
only in time of general flood, but because it rises 
without warning, becoming impassable almost in a 
moment after a sudden downpour somewhere up in 
the high mountains. 
The entrance to the Toe ford, one found to be a 
newmade sandbank down which was a steep pitch 
into the rushing yellow-red water, while in the trees 
high above your head you saw the debris stranded 
there by the flood. The river was terrifying enough 
to look at, and once in, it seemed for a few moments 
as though the end had come. Although the driver 
headed well upstream so as not to be washed below 
the ford where was no exit through the rocky wall, it 
seemed as though we were being borne swiftly down 
to destruction. The water suddenly rose about your 
knees and the horses disappeared all but their heads: 
they were swimming. This lasted but a terrible few 
moments, however, while the driver sat still and 
pale, his eyes riveted on the horses, the reins held 
loosely in his fingers. It was discovered afterward 
that this foolhardy feat was the result of courage 
stored in a bottle in the driver's pocket. He had gone 
down the mountain before a long rainstorm came 
and raised the waters, and he had been detained so 
long that he was ready to take any chance to get 
home. Of course one did not know these things until 
afterwards, and the fording of the Toe in retrospect 
