n raft, ready for our reception. It was composed of three
large dugout canoes placed parallel to one another at distances of
about three feet, and lashed with sealskin thongs to stout transverse
poles. Over these was laid a floor or platform about ten feet by
twelve, leaving room at the bow and stern of each canoe for men with
paddles who were to guide and propel the unwieldy craft in some
unknown, but, doubtless, satisfactory manner. On the platform, which
was covered to a depth of six inches with freshly cut grass, we
pitched our little cotton tent, and transformed it with bearskins,
blankets, and pillows into a very cosy substitute for a stateroom.
Rifles and revolvers were unstrapped from our tired bodies, and hung
up against the tent poles; heavy riding boots were unceremoniously
kicked off, and replaced by soft buckskin _torbasses_ [Footnote:
Moccasin boots.]; saddles were stored away in convenient nooks for
future use; and all our things disposed with a view to the enjoyment
of as much luxury as was compatible with our situation.

After a couple of hours' rest, during which our heavy baggage was
transferred to another similar raft, we walked down to the sandy
beach, bade good-bye to the crowd which had assembled to see us off,
and swung slowly out into the current, the Kamchadals on the shore
waving hats and handkerchiefs until a bend in the river hid them from
sight. The scenery of the upper Kamchatka for the first twenty miles
was comparatively tame and uninteresting, as the mountains were
entirely concealed by a dense forest of pine, birch, and larch,
which extended down to the water's edge. It was sufficient pleasure,
however, at first, to lie back in the tent upon our soft bearskins,
watching the brilliantly coloured and ever varying foliage of the
banks, to sweep swiftly but silently around abrupt bends into long
vistas of still water, startling the great Kamchatkan eagle from
his lonely perch on some jutting rock, and frightening up clouds of
clamorous waterfowl, which flew in long lines down the river until out
of sight. The navigation of the upper Kamchatka is somewhat intricate
and dangerous at night, on account of the rapidity of the current and
the frequency of snags; and as soon as it grew dark our native boatmen
considered it unsafe to go on. We accordingly beached our rafts and
went ashore to wait for moonrise.

A little semicircle was cut in the thick underbrush at the edge of the
beach, fires w