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.
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