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Show The outlet from Lake Laberge was a narrow, twisting river called Thirtymile. The boats we had missed on Lake Laberge were all bunching up here. "You two boys still afloat?" one stampeder called as he rammed into us with his scow. "Thought we lost you back at Miles Canyon." "No," I shouted. "We're in it for the gold," That worried him, and he began whipping his blocked scow with a rope. The Thirtymile River began a series of rivers similar to the chain of lakes earlier-the Teslin, the Big Salmon, the Little Salmon, and the Lewes, On the cold, clear waters of the Lewes River were the rapids. This time I was not taking any chances, I lassoed a stubby spruce and beached the raft miles before the Five Finger Rapids. I tied down our Yukon stove and all the oars, except the steering oar. "You can walk around the rapids," I said to Tip. "No need for both of us getting wet." "No thanks." "You can follow along the riverbank," I said. "All the way-even at the rapids." She shook her head, "What's the matter?" I asked. "Indians?" |