RAPIDS

“DAWSON marks the rapids just below here, doesn’t
he2”

The words, although shouted, were scarcely
audible, but the roar of the fourteen-horse-power
Johnson had trained us in the art of lip-reading and
eloquent gesture. The tracing of Dawson’s map
was pulled out and consulted; yes, the Cottonwood
River coming in from the north-west, and then
the rapids.

We turned out of the Dease into the mouth of
the tributary, and ran ashore on its lower bank. The
deep silence which usually followed upon the dying
of the motor was this time broken by a dull, low,
incessant vibration in the cool morning air. Having
tied the boat securely, we scrambled up through
the brush and cut across toward the bank of the
Dease, following it down until, through the tall
evergreens, we saw the first stretch of rapid water.
We struck through the trees to the river’s edge, lit
cigarettes and sat down in silence, fascinated. On
the opposite side, close ranks of gigantic spruce
stood banded with sunlight; the green and gold of

71 F