It made me shudder to think of spending Sunday there. So
the men were persuaded to try to reach the head of the rapid, which
was three-quarters of a mile farther on, taking forward only the
camp stuff. We were now travelling along the foot of Bald Mountain
seen from the hill on Monday, and passing what is known by the
trappers as North Pole Rapid, which was the wildest of the rapids
so far. The travelling was still rough, and the men were in a
hurry. I could not keep up at all. George wanted to carry my
rifle for me, but I would not let him. I was not pleased with him
just then.
We reached the head of the rapid, and it was beautiful there. A
long terrace stretched away for miles ahead. It was thinly wooded,
as they all were, with spruce and a few poplars, smooth, dry, and
mossy, and thirty feet below us was the river with North Pole Brook
coming in on the other side. It was an ideal place for Sunday
camp.
Though it rained hard through the night the morning was beautiful,
and again I breathed a little sigh of thankfulness that we were not
in the other desolate place farther back. The day would have been
a very restful one had it not been for the flies which steadily
increased in numbers, coaxed back to life and activity by the warm
sunshine.
