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Show 8U "Get down and hold on," I yelled. "If we slip from the crest and head for the rocks, jump off and swim." "I can't swim," Tip yelled. I could not swim either. All the water I had ever seen was in watering troughs-that is, until I saw the Pacific Ocean, which I was not counting. The raft plunged up and down, twisting toward the rock walls and then toward the gaping whirlpool. The logs groaned. Water sprayed into our faces, blinding us. Our sheet-iron stove slid past me and off the raft. It bobbed a minute in the water and then sank out of sight. Suddenly, with a great surge, we were spewed out of the narrow gorge. We had ridden the river's crest through Miles Canyon. Then all at once, before we had time to look about, we were shooting over white rapids and twisting around black rocks. "We are going to hit!" Tip screamed. The raft glanced against the side of a jagged rock, rolling across the deck. It rattled for a moment and then plunged forward. Below the rapids we still clutched the raft, unable to believe the calm. "Is it over?" Tip asked, looking up. "That was Squaw Rapids," I said. "The small ones. Let's beach and portage like the Mounties said. This raft will split-up |