The taste for human flesh,
Philip Atkinson assures us, grows with the using, and this lunatic of
long ago went back to the camps, secured an Indian girl as bride,
carried her to this point, took her life, and ate of her flesh. It is a
gruesome story.
[Illustration: Grand Rapids on the Athabasca River]
Now begin the rapids, ninety miles of which we are to run. This rough
water on the Athabasca is one of the only two impediments to navigation
on the long course between Athabasca Landing and the Polar Ocean. These
first rapids, frankly, are a disappointment. The water is high, higher
than it has been for ten years, so the boiling over the boulders is not
very noticeable. The Pelican Rapid and the Stony we shoot without
turning a hair; the Joli Fou is a bit more insistent, but, as the cook
says, "nothing to write home about."
We drift in a drowsy dream of delight, and in the evening arrive at the
head of Grand Rapids. If we had looked slightingly on the rough water
passed, what we now see would satisfy the greediest. We tie up and get a
good view of what lies ahead, and get also our first real introduction
to the mosquito.
Pages:
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84