This was done by running a pair of ropes alternately over and under the logs at each end (see Fig. 264). About fifteen were thus fastened together, and then as an extra precaution a log was laid across each end of the raft and tied fast. As soon as we had cut enough timber for our first raft, we all ceased work, to take a ride down the river on the logs. Two of us, armed with poles, were to do the steering. There was one spot in the river of which we were rather apprehensive. That was a bit of shallow, swift water three miles from camp. A line of rocks jutted up from the river, forming a natural dam which was broken only at the eastern end. The water swirled madly through this opening, and veering off a huge rock which lay directly in front of the gap turned sharply westward. As we neared this dam the river became deeper and deeper, until finally we could no longer reach bottom with the poles, and could not properly steer the boat. For some time we drifted helplessly round and round in the still water above the dam. Then suddenly the current caught us and we swept like a shot for the opening. The gap was quite wide, and had we only thought to provide ourselves with oars we could have steered the raft clear of the rocks below, but we were entirely at the mercy of the current, and with a terrific crash we were hurled head on against the boulder.

Fig. 264. Tying the Logs Together.

Getting Dinner.

The Photo after which Our Log Cabin was Modeled.

Just what happened then I can not say. When I undertook to record the incident in the chronicles of the S. S. I. E. E. of W. C. I., I found there were five entirely different versions of the affair besides my own. I knew that immediately after the shock I found myself struggling in the water just below the rock over which I must have been slung by the force of the impact. Dutchy declared up and down that he had sailed fifty feet in the air astride of a log. Bill had been almost stunned by a blow on the head and was clinging desperately to a jagged projection of the rock. The ropes that had held the raft together had parted, scattering the logs in all directions, and I could see the rest of the crew hanging on to them for dear life.

Shouting to Bill to let go his hold on the rock. I swam over and caught him as he drifted down, then I helped him ashore. Leaving Bill to recuperate I rushed down the bank, shouting to the others to paddle the logs over toward shore. Then I plunged in, and pulling myself up on the nearest log, paddled shoreward as we had done on the planks when shooting the rapids. In this way one by one we corralled the logs, and after tying them together again resumed our voyage down the river. We now had no swift water to fear and were able to guide the raft successfully down to Lake Placid. But here we moored it, not venturing to take it past the millrace until we had gotten the oars from the scow and nailed on oar locks at each side and the rear, so that we could properly row and steer the raft safely to Kite Island.