The days in camp had come to an end, come insensibly to an end, for time
had glided so swiftly from one event to another that it was almost
impossible to believe that those four months, which had seemed so long
in the spring, had actually gone.
It was about seven o’clock in the morning when the canoes put out slowly
from the boathouse, one by one, and assembled in a little compact fleet
just outside the swimming raft ready for the seven-hundred-mile trip
down the river. When the last had joined the fleet there was a mighty
wholehearted yell for the old camp, before they all shot away together
toward the river. The yell was answered by the one lonely scream of a
loon.
There was many a lingering backward look as long as the camp was in
sight, but once in the shallow river they were soon too busy to think of
it. The river was low, and the mighty Father of Waters was in many
places unable to float the little fleet. They frequently had to resort
to towlines and it was noon before they passed the mouth of Sucker Brook
and La Salle, where they had comparatively deep water. Even then
progress was slow, for the lumbermen had blocked the river in many
places with splash dams to enable them to drive their logs. Night caught
them less than half way to Bemidji.
“And that,” Bill Price said as he looked back up the narrow river of
shallow water, “is one of the largest rivers in the world. It certainly
looks as though it would have to grow some.”
Ten miles above Bemidji the next afternoon they ran onto the remnant of
the spring drive and had to pick their way through the bobbing logs with
care. It was slow work and not over safe, but they persevered till late
in the evening and finally camped on the shore of Lake Bemidji.
From there on the going was better. The paddlers changed places every
half hour to utilize the third man, the portages became less frequent
and the little line of canoes slipped rapidly down the river and into
Cass Lake. In the center of the lake they saw a beautiful pine-covered,
star-shaped island which they recognized from the stories they had heard
of it. They stopped there for lunch and had a look at the pretty little
lake in the center of it believed by the Indians to be the home of the
Windigo, or Indian devil. No one of the native Indians would for any
consideration consent to spend a night on the island. Whatever the
character of the Windigo he certainly knew how to pick out a beautiful
home.
Early the next morning they came to the entrance of Lake Winnibigoshish
only to find themselves blocked by an unexpected obstacle. The stiff
breeze had lashed the shallow water into a tangle of white-capped waves
in which a canoe would have led a very precarious life even if there had
been no other danger. But the rough water was only a very small part of
it. The lake had been very greatly enlarged by a high government dam
which had caused the backed-up waters to spread over several square
miles of forest. This flooding had killed all the trees in the
overflowed area and left half the lake dotted with dead stubs, some
rising high above the surface, others lurking treacherously just out of
sight. This made it absolutely unsafe for any boat except on a perfectly
quiet day and even then a sharp lookout was necessary.
It was very exasperating to see that great expanse of water, looking to
them like a broad parade ground, after the crooked lane of the river,
and yet not be able to venture across it. For two days they lolled
around camp waiting impatiently while the wind blew steadily.
That evening Merton was goaded to desperation. “You fellows can do as
you please,” he said determinedly, “but I am going to cross that lake
tomorrow at sunrise. It ought to be smooth at that time of day, but I am
going if she is standing straight on end.”
“Well,” Bill said suavely, “of course it does not matter much about your
drowning yourself, but it would be a pity to smash up that canoe.”
“It’s an old one,” Merton laughed, “and I’ve used it long enough.”
“I’ll go with you,” Scott announced resolutely; “that’s no place for a
man to go alone.”
“Oh, I am not going alone. Our whole boat is agreed on it.”
“Then we’ll all go,” Bill said, “you fellows have no monopoly on the
sand in this lake.”
So it came about that the rising sun found the five canoes threading
their way cautiously out among the sunken trees toward the open water.
The sea was a little choppy, but the boys figured that they could make
it across before the wind came up. Once in the deep water they drove
steadily ahead, eager for the shelter of the opposite shore. It was a
tremendous lake and seemed, now that they were in the middle of it,
larger than it had before.
At nine o’clock the wind began to rise perceptibly. They were still some
miles from shore and getting into the submerged timber again. There were
many narrow escapes, but the light canoes seemed to bear charmed lives
and grazed impudently past those cruel black stubs.
The boys had missed so many of them that they became indifferent to the
danger. Suddenly there was a vicious rending sound as a sharp dead
tamarack pierced the bottom of Morris’s boat as though it had been an
eggshell, narrowly missing Bill Price, who was third man in that boat.
Quick as a flash Bill broke off the stub with one savage kick and
pressed a tent fly tightly down on the break.
“Need help?” Merton called as the other canoes closed in.
“Not yet,” Bill answered quietly. “Now, Morris, you and Steve paddle for
shore as tight as you can go while I hold down this pack and bail for
it.”
The canoe went swiftly on while Bill, seated on the pack, built a small
coffer-dam around himself with blankets and bailed out the water with a
quart cup. It rose steadily in spite of his best efforts and began to
ooze over the dam. It seemed only a matter of minutes before the canoe
would sink. They were making pretty good time, taking chances on not
striking any more stubs and rapidly shortening the distance to shore.
At the end of ten minutes the canoe was pretty low in the water. “I
can’t make it, fellows,” Bill panted. “Get Mert to tow us and all three
of us can keep it down easily.”
They cast a line to the nearest canoe, Merton’s, and all three plied the
bailing cups. Slowly the water began to go down and the canoe floated
higher.
“I’ll try paddling again,” Morris said. “You and Steve can keep her
down, I guess.”
This arrangement greatly increased the speed and the two bailers managed
to keep the water down. At last they scraped on the solid ground.
“There,” Bill said as they scrambled ashore and pulled up the disabled
canoe, “I feel better now. I kept thinking how unpleasant it would be if
I had to swim ashore with one of those sharp stubs puncturing my stomach
the way it did that canoe. I had a hunch that it would do it, too.”
The other canoes came safely through and everyone gathered around to see
the damage. It proved to be an easy hole to patch and the little
procession was soon on its way down the river.
“I suppose it was a foolish thing to do,” Merton said, “but I’m glad we
did it. That wind is just ripping again and there is no telling when we
should have gotten across.”
The rest of the river was easy traveling and the rapid current helped
them along wonderfully. There were a few rapids which they shot
successfully, a few dams where they had to portage and one or two places
where the logs were so thick that they had trouble in picking their way
through them, but most of the time it was plain sailing.
Among the most interesting sights along the river to them was the big
paper mill at Little Falls. They knew that they would have the process
to study in their course in by-products the next semester, and took the
opportunity to see it first hand. Merton interviewed the manager and
found him very ready to show them through the whole factory. They found
that he had made a canoe trip part way down the river himself at one
time, and was very much interested in their adventures.
The manager invited them to spend the evening at his home, but they had
not spent a night in a town since they started and resolved not to do
so. They thanked him heartily and took to their canoes.
There were very few obstructions in the river below Little Falls and by
putting in long hours they made wonderful time. On the evening of the
second day they sighted the lights of Minneapolis.
“The town looks good to us now, fellows,” Merton said, “but we have left
the best summer of our lives behind us.”
“You bet we have,” was the answering chorus, and for a moment the little
group looked silently and wistfully at each other before they scattered
their several ways.