A rope long enough to reach at least twice across is coiled down clear on the bank, and on no account must that rope be checked as it runs out, otherwise you immediately check the swimmer. The first river we came to was the Pembinaw, and I had made three shots before I found the bright Alecs on the bank (again our Western States men) thought the rope was running out too quickly and in consequence were checking it under their feet!
As a matter of fact there were rapids just below us and unless I was well over in the first hundred yards I had perforce to let go the end of the rope altogether and get back as quickly as possible in order to avoid being swept into the rapids. Eventually, I found out where the trouble lay and on the fourth attempt succeeded.
In water of this temperature a suit of underclothes and a belt does not offer much protection. I really don’t know why one always wears a suit of underclothes; it must be that the thick wool helps when one comes out of the water; however it seems the usual practice up there to wear a suit of wool underclothes.
Having once got the line across all is plain sailing. A few well-seasoned logs are pinned together with green willow pegs to make a raft, which is towed back and forth.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CROSSING THE ATHABASKA
One river we struck as we got up to the mountains seemed the father of all rivers, the Athabaska, broken up into rapids and nearly three miles across. We arrived on the banks one evening, and set out to get over as it is always better to have dry clothes and the river behind you in the morning. We forded a considerable distance and arrived on an island in the middle, where, in the end, we had to camp for the night. Next morning we set out to find a ford. There wasn’t one, and, what was of added interest, we found that the river was rising.
A couple of days before, we had chummed up with another party of three heading the same way, so we joined forces in the hope that many heads might help. I can’t say they they did, but fortunately for all of us, the assurances we had received from old timers that sailors take naturally to the trail, proved quite true and of inestimable value, though parked in the middle of the Athabaska, with a rising river in front and behind us, it did not seem as if all our sailoring experience was going to help much; and it didn’t, despite seven attempts to find a ford. There seemed nothing for it but to take the bull by the horns, get on a horse, get into the water, and hope for the best.
The opposite bank, another island, was only a matter of a hundred yards, but the sides were sheer with the exception of two places where the banks had broken away. There seemed practically no hope of fetching the break higher up the river, but the lower one was just possible. So I determined, that night, that unless the river went down I was going to have a shot at it, particularly as there was every unpleasant indication that the river frequently submerged the whole island. Bill would go anywhere where anyone else would lead. He certainly had no fear, and he was the only one of the party who would face water. His horse was none too good though, just a bundle of nerves; whereas mine, that I had chosen out of a corral of fifty or sixty, could and would do anything but talk. This was to be the one and only occasion on which I ever saw him baulk at water, and that night, when I tried to get him to face this flood — which was nothing but white water, coming tearing and foaming down out of the mountains — he certainly didn’t like it. In fact it is no exaggeration to say he just hated it. Bill would come, but unfortunately he had never ridden a horse in his life, much less swam one. I cautioned him, “Now mind, as soon as he loses his feet, get off his back and hang on to his withers,” and in we went, Rufus step by step, and every step a snort. He certainly did not like it a bit, and, speaking generally, a man is a fool to force one of these intelligent pack horses when he baulks. But this was an exception. So with a pat and an urge, he went on, step by step, with the water foaming between his legs, till at last he lost his feet, got a dose of funk, and tried to fling back. Fortunately, his head came round my way, and I was able to give him a hearty smack on the nose, and head him off again in the right direction. Then he stretched himself out and went through the water like a harbour launch.
Having settled him on his course, I looked round for Bill who had followed me in. All that was visible at the moment were the four legs of a horse, sticking up above the water, and just in the act of rolling over. Bill must have lost his head, and tried to stick on his horse’s back, both of them rolling over in consequence.
Amazing though it seemed, I struck the higher break in the opposite bank, an accomplishment I had though utterly impossible. I’ll say that horse could swim! The moment old Rufus touched the ground with his feet he tore out of the water like one possessed, snorting like a grampus, thoroughly wound up, and shaking like a leaf with excitement. Throwing a leg over him as he came out, I kept him going and galloped down to the lower end of the island as hard as we could, coiling the lariat up in my hands at the same time. Bill had one chance as he swept by, and one only. If he missed the end of that lariat, he was bound down to where the river humped itself up in a canyon, a few miles below, in which no canoe, let alone a man, could live for a minute.
Arriving at the lower end of the island, I drove Rufus down the spit until he was as deep in the water as I dared go and still retain good foothold, and then waited until Bill came past. It was a critical moment, for I knew I should only get that one throw, and that to pretty well the full extent of the rope. I must land the end of the lariat somewhere near him, where he could either swim to it — in which case he would lose his horse — or, if I was fortunate enough, get so near that he could secure the end, and still hang onto the horse’s halter.
Actually, what happened, I made my throw, and with unlimited luck, landed the end right alongside of him. I yelled to him to hang on to his horse, while he took a quick seamanlike turn round his wrist, and with the other hand gripped the halter. My end was round my waist, slacking and easing away to the strain whilst Bill and his horse, swung round into the eddy where we were standing, and got their feet on firm ground again.
No one ever had a closer call, though Bill didn’t seem to worry.
We spent that night turning ourselves round, like a roast of beef on a spit, trying to warm one side and then the other, lying in nothing but our underclothes, in front of a roaring fire we had built up out of driftwood.
The whole of the next day we were alternately fording, swimming, and freezing, whilst we made our way to the mainland, were we eventually located an Indian canoe. This we brought down to where the others were marooned, and eventually succeeded in ferrying the rest of the party over. The river was by then within a few inches of the surface of the island and they had made all preparations for taking to the trees. That would have been all right, but, unfortunately horses can’t climb.
It is undoubtedly a great game crossing rapids in a canoe. You tow up stream so far, until you find an eddy or little bay, causing a bit of slack water. Probably just a cut of a few feet into the bank will do. Then a bit lower down on the opposite side, another convenient eddy must be found. Then load the canoe, and don’t forget to put the paddle on top of everything, ready to hand. Give her a push, leap in, and land in the bottom on your knees, sitting on your feet — if you are lucky. It needs a bit of practice, but fortunately I had had plenty of opportunity for that in the dug-outs of Rio de Janeiro, in which you surely do have to part your hair in the middle. I had won many a race in Rio, and compared with a Dug-out, the Canadian birchbark is easy. Having landed in the bottom of the canoe you seize your paddle, and dig like fury. The water fairly curls up at the bow, and you simply tear across the river at the rate of knots. Head her straight for the opposite eddy as if you were going to ram the bank at full speed. Actually what happens is when the stem touches dead water, and the river sweeping down, swings the stern round, bringing the canoe to a standstill, riding motionless alongside the bank all in one movement. It is thrilling all right — particularly with rapids just below you — but tiring when you have to keep it up all day, as we had to, to get clear of the island before it disappeared.