The current was
swift, so that, once out into the stream, we shot ahead as if we had
been fired out of a gun. But, for all that, the upper reaches were
comparatively free of great rocks. Friendly little sandy shoals beckoned
to us. The water was shallow. But, even then, I noticed what afterward I
found was to be a delusion of the entire trip.
This was the impression of riding downhill. I do not remember now how
much the Flathead falls per mile. I have an impression that it is ninety
feet, but as that would mean a drop of nine thousand feet, or almost two
miles, during the trip, I must be wrong somewhere. It was sixteen feet,
perhaps.
But hour after hour, on the straight stretches, there was that
sensation, on looking ahead, of staring down a toboggan-slide. It never
grew less. And always I had the impression that just beyond that glassy
slope the roaring meant uncharted falls--and destruction. It never did.
The outfit, following along the trail, was to meet us at night and have
camp ready when we appeared--if we appeared. Only a few of us could use
the boats.
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