of September twenty-ninth, the wind, though still blowing half a gale
in our faces, had so much abated that we were able to launch our canoe
and continue our journey.

It was very cold. The spray froze as it struck our clothing, the,
canoe was weighted with ice and our paddles became heavy with it. We
ran one or two short rapids in safety and then started into another
that ended with a narrow strip of white water with a small expansion
below. We had just struck the white water, going at a good speed in
what seemed like a clear course, when the canoe, at its middle, hit a
submerged rock. Before there was time to clear ourselves the little
craft swung in the current, and the next moment I found myself in the
rushing, seething flood rolling down through the rocks.

When I came to the surface I was in the calm water below the rapid and
twenty feet away was the canoe, bottom up, with Easton clinging to it,
his clothing fast on a bolt under the canoe. I swam to him and, while
he drew his hunting knife and cut himself loose, steadied the canoe.
We had neglected--and it was gross carelessness in us--to tie our
things fast, and the lighter bags and paddles were floating away while
everything that was heavy had sunk beyond hope of recovery. The
thwarts, however, held fast in the overturned canoe a bag of pemmican,
one other small bag, the tent and tent stove. Treading water to keep
ourselves afloat we tried to right the canoe to save these, but our
efforts were fruitless. The icy water so benumbed us we could
scarcely control our limbs. The tracking line was fast to the stern
thwart, and with one end of this in his teeth, Easton swam to a little
rocky island just below the rapid and hauled while I swam by the canoe
and steadied the things under the thwarts. It took us half an hour to
get the canoe ashore, and we could hardly stand when he had it righted