From the prow you will make out first a uniform velvet green;
then the differentiation of many shades; then the dull neutrals of
rocks and crags; finally the narrow white of a pebble beach against
which the waves utter continually a rattling undertone. The steamer
pushes boldly in. The cool green of the water underneath changes to
gray. Suddenly you make out the bottom, as through a thick green glass,
and the big suckers and catfish idling over its riffled sands,
inconceivably far down through the unbelievably clear liquid. So
absorbed are you in this marvellous clarity that a slight, grinding jar
alone brings you to yourself. The steamer's nose is actually touching
the white strip of pebbles!
Now you can do one of a number of things. The forest slants down to
your feet in dwindling scrub, which half conceals an abandoned log
structure. This latter is the old Hudson's Bay post. Behind it is the
Fur Trail, and the Fur Trail will take you three miles to Burned Rock
Pool, where are spring water and mighty trout. But again, half a mile
to the left, is the mouth of the River. And the River meanders
charmingly through the woods of the flat country over numberless
riffles and rapids, beneath various steep gravel banks, until it sweeps
boldly under the cliff of the first high hill. There a rugged precipice
rises sheer and jagged and damp-dark to overhanging trees clinging to
the shoulder of the mountain. And precisely at that spot is a bend
where the water hits square, to divide right and left in whiteness, to
swirl into convolutions of foam, to lurk darkly for a moment on the
edge of tumult before racing away.
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