At each of them we climbed along the
boulder-strewn shores--the lower slopes growing steeper, the walls
above towering higher--clear to the end of the rapid. Looking upstream
we could pick out the submerged rocks hidden in the muddy water, and
looking like an innocent wave from above. Twice we had picked out
channels in sharp drops, after carefully observing their actions and
deciding they were free from obstructions, when suddenly the waves
would part for an instant and disclose a hidden rock--in one case as
sharp as a hound's tooth--sure disaster if we ever struck it. As soon
as we had decided on a channel we would lose no time in getting back
to our boats and running it for we could feel our courage oozing from
our finger tips with each second's delay. Time and again we got
through just by a scratch. Success bred confidence; I distinctly
remember feeling that water alone would not upset the boat; that it
would take a collision with a rock to do it. And each time we got
through. Twice I almost had reason to reverse my impression of the
power of water. First the stern rose up in front of me, as if squaring
off at the tops of the cliffs, then descended, until it seemed to be
trying to plumb the depths of the river. The waves, rolling over me,
almost knocked me out of the boat, I lost my hold on the oars and
grabbed the sides of the boat; then, regaining the oars, I finished
the run by pulling with the bow headed downstream, for the boat had
"swapped ends" in the interval, and was heavy with about three barrels
of water in the cockpit.
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