Among our trips inland, was one of about ten miles up the Ain River to
Coos-Yoouns lake its Sourse. This is a fine body of water, about eight
miles in length, surrounded by a thick forest of spruce, red and
yellow cedar. The river from fifty to seventy-five feet in width is a
succession of rapids--log-jambs and shoals almost its entire
length. Following a trail about half way to the borders of a little
lake through which it flows, we found a canoe, very small, old, rotten
and shattered. The water poured in through a long crack in one end,
nearly as fast as we could bail it out. But by battening with our
provision sack, we managed to keep it afloat until we had accomplished
the round trip to the lake first mentioned, by making several portages
over log jambs, shoals and rapids. Returning, I decided to run one of
the latter, and just as my men got out to lighten the canoe over a
rocky place, pushed out into the middle of the stream.
Down my little bark swept, toward a narrow passage between two rocks,
around which the water was whirling and foaming. I had under-estimated
the strength of the current, and in spite of my best efforts with one
serviceable hand, the canoe dashed on to one of the rocks, balanced a
moment on its centre, whirled once around, and then shot down stream,
quivering like a frightened animal, into safe water again.