Every spring, a lot of greenhorns go North, either in hope of making
their living, or in a spirit of adventure. A few struggle through and
succeed. A lot meet with accidents. All of them run appalling risks.
Some years ago—before the War—there was a mild stampede on the
Chamuchuan River in the Province of Quebec. Gold was reported to have
been found. As soon as the ice had gone, several hundred men started
North, plunging into the wilderness in quest of fortune.
A few weeks later we were poling up that same river on our way to
Mistassini Lake. We reached a long straight rapid and were unloading our
canoe before portaging. One of the Indians noticed, two miles away at
the head of the rapid, right in the middle of the foaming river, a dark
speck on a flat rock. One man said it was a bear because it moved.
What a black bear could be doing in such a spot was a problem in itself,
but we let it go at that and started packing our loads. I happened to be
the first one over the portage. Throwing down my load, I looked
instinctively at the river. There was a man squatting dismally on a
small flat rock right in the middle of the current, fifty yards or so
below where the portage stopped and the rapid began.
So that was the black bear seen an hour ago! When the stranger saw us,
he scrambled to his feet and started gesticulating wildly. We could not
understand how he got there. He had no canoe. The rock was about three
foot square. On both sides of it the river rushed down in a blind
torrent of foam.
We considered a way to rescue him. The idea of running down in a canoe
was out of the question. Even if we succeeded in getting him on board—we
would have to go on and there was a ten foot fall a few hundred yards
further down which meant immediate disaster.
We hit on the following plan. We found a good sized log, tied to it all
the ropes we had in one single line, paddled as far down near the head
of the rapid as we dared, anchored our canoe with a huge stone taken
from shore and then paid out the rope, the log floating ahead of it
towards the man on the rock.
We managed to let the log pass more or less alongside the stranger! But
for a long time the man appeared frightened. Each time he missed his
chance of catching hold of the log. And we had to hand it up again
thirty yards or so to be able to give it the proper direction so that it
would pass as near as possible to the rock.
Finally, the stranger decided to take a chance. He waved at us as if he
were taking a last farewell, then jumped boldly—head first and arm
extended—straight for that log. There was quite a splash and for a
second we could not see whether he had succeeded in getting hold of the
stump. Our rope was tight. We had reached the end of it.
We hauled in. In a few minutes we knew we had our man at the end of our
line. We got occasional glimpses of him, although he was all the time
half way under water. He was lying on the log—clasping it with both
arms—straddling it with both legs. Little by little we got him
alongside. He was nearly drowned and quite speechless. With an effort we
got him on board. Then letting the log go after cutting the rope—we
paddled ashore.
An hour later our new acquaintance was able to talk and tell us his
story. He was a student and had gone with a party to the upper end of
the river in search of gold. Disgusted with the life, homesick, weak
from lack of food and from mosquito bites, he had decided to run away
and reach the line. Stealing a canoe, he had started alone on his
journey.
He had never been in the woods before. When he reached the rapid he
missed the portage. In a second he found himself helpless in the first
whirlpool. By sheer luck his canoe was thrown against that lonely flat
rock. When it hit, he let his paddle go and jumped, landing safely on
the big stone. The canoe, of course, disappeared in the swirl.
He had been there—squatting helplessly right in the middle of that
rapid—for thirty-six hours when we happened to pass that way and rescue
him.
[Illustration: Trapped on the rocks]