The result is a series of
roaring, dashing boulder rapids and waterfalls that would make your
hair stand on end merely to contemplate from the banks.
The regular route to Moose Factory is by the Missinaibie. Our way was
new and strange. No trails; no knowledge of the country. When we came
to a stretch of white water, the Indians would rise to their feet for a
single instant's searching examination of the stretch of tumbled water
before them. In that moment they picked the passage they were to follow
as well as a white man could have done so in half an hour's study. Then
without hesitation they shot their little craft at the green water.
From that time we merely tried to sit still, each in his canoe. Each
Indian did it all with his single paddle. He seemed to possess absolute
control over his craft.
Even in the rush of water which seemed to hurry us on at almost
railroad speed, he could stop for an instant, work directly sideways,
shoot forward at a slant, swing either his bow or his stern. An error
in judgment or in the instantaneous acting upon it meant a hit; and a
hit in these savage North Country Rivers meant destruction. How my man
kept in his mind the passage he had planned during his momentary
inspection was always to me a miracle. How he got so unruly a beast as
the birch canoe to follow it in that tearing volume of water was always
another. Big boulders he dodged, eddies he took advantage of, slants of
current he utilized.
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