midday
there was a sound of wild cheering behind us, and the wranglers rode up
with the truants. They had been far up on the mountain-side.

It is curious how certain comparatively unimportant things stand out
about such a trip as this. Of Kintla itself, I have no very vivid
memories. But standing out very sharply is that figure of the cook
crouched over his dying fire, with the black forest all about him. There
is a picture, too, of a wild deer that came down to the edge of the lake
to drink as we sat in the first boat that had ever been on Kintla Lake,
whipping a quiet pool. And there is a clear memory of the assistant
cook, the college boy who was taking his vacation in the wilds,
whistling the Dvo[vr]ak "Humoresque" as he dried the dishes on a piece
of clean sacking.

VI

RUNNING THE RAPIDS OF THE FLATHEAD

It was now approaching time for Bob's great idea to materialize. For
this, and to this end, had he brought the boats on their strange
land-journey--such a journey as, I fancy, very few boats have ever had
before.

The project was, as I have said, to run the unknown reaches of the North
Fork of the Flathead from the Canadian border to the town of Columbia
Falls.

"The idea is this," Bob had said: "It's never been done before, do you
see? It makes the trip unusual and all that."

"Makes it unusually risky," I had observed.

"Well, there's a risk in pretty nearly everything," he had replied
blithely. "There's a risk in crossing a city street, for that matter.
Riding these horses is a risk, if you come to that. Anyhow, it would
make a good story."

So that is why I did it. And this is the story:

We were headed now for the Flathead just south of the Canadian line. To
reach the river, it was necessary to take the boats through a burnt
forest, without a trail of any sort. They leaped and plunged as the
wagon scrambled, jerked, careened, stuck, detoured, and finally got
through. There were miles of such going--heart-breaking miles--and at
the end we paused at the top of a sixty-foot bluff and looked down at
the river.

Now, I like water in a tub or drinking-glass or under a bridge. I am
very keen about it. But I like still water--quiet, well-behaved,
stay-at-home water. The North Fork of the Flathead River is a riotous,
debauched, and highly erratic stream. It staggers in a series of wild
zigzags for a hundred miles of waterway from the Canadian border to
Columbia Falls, our destination. And tha