"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.
Pages:
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72