<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXIII">CHAPTER XXIII.</h2></div>
<div class="blockquot inhead medium">
<p>The Black Cañon.—An ugly prospect.—The vanished boat.—We
struggle on.—A forlorn hope.—We fail again.—An
unhoped for meeting and a feast of joy.—The Black Cañon
conquered.</p>
</div>
<p class="in0"><span class="firstword">Casting</span> off from camp, on the morning of
the 12th, we pushed right into the mouth of the
cañon. At once our troubles began. The steep
walls of smooth rock rose directly out of the
water—sometimes washed by a torrent, at others
beaten by a back-whirl and foaming eddy. In the
centre ran a rush of water that nothing could
stem. Poling, paddling, clinging with hands and
nails to the rock; often beaten back and always
edging up again, we crept slowly along under the
overhanging cliff, which leaned out two hundred
feet above us to hold upon its dizzy verge some
clinging pine-tree. In the centre of the chasm,
about half a mile from its mouth, a wild cataract
of foam forbade our passage; but after a whole
morning’s labour we succeeded in bringing the
canoe safely to the foot of this rapid, and moored
her in a quiet eddy behind a sheltering rock. Here<span class="pagenum" id="Page_280">280</span>
we unloaded, and, clambering up a cleft in the
cañon wall two hundred feet above us, passed
along the top of the cliff, and bore our loads to the
upper or western end of the cañon, fully a mile
from the boat. The day was hot and sweltering,
and it was hard work.</p>
<p>In one of these many migrations between camp
and canoe, it chanced one evening that, missing the
trail, my footsteps led me to the base of a small
knoll, the sides and summit of which were destitute
of trees. Climbing to the top of this hill I
beheld a view of extraordinary beauty. Over the
sea of forest, from the dark green and light green
ocean of tree-tops, the solid mountain mass lay
piled against the east. Below my standpoint the
first long reach of the cañon opened out; a grim
fissure in the forest, in the depths of which the
waters caught the reflection of the sun-lit skies
above, glowing brightly between the walls of
gloomy rock deep hidden beneath the level rays of
the setting sun. I stood high above the cañon,
high above the vast forest which stretched between
me and the mountains; and the eye, as it wandered
over the tranquil ocean upon whose waves
the isles of light green shade lay gold-crested in
the sunset, seemed to rest upon fresh intervals of
beauty, until the solid ramparts rent and pinnacled,
silent and impassive, caught and rivetted its glance;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_281">281</span>
as their snow-white, motionless fingers, carved
in characters that ever last, the story of earth’s
loveliness upon the great blue dome of heaven.</p>
<p>We pushed through the dense underwood, loaded
down with all the paraphernalia of our travel, and
even Cerf-vola carried his load of boots and moose-meat.
When we had finished carrying our loads, it
was time for dinner; and that over, we set to work
at once for the stiffer labour of hauling the canoe
up the rapid of the cañon; for, remember, there
was no hope of lifting her, she was too heavy, and
the rocky walls were far too steep to allow of it.
Up along shore, through rapid and eddy we dragged
our craft, for here the north side had along its base
ledges of rock and bits of shore, and taking advantage
of these, sometimes in the canoe and sometimes
out of it in the water, we reached at length
the last edge or cliff round which it was possible
to proceed at the north shore.</p>
<p>For a long time we examined the spot, and
the surrounding cañon. Jacques and I climbed
up to the top above, and then down on hands
and knees to a ledge from which we could
look over into the chasm, and scan its ugly
features. Beyond a doubt it was ugly—the rock
on which we lay hollowed down beneath us
until it roofed the shore of the cañon with a half
cavern, against which a wild whirlpool boiled up<span class="pagenum" id="Page_282">282</span>
now and again, sinking suddenly into stillness.
Even if we could stretch a line from above the
rock to where our canoe lay below it, she must
have been knocked to atoms in the whirlpool
in her passage beneath the cavern; but the distance
was too great to stretch a line across. The
next and only course was to make a bold crossing
from below the rock, and gain the other shore, up
which it was possible to drag our canoe. Once
over, the thing would be easy enough for at least a
couple of hundred yards more.</p>
<p>We climbed back to the canoe and imparted
the result of our investigation to the other two
men. From the level of the boat the proposed
crossing looked very nasty. It was across a
wild rush of water, in the centre of the cañon,
and if we failed to make a small eddy at the
farther shore we must drive full upon the precipice
of rock where, below us boiled and seethed
the worst rapid in the cañon—a mass of wave,
and foam, and maddened surge. Once out of
the sheltering eddy in which we lay watching
this wild scene, we would be in the midst of the
rush close above the rapid. There was no time to
get headway on the canoe. It would shoot from
shelter into furious current, and then, if it missed
yon little eddy, look out; and if you have any good
angels away at home, pray that they may be praying<span class="pagenum" id="Page_283">283</span>
for you—for down that white fall of water
you must go broadside or stern on.</p>
<div id="i_283" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 40em;">
<ANTIMG src="images/i_283.jpg" width-obs="2546" height-obs="1576" alt="" />
<div class="caption">RUNNING STERN FOREMOST THE BLACK CAÑON.</div>
</div>
<p>The more we looked at it, the less we liked it;
but it was the sole means of passing the cañon,
and retreat came not yet into our heads. We
took our places—Kalder at the bow, Jacques at the
stern, A—— and I in the middle; then we hugged
the rock for the last time, and shoved out into the
swirl of waters. There was no time to think;
we rose and fell; we dipped our paddles in the
rushing waves with those wild quick strokes
which men use when life is in the blow; and
then the cañon swung and rocked for a second,
and with a wild yell of Indian war-whoop from
Kalder, which rose above the rush of the water,
we were in the eddy at the farther shore.</p>
<p>It was well done. On again up the cañon with
line from rock to rock, bit by bit, until, as the sun
began to slope low upon the forest, we reach the
foot of the last fall—the stiffest we had yet
breasted. Above it lies our camp upon the
north shore; above it will be easy work—we
will have passed the worst of the Ominica
River.</p>
<p>Made bold by former victory we passed our line
round the rock, and bent our shoulders to haul
the canoe up the slant of water. Kalder with a
long pole held the frail craft out from the rock.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_284">284</span>
A—— and I were on the line, and Jacques was
running up to assist us, when suddenly there came
upon the rope a fierce strain; all at once the
canoe seemed to have the strength of half a dozen
runaway horses. It spun us round, we threw all
our strength against it, and snap went the rope
midway over the water; the boat had suddenly
sheered, and all was over. We had a second line
fastened to the bow; this line was held by Kalder
at the moment of the accident, but it was in loose
coils about him, and of no service to stay the
downward rush. Worse than all, the canoe, now
going like an arrow down the rapid, tightened the
tangled coils around Kalder’s legs, and I saw with
horror that he ran every chance of being dragged
feet foremost from the smooth rock on which he
stood, into the boiling torrent beneath.</p>
<p>Quicker than thought he realized his peril; he
sprang from the treacherous folds, and dragged
with all his strength the quick-running rope clear of
his body; and then, like the Indian he was, threw
all his weight to stay the canoe.</p>
<p>It was useless; his line snapped like ours had
done, and away went the canoe down the surge of
water—down the lip of the fall—away, away—bearing
with her our sole means of travel through
the trackless wilderness! We crouched together on
the high rock, which commanded a long view down<span class="pagenum" id="Page_285">285</span>
the Black Cañon, and gazed wistfully after our
vanishing boat.</p>
<p>In one instant we were reduced to a most
wretched state. Our canoe was gone; but that
was not half our loss—our meat and tent had also
gone with her; and we were left on the south
shore of the river, while a deep, wide and rapid
stream rolled between us and our camp, and we had
no axe wherewith to cut trees for a raft—no line
to lash them together. Night was coming on; we
were without food, shipwrecked in the wilderness.</p>
<p>When the canoe had vanished, we took stock
of all these things, and then determined on a
course. It was to go back along the upper edge
of the cañon to the entrance opposite our camping-place
of the last night, there to make a raft from
some logs which had been collected for a <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">cache</i> in
the previous year, then to put together whatever
line or piece of string we possessed, and, making a
raft, endeavour to cross to the north shore, and
thus gain our camp above the cañon.</p>
<p>It was a long piece of work, and we were already
tired with the day’s toil, but it was the sole means
by which we could hope to get back to our camp
and to food again. After that we would deliberate
upon further movements.</p>
<p>When men come heavily to grief in any enterprise,
the full gravity of the disaster does not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_286">286</span>
break all at once upon their minds; nay, I have
generally found that the first view of the situation
is the ludicrous one. One is often inclined to
laugh over some plight, which means anything but
a laughing matter in reality.</p>
<p>We made our way to the mouth of the cañon,
and again held a council. Jacques did not like
the idea of the raft; he would go down through
the Beaver swamps along the south shore, and, it
might be, find the canoe stranded on some beach
lower down. Anyhow he would search, and next
morning he would come up again along the river
and hail us across the water in our camp with
tidings of his success: so we parted.</p>
<p>We at once set to work to make our raft. We
upset the logs of the old <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">cache</i>, floated them in the
water, and lashed them together as best we could,
with all the bits of line we could fasten together;
then we got three rough poles, took our places on
the rickety raft, and put out into the turbid river.
Our raft sank deep into the water; down, down
we went; no bottom for the poles, which we used
as paddles in the current. At last we reached the
shore of a large island, and our raft was thrown
violently amidst a pile of driftwood. We scrambled
on shore, broke our way through drift and
thicket to the upper end of the island, and found
a wide channel of water separating us still from<span class="pagenum" id="Page_287">287</span>
the north shore. Wading up to our middles
across a shallow part of this channel, we finally
reached the north shore and our camp of the
previous night; from thence we worked through
the forest, and just at dusk we struck our camp of
the morning. Thus, after many vicissitudes and
much toil, we had got safely back to our camp;
and though the outlook was dreary enough—for
three large rivers and seventy miles of trackless
forest lay between us and the mining camp to
which we were tending, while all hope of assistance
seemed cut off from us—still, after a hearty supper,
we lay down to sleep, ready to meet on the morrow
whatever it might bring forth.</p>
<p>Early next morning the voice of little Jacques
sounded from the other side. He had had a rough
time of it; he had gone through slough and
swamp and thicket, and finally he had found the
canoe stranded on an island four miles below the
cañon, half full of water, but otherwise not much
the worse for her trip. “Let us make a raft and
go down, and we would all pull her up again,
and everything would yet be right.” So, taking
axes and line with us, we set off once more for the
mouth of the cañon, and built a big raft of dry
logs, and pushed it out into the current.</p>
<p>Jacques was on the opposite shore, so we took
him on our raft, and away we went down current<span class="pagenum" id="Page_288">288</span>
at the rate of seven miles an hour. We reached
the island where our castaway canoe lay, and once
more found ourselves the owners of a boat. Then
we poled up to the cañon again, and, working hard,
succeeded in landing the canoe safely behind the
rock from which we had made our celebrated
crossing on the previous day. The day was hot
and fine, the leaves of the cotton-wood were green,
the strawberries were in blossom, and in the morning
a humming-bird had fluttered into the camp,
carrying the glittering colours which he had
gathered in the tropics. But these proofs of
summer boded ill for us, for all around the
glittering hills were sending down their foaming
torrents to flood the Ominica.</p>
<p>On the night of the 13th the river, already
high, rose nearly two feet. The morning of the
14th came, and, as soon as breakfast was over, we
set out to make a last attempt to force the cañon.
The programme was to be the same as that of
two days ago; to cross above the rapid, and then
with double-twisted line to drag the canoe up the
fatal fall! We reached the canoe and took our
places the same as before. This time, however,
there was a vague feeling of uneasiness in every
one’s mind; it may have been because we went at
the work coldly, unwarmed by previous exercise;
but despite the former successful attempt, we felt<span class="pagenum" id="Page_289">289</span>
the presage of disaster ere we left the sheltering
rock. Once more the word was given, and we
shot into the boiling flood. There was a moment’s
wild struggle, during which we worked with all
the strength of despair. A second of suspense,
and then we are borne backwards—slowly, faster,
yet faster—until with a rush as of wings, and
amid a roar of maddened water, we go downwards
towards the cañon’s wall.</p>
<p>“The rock! the rock!—keep her from the
rock!” roared Jacques. We might as well have
tried to stop an express train. We struck, but it was
the high bow, and the blow split us to the centre;
another foot and we must have been shivered to
atoms. And now, ere there was time for thought,
we were rushing, stern foremost, to the edge of
the great rapid. There was no escape; we were
as helpless as if we had been chained in that
black cañon. “Put steerway on her!” shouted
Jacques, and his paddle dipped a moment in the
surge and spray. Another instant and we were in
it; there was a plunge—a dash of water on every
side of us; the waves hissed around and above us,
seeming to say, “Now we have got you; for two
days you have been edging along us, flanking us,
and fooling us; but now it is our turn!”</p>
<p>The shock with which we struck into the mass
of breakers seemed but the prelude to total wreck,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_290">290</span>
and the first sensation I experienced was one of
surprise that the canoe was still under us. But,
after the first plunge she rose well, and amidst the
surge and spray we could see the black walls of
the cañon flitting by us as we glanced through
the boiling flood. All this was but the work of a
moment, and lo! breathless and dripping, with
canoe half filled, we lay safe in quiet eddies where,
below the fall, the water rested after its strife.</p>
<p>Behind the rock we lay for a few minutes
silent, while the flooded canoe rose and fell upon
the swell of the eddy.</p>
<p>If, after this escape, we felt loth to try the old
road again, to venture a third time upon that
crossing above the rapid, let no man hold our
courage light.</p>
<p>We deliberated long upon what was best to be
done. Retreat seemed inevitable; Kalder was
strongly opposed to another attempt; the canoe
was already broken, and with another such blow
she must go to pieces. At last, and reluctantly,
we determined to carry all our baggage back from
the camp, to load up the boat, and, abandoning
the Black Cañon and the Ominica altogether,
seek through the Parsnip River an outlet towards
the South. It was our only resource, and it was
a poor one. Wearily we dragged our baggage
back to the canoe, and loaded her again. Then,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_291">291</span>
casting out into the current, we ran swiftly down
the remainder of the cañon, and shot from beneath
the shadows of its sombre walls. As we emerged
from the mouth into the broader river, the sheen
of coloured blankets struck our sight on the
south shore.</p>
<p>In the solitudes of the North one is surprised
at the rapidity with which the eye perceives the
first indication of human or animal existence, but
the general absence of life in the wilderness makes
its chance presence easily detected.</p>
<p>We put to shore. There was a camp close to
the spot where we had built our first raft on the
night of the disaster; blankets, three fresh beavers,
a bundle of traps, a bag of flour, and a pair of
miner’s boots. The last item engaged Jacques’s
attention. He looked at the soles, and at once
declared them to belong to no less an individual
than Pete Toy, the Cornish miner; but where,
meantime, was Pete? A further inspection solved
that question too. Pete was “portaging” his
load from the upper to the lower end of the cañon—he
evidently dreaded the flooded chasm too much
to attempt its descent with a loaded canoe. In a
little while appeared the missing Pete, carrying on
his back a huge load. It was as we had anticipated—his
canoe lay above the rapids, ours was
here below. Happy coincidence! We would exchange<span class="pagenum" id="Page_292">292</span>
crafts; Pete would load his goods in our
boat, we would once again carry our baggage to
the upper end of the cañon, and there, taking his
canoe, pursue our western way. It was indeed a
most remarkable meeting to us. Here were we,
after long days of useless struggle, after many
dangers and hair-breadth escapes amid the whirlpools
and rapids of the Black Chasm, about to
abandon the Ominica River altogether, and to seek
by another route, well known to be almost impassable
at high water, a last chance of escape from
the difficulties that beset us; and now, as moody
and discouraged, we turned our faces to begin
the hopeless task, our first glance was greeted, on
emerging from the dismal prison, by a most unlooked-for
means of solving all our difficulties.
Little wonder if we were in high spirits, and if
Pete, the Cornish miner, seemed a friend in need.</p>
<p>But before anything could be done to carry into
effect this new arrangement, Pete insisted upon
our having a royal feast. He had brought with
him from the mining camp many luxuries; he had
bacon, and beans, and dried apples, and sugar,
and flour, and we poor toilers had only moose-meat
and frozen potatoes and sugarless tea in our
lessening larders. So Pete set vigorously to work;
he baked and fried, and cut and sliced, and talked
all the time, and in less than half an hour laid out<span class="pagenum" id="Page_293">293</span>
his feast upon the ground. I have often meditated
over that repast in after-time, and wondered
if Pete really possessed the magic power of
transmuting the baser victuals known to us as
pork, beans, and molasses into golden comestibles,
or had scarcity and the wilderness anything to
say to it? It was getting late when we broke up
from the feast of Toy, and, loading once more all
our movables upon our backs, set out to stagger
for the last time to the west end of the portage.
There the canoe of the Cornish miner stood ready
for our service; but the sun was by this time
below the ridges of the Ominica Mountains, and
we pitched our camp for the night beneath the
spruce-trees of the southern shore.</p>
<p>At break of day next morning we held our way
to the west. It was a fresh, fair dawn, soft with
the odours of earth and air; behind us lay the
Black Cañon, conquered at last; and as its sullen
roar died away in distance, and before our canoe
rose the snow-covered peaks of the Central
Columbian range, now looming but a few miles
distant, I drew a deep breath of satisfaction—the
revulsion of long, anxious hours.</p>
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<div id="toclink_294" class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_294">294</span></p>
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