To Thompson--if he had been capable of analyzing his sensations and
transmuting them into words--the river seemed inexplicably sinister, a
turbid monster writhing over polished boulders, fuming here and there
over rapids, snarling a constant menace under the canoe's prow.
It did not comfort him to know that he was in the hands of two capable
rivermen, tried and proven in bad water, proud of their skill with the
paddle. Could he have done so the reverend young man would gladly have
walked after the first day in their company. But since that was out of
the question, he took his seat in the canoe each morning and faced each
stretch of troubled water with an inward prayer.
The last stretch and this last day had tried his soul to its utmost.
Pachugan lay near the end of the water route. What few miles he had to
travel beyond the post would lie along the lake shore, and the lake
reassured him with its smiling calm. Having never seen it harried by
fierce winds, pounding the beaches with curling waves, he could not
visualize it as other than it was now, glassy smooth, languid, inviting.
Over the last twenty miles of the river his guides had strained a point
now and then, just to see their passenger gasp.
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