A fractional second of hesitation could not be
permitted him. But always the clutching of white hands from the rip at
the eddy finally conveyed to my spray-drenched faculties that the rapid
was safely astern. And this, mind you, in strange waters.
Occasionally we would carry our outfit through the woods, while the
Indians would shoot some especially bad water in the light canoe. As a
spectacle nothing could be finer. The flash of the yellow bark, the
movement of the broken waters, the gleam of the paddle, the tense
alertness of the men's figures, their carven, passive faces, with the
contrast of the flashing eyes and the distended nostrils, then the leap
into space over some half-cataract, the smash of spray, the exultant
yells of the canoemen! For your Indian enjoys the game thoroughly. And
it requires very bad water indeed to make him take to the brush.
This is, of course, the spectacular. But also in the ordinary gray
business of canoe travel the Woods Indian shows his superiority. He is
tireless, and composed as to wrist and shoulder of a number of
whale-bone springs. From early dawn to dewy eve, and then a few
gratuitous hours into the night, he will dig energetic holes in the
water with his long, narrow blade. And every stroke counts. The water
boils out in a splotch of white air-bubbles, the little suction holes
pirouette like dancing-girls, the fabric of the craft itself trembles
under the power of the stroke.
Pages:
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171