NORTHERN FOREST CANOE TRAIL
Backpacker Magazine

“There is no better way to recapture the spirit of an era than to follow the old trails, gathering from the earth itself the feelings and challenges of those who trod them long ago,” wrote Sigurd Olson in his essay Stream of the Past. “The landscape and way of life may be changed, but the same winds blow on waterways, plains, and mountains, the rains, snows, and the sun beat down, the miles are just as long.”

Dipping my paddle into a perfect reflection of the autumn sky, watching the clouds swirl around the vortex and spin away, I ponder Olson's words, which I had re-read by the flickering light of last night's campfire. Here on this Native American highway now called the Raquette River , Olson's message seems especially relevant.

The Raquette, which crosses part of New York 's Adirondack Park , is an ancient travel route and a small section of a far-flung network of interconnected waterways used by the Iroquois and Algonquian Indians for millennia. Thousands of years before the Pyramids were built, trade goods, war parties, emissaries, and prophets traveled up and down this wilderness highway. Much later, when the lumbermen cut down the magnificent Adirondack forests, the Raquette was used to drive the logs down to the mills in Tupper Lake . And for the last hundred years or so the river has been a travel corridor for a variety of users, including artists, fishermen, hunters, guides, philosophers, and recreational paddlers.

A few yards off to my right, Rob Center and Kay Henry paddle their tandem eighteen-foot-long tripping canoe. The sleek craft is loaded with camping equipment and supplies for our three-day journey down the Raquette. The former chief executives of the Vermont-based Mad River Canoe Company, Rob and Kay recently made the transition from building canoes to using them as vehicles for enjoying and protecting our natural heritage. When they sold the company a couple of years ago they began to put their energies into their new organization, the Northern Forest Canoe Trail (NFCT).

“We wanted to renew the bonds between people and rivers in the Northern Forest ,” Rob told me when the three of us planned this trip and discussed the goals of the NFCT. “And the way we wanted to do it was by re-establishing portions of the incredible network of native travel routes as a single long-distance recreational trail, the water version of the Appalachian Trail , a trail which would be a reminder of the history and heritage of this region.”

When they began to research the Northern Forest Canoe Trail, Rob and Kay discovered that the old canoe routes linking the Adirondacks and northern Maine not only still exist, but many are still wild, offering the traveler a real opportunity to, as Olson says, “recapture the spirit of an era.”

“The old canoe routes still connect every major river drainage in the northeast,” said Kay. “When we got out the maps and started linking the native trails, we were able to put together a 740-mile-long waterway between Old Forge, New York , and Fort Kent , Maine .”

The route they chose for the NFCT is a gem, an epic route of natural grandeur and human vitality. It traverses the Northern Forest across four states and links some of the country's most famous waterways, including Lake Champlain, the Connecticut River, the Rangeley Lakes , and the Allagash Wilderness Waterway.

“Paddling the entire trail takes about eight weeks and requires all the skills a canoeist can muster,” says Rob. “Flatwater, whitewater, portaging, poling, going both upriver and down –the traveler will need to handle it all. For those less experienced or lacking time for a complete passage there are many sections of the trail suitable for shorter, less demanding trips.”

The NFCT is not strictly a wilderness journey. By design it flows through villages such as Saranac Lake , New York ; Island Pond, Vermont ; and Jackman , Maine . It also passes the remnants of communities that no longer exist. At Seven Islands on the St. John River, all that remains of this once vibrant logging village deep in the Maine woods are log building foundations and rusting farm implements scattered in the overgrown meadows. Remote Burton Island , in Lake Champlain , was a farm and cow pasture in the nineteenth-century. Evidence of the Islands ' history is scattered throughout the woods and fields where bits of fencing, ancient farm implements, and old stone foundations can still be found. On the portage trail between Chamberlain Lake and Eagle Lake on the Allagash Wilderness Waterway, two full-scale steam locomotives stand incongruously in the dark forest, stranded some seventy-five miles from the nearest railroad. Brought here in pieces and assembled on the spot, they hauled logs over the height-of-land starting in 1927, but were used for only a couple of seasons.

Every inch of the NFCT has been used as a travel route for millennia. But that doesn't mean it is tame or easy. The trail incorporates several grueling historic portages over heights-of-land separating watersheds, it traverses wilderness lakes far from the nearest settlements, and it ascends and descends rapid rivers and streams where you are completely dependent upon your wits and skills with a paddle. Indeed, what makes the NFCT such a classic journey is that it cuts a clean cross-section right through the heart of the region's natural and cultural treasures, reconnecting us with the earth and with the past.

“Traversing the NFCT is not just a long-distance lark,” says Kay. “It's a journey through the history of the Northern Forest . Everything you see along the way tells a story. History is revealed around each bend in the river.”

The next morning dawns bright and clear, with a fresh, invigorating breeze flowing down from nearby Canada . As we load the canoes and get under way, I feel the way I often do on a canoe trip: that this is exactly what I should be doing, and exactly where I should be doing it. I feel a tinge of sympathy for those who are office-bound on such a beautiful day, but the regretful thought quickly passes as Rob draws my attention to an osprey passing swiftly overhead, riding on the wind. We stop paddling and watch as the big raptor swoops low, and then pulls up and begins to hover high above the river, evidently watching unsuspecting fish in the shallows. Just when the bird seems poised to dive and strike, he flaps and moves on. A moment later we dip our paddles and we too resume our journey, grateful for another one of those magic episodes when the cares of this weary world feel far away and all seems as it should be. Our boat-to-boat banter picks up again, and before long several river miles have slipped silently beneath our hulls.

Central to this NFCT experience is the travel vehicle itself –the canoe. The late Canadian filmmaker Bill Mason has said, “The canoe is the simplest, most functional, yet aesthetically pleasing object ever created,” and now as I settle into the rhythm of the day's paddling, I have no quarrel with that assessment. As I reach forward I catch the water with the laminated wood paddle blade, and when I pull on the paddle shaft, the canoe shoots forward. Paddling at the leisurely rate of thirty or forty strokes per minute, I maintain forward momentum as the vessel slices across the water towards our distant goal downstream.

For perhaps the thousandth time I marvel at the elegance and grace of the canoe as a form of transportation, perfectly suited to this region of lakes, rivers, and streams. As my muscles loosen and warm to the day's task, I feel a great deal in common with one who preceded me on this historic waterway: “And I commence with the canoe because that is about the first thing you need on entering the Northern wilderness,” wrote George W. Sears, a nineteenth-century Adirondack explorer who under the pen-name Nessmuk chronicled his adventures in Forest and Stream magazine.

“What the mule or mustang is to the plainsman,” he continued, “the boat or canoe is to guide, hunter or tourist who proposes a sojourn in the Adirondacks . And this is why I propose to mention at some length this matter of canoeing and boating. Being… a good canoeman, having the summer before me, designing to haunt the nameless lakes and streams not down on the maps, and not caring to hire a guide….” As I paddle I imagine that the river hasn't changed much since Nessmuk's day, and that he would probably be a good traveling companion.

As elegant as canoes can be on the water, sooner or later on most NFCT expeditions the time comes when you must carry your vessel and equipment overland. That moment arrives for us when we reach Raquette Falls . Rather than attempt to paddle the mile-long series of waterfalls in fully-loaded boats, we portage.

Years ago, I learned that it's not the weight of the packs or the canoe that really makes portaging painful, it's the length of time the load is pressing on your shoulders. And so I try to cross each carry as quickly as possible, covering the distance with a swift-footed shuffle. With canoe on my shoulders and pack on my back, I begin to jog through the woods. Staying loose, keeping my knees slightly bent, I watch out for roots, rocks, and slippery places on the rough trail. I can hear the thunder of the falls off to my left. Suddenly, just when it seems I must stop and rest, I glimpse water glittering through the tree trunks. The sight gives me a shot of energy, and I make it to the end of the carry.

Late at night in camp below the roar of Raquette Falls , I watch the campfire flames flicker and go out. Lying on the bank high above the river, I marvel at my good fortune, for just being here is a priceless gift. The soft forest duff beneath my sleeping bag, the bright stars overhead, the bard owl hooting from the white pine branches across the river and the cool night air are all extravagant luxuries. The fatigue that now settles over me is pure euphoria, and all told I feel rich beyond belief. And then I realize that thanks to the NFCT, I not only have more of the same to look forward to in the days ahead, but that each day, each bend in the river, will reveal another chapter in the river's story. I roll over and look at my canoe with real affection. 

THE GUIDE'S RIVER

I was not prepared for the St. John River … The river I imagined would have been river enough, but the real one, the actual St. John , is awesome and inspiring. How could it, unaltered, be here still in the northeastern United States ?

John McPhee, The Keel of Lake Dickey

The stream is shallow, the route complex, so I stand up in the stern of the canoe to get a better look ahead. With my polarized sunglasses on, I can see through the dazzling, dancing light on top of the water to the gravel bottom a few inches beneath the surface. The view is not encouraging.

"Okay, looks like we'll have to get out the lines," I say to my wife and paddling partner, Mary.

She stows her paddle, grabs the bow painter line, and steps out of the canoe. I do the same, grabbing the stern painter. The motions are smooth, well-rehearsed. We have been through this procedure at least a dozen times already this afternoon. In the canoe behind ours, John Latterell and Greg Zutz, friends from Minnesota , step out of their canoe and grab their lines as well.

The water reaches about halfway to the top of our L.L. Bean boots. Grasping the thin lines attached to the deck plates at either end of the seventeen-foot-long tripping canoe, we walk alongside the vessel in the shallows, guiding it through little chutes and around rocks with the ropes. Unencumbered by our weight, the canoe floats freely in four or five inches of water, responding quickly to our commands as we tug on the twenty-foot-long polypropylene lines. This process of forward motion is called lining and, having either used the lines or the ash setting poles for at least half the distance traveled today, we are becoming expert at these shallow-water forms of canoe locomotion.

The stream, which appears to be more rock than water, is one of the major headwaters of the St. John River in far northern Maine . The time of year is late May. The ice went out of the headwater lakes a little over two weeks ago, and we can see places along the banks where the huge ice blocks bulldozed the shore and scraped the bark off the trees. At about the same time as the ice broke up, a late snowstorm dropped several inches of wet snow, adding volume to the spring freshet. And yet, today the water is running out as if someone had pulled the plug. As the water level drops before our eyes, we speculate that there may not be enough water left to make the main river run from Baker Lake to Allagash Village up on the Canadian border.

The St. John is one of the last great free-flowing wild rivers in the country, and the longest river in the Northeast. Beginning northwest of Moosehead Lake, not far from the Quebec border, the St. John flows north, and then east, for over 200 miles before entering New Brunswick . From there it flows another 200 miles to the Bay of Fundy . The section we are paddling consists of approximately 130 miles of mostly fast water punctuated regularly by challenging rapids. Draining more than 2,700 miles of virtually uninhabited territory, the St. John is by any measure one of the premier canoe camping river trips in the United States .

On St. John the Baptist's Day in 1604, the French Explorer Samuel de Champlain sailed into the mouth of the St. John on the coast of New Brunswick , some 450 miles from our present location, and gave the river its present name. Too bad. The Abenaki had a better name for the river: Wallastook , which means, simply but accurately, "the beautiful river."

American loggers penetrated the St. John watershed in the middle of the nineteenth century, floating tall white pines to mills far downstream. French Canadian settlers followed the loggers into the valley and established farms, providing the logging camps with food for the men and forage for the draft horses. The settlement lasted until the early years of the twentieth century. But when the big trees were exhausted and logging in the St. John watershed ceased to be profitable, the villages disappeared. Today, cleared fields and foundations remain, you can still stumble upon old barrel hoops and rusted wagon wheels in the overgrown meadows, but the buildings are all gone. Logging for spruce and fir has resumed in the watershed, but these days the logs are moved overland by truck.

Although the St. John has never enjoyed the same level of protection afforded its more famous neighbor, the Allagash, in the past few years several groundbreaking conservation initiatives have been put in place to protect some 530,000 acres of forestland in the upper St. John region, as well as another 656,000 acres in the West Branch of the Penobscot Region --including Baker Lake and the St. John Ponds. These public-private partnerships will preserve the region from development; ensure that sustainable forest management continues in the watershed; and safeguards public access for fishing, paddling, hunting, and hiking for generations to come.

VOICES IN THE FOREST

“We are a real model of how to live in harmony with our surroundings, to supply our own needs.
We can show people that where you live matters tremendously.”

Bill McKibben, former staff writer for the New Yorker
and author of The End of Nature and Maybe One.

To our relief, the river is deeper ahead. Soon the water is knee-high. “Looks good from here,” says Mary. “Let's paddle or pole.” With the same smooth motions we used getting out of the canoe we reverse the process and get back in. We are getting used to the drill. I get out the setting pole and push the canoe ahead until the water is deep enough to paddle.

A mile later the river is the color of dark tea --and deep. Narrow, only a canoe's length wide, the flow twists and turns through a thick tangle of spruce and fir. Snarls of alder crowd the banks, reducing our view and weaving a lattice of vegetation. Old beaver dams flood back channels, braiding the river into a knot. Which way do we go? We start down one channel until it ends, abruptly, in a jumbled barricade of blown down spruce trees. We can hear the river pouring through the entwined branches and criss-crossed trunks, but there is no path for us in here.

And so we back out. John and Greg, seeing us retreat, choose another channel. A few serpentine turns and they too are halted by blowdowns. This time, though, it is only a couple of large trees blocking our path. "No problem," says John, "We can just lift everything over and keep on going." He's right. With four people, lifting the two canoes over the log jam is easy. Soon we are across and back on our way.

As the river widens again to a canoe length or so, we hear the sound of a large animal crashing through the woods just downstream. When we round the next bend we pull abreast of a sand bar covered with fresh moose tracks. The big, wet, cloven prints lead up to the alder thicket and vanish. Ahead, the river has also vanished. Puzzled, we stop and drift on the flat water of a deep dark pond, our paddles resting on the gunwales.

At one end of the pond we can see a flat, horizontal line –but nothing beyond. As we drift in silence, we hear a rhythmic gulping sound coming from somewhere beyond the line. We drift a few yards more, and then we see a wide, flat opening where the huge beaver dam holding back the main river channel has been breached.

The river pours over this break, sliding down the face of the dam in a perfectly smooth, undulating glassy chute, dropping four or five feet to the deep pool below the dam. Anticipating a good ride, we head straight for the opening, slide through the gap, and drop down the face of the dam just like flume logs at an amusement park, each canoe landing with a bright splash in the pool below.

Below the dam the river becomes shallow again, and once more we must get out and line the boats, this time for more than an hour. By mid-afternoon we have only covered half the distance to Baker Lake . We have had enough lining practice. If there were a world championship, I would enter with confidence. I am more than ready to start paddling and can feel my patience wearing thin as I splash through the shallows.

From time to time we stop for a handful of peanuts or a drink of water, and then keep going. Lining is slow, technical work, and we aren't moving fast enough to cover as much ground as we need to. With evening approaching, I keep an eye out for possible campsites, but the thick brush and swampy ground aren't appealing and offer only the promise of a wet, buggy spot for the night. Although none of us has openly mentioned the possibility of not reaching our goal for the day, the possibility of having to bivouac back here looms larger as the sun makes its slow transit across the sky.

Scanning the brilliant sunlit surface of the river, letting out more line and tugging to guide the canoe to deeper water, I remind myself that we are here because we choose to be. All four of us are or have been professional wilderness guides and trip leaders. John and Greg, Boundary Waters veterans, have come all the way from Minnesota to experience this legendary waterway. With no students or clients to watch out for, we can learn from the river and from each other, and the St. John is the perfect classroom. This is a guide's river, a place to hone all of our wilderness canoe tripping skills, and that includes route finding, poling, and lining.

We are a little surprised by the continuous blowdowns, beaver dams, back channels and shallows. But we expected some, and in a perverse way have even come searching for them. The St. John is still a wild, spirited river, and hazards and obstructions come with the territory. Anything less and we would be disappointed. There are plenty of tame, uninspiring waterways in the world to paddle, but there is only one St. John .

Sometime later a small stream enters the river from the right bank. Greg stops and gets out the map. He studies it for awhile, checks his compass, and then looks around to match the nondescript features of the landscape to what he sees on the map. "Must be Campbell Brook," he says after a while, confirming what we all hope to hear. "Maybe a mile more of this, and then we hit the swamp and deeper water."

With renewed hope comes renewed energy, and we pick up the pace, sloshing through the shallows and brushing aside the overhanging branches that rip at our shirts and hats. The swamp will mean deep, meandering loops and oxbows, progress will probably be maddeningly slow --most likely we will have to paddle three miles of looping river to make just one mile of forward progress-- but at least we will be able to get in a rhythm and will feel as though we are making progress. And we just may arrive at Baker Lake tonight.

The sun continues to slant toward the horizon and the western sky takes on a rich amber glow as we get back in the canoes and paddle in earnest. Soon a golden path stretches across the depthless water from us to the setting sun. As colors and details fade, shapes and sounds take on added significance, and I watch the ragged black line of spruce etched against the sky, or the silhouette of the other canoe defined by the backdrop of molten water. From back in the slough we can hear waves splash against an unseen shore. A loon calls with a haunting cry, and then another answers from somewhere in the far distance. A gust of wind bends the treetops. The waves are louder now; they must be just around the bend. As the horizon and the sun collide, we emerge onto Baker Lake .

Relieved, we drift gunwale to gunwale in the low rolling swells, looking down the long wilderness lake. Scanning the eastern shore with my binoculars, peering into the falling dark, I locate the campsite a mile or so in the distance. End in sight, we paddle hard until we get there, and in half-an-hour the tents and the tarp are up, there is a cheerful fire of dry split spruce crackling, and the dinner pots are heating on the grill. After a long hard day of river bushwhacking, we have made it to open water --from here on down to the junction with the Allagash it looks like we'll be able to ride the river's current. As I look over the snug camp, at the canoes overturned above the bank, at the fire snapping, at my companions, I have a solid familiar feeling of accomplishment and self-sufficiency, and despite the sweat and toil it took to get here, I'm exactly where I want to be.

As the light leaves the sky and the sparkling stars of the Milky Way emerge from the black dome overhead, I wander down to the water's edge and look out over miles of dark, empty shoreline. I can smell the wood smoke, ca hear the others around the fire, chatting excitedly about the day and about the river days to come. After awhile John comes over with a couple of steaming mugs of hot chocolate laced with something bracing from our “snake-bite kit.”

"So, was it worth it?" he asks, grinning.

THE BIG DROP

Many people who saw the riverman only in his worst moments –that is, in town after the drive was in, unkempt, drunk, roaring, and fighting—forgot or never knew that those moments of violent relaxation formed only three weeks out of fifty-two in the man's hard life. It was pretty apparent that a riverman was strong in the back, but most people thought he must be weak in the head.

Robert E. Pike, Tall Trees, tough Men

My stern partner Ed Green ties the canoe to large rock on shore with the bow painter. It is late afternoon on a chilly, slate-colored day in May. Now and then the skies let loose with a cold lashing rain, and the big black river is still frigid with the ice and snowmelt of winter. We are both damp and tired from a long day of scouting and running tough rapids, but we still have a few miles to paddle to our take-out.

There is a persistent rumbling sound, like a convoy of heavily loaded semi-trucks crossing a plank bridge coming from around the bend downstream. The wind shifts and a fine damp mist, like wave spume on a windy day at the beach, drifts upstream and over us, adding to the penetrating chill we already feel.

Though we can't see around the bend, we know where we are. The blind corner, the thunder, the heavy pounding vibration tells us we are at Nesowadnehunk Falls, or "Soudyhunk," as the locals call it, on the West Branch of the Penobscot River in northern Maine.

The ancient portage trail around the horseshoe-shaped falls leads up and over a high rocky ledge on river left. Leaving the canoe, we stretch our cold, cramped muscles and scramble up for a better look. As we top the rise, the falls come in to view below us, and the rumbling grows louder until we must shout to communicate.

"No way," I lean over and holler near Ed's ear while looking at the falls below. “Not this one.” The entire brawling river is leaping and churning through a set of roiling rapids before plunging over an eight foot drop. Not only that, but there is a haystack-sized standing wave leaping skyward at the bottom of the pitch. "Even if we make it through the rapids and over the big drop,” I shout and point, “that standing wave will eat us alive. There's no way we can get through that in an open canoe!"

Ed doesn't hear me. He's concentrating, and his eyes are narrow slits glinting with excitement.

I look back at the falls, trying to see what Ed is looking at, hoping he's not contemplating running this pitch. Already today we have run Big Ambejackmockamus, and the Horse Race, and several other legendary West Branch rapids. And now, as we watch this scale-model Niagara , which my paddler's guidebook says is “unrunnable,” I suddenly realize that I know a story about this very spot. Even though I have never been here before, I'm certain this is the place. It all fits, and the sense of recognition jolts me like a mild electric shock.

In college I had taken a course in American folklore, and some of the tales that most captured my imagination were about loggers in the Great North Woods. One of the stories was about a big, tough 260-pound Native American woodsman named Big Sebattis Mitchell, a real-life folk hero who worked on the West Branch drive back in the 1870s during the long-log days when the big white pines were floated down to the mills in Bangor .

The Penobscot River men called themselves the Bangor Tigers, and they were the best river drivers the world has ever seen. Logging companies all across the country sought their services. According to one story, a logging executive in Minnesota was watching his crews on a river drive one day when he noticed a particularly able young man dancing nimbly from log to log in the white water, picking jams and generally doing the work of several men. When the boss called the young man over and asked him where he was from, the river driver took a bite from his plug of chewing tobacco, spat, and said, “From the Penobscot, b'God!”

One reason the Penobscot men were so successful at running the logs down turbulent waterways was their quick, responsive watercraft. Designed and built in Old Town and Bangor , the Maynard Bateaux, called “the Great Maynards” by the rivermen, were built for extremely dangerous work picking log jams in the middle of violent rapid rivers. To free a log jam required experience, nerve, and athleticism. It also required a fast, stable boat to paddle up below the jam, pick the key stick holding back hundreds of tons of wood, and paddle away before being crushed to death when the logs came plunging downstream driven by the pent-up force of the river.

The great Maynards were that kind of nimble boat, and the rivermen called them “catty.” But out of the water, the Maynards were anything but lithe dancers. At thirty-two feet long, seven feet wide, and weighing between eight and nine hundred pounds, they were miserable to carry around the many long rapids on the West Branch between Ripogenus Gorge and the junction with the East Branch.

According to Fannie Hardy Eckstorm, who heard the story of Big Sebattis and Soudyhunk Falls from the loggers and later collected it in her classic book The Penobscot Man, Big Sebattis decided he was tired of carrying the big, heavy wooden bateau around these rapids. So, Big Sebat, as the other drivers called him, turned to his partner, another Native American handy with a paddle, and suggested trying to run the drop instead of making the brutal portage. His partner agreed, and the two of them decided to go for it. If they made it, they would be famous, legends of the Penobscot drive. If they didn't make it --well, they would give it their best shot.

The other drivers had already carried their two bateaux around the falls when they suddenly saw Big Sebattis and his partner crashing over the falls. Miraculously still upright, they disappeared down the river and around the bend. The others raced after them and found them calmly taking their ease, smoking their pipes, as if they did this every day.

The other men, twelve in all, were not to be outdone. Pride was at stake, and they promptly marched back to their bateaux, carried them back around the falls to the top, and attempted to run the drop. Both boats were smashed to toothpicks. Eleven of the men managed to swim to shore. The twelfth man drowned.

I turn to Ed. "Have you heard the story about..." I start, but he cuts me off. "We can do it," he says. "Look, you see that rooster tail --that tall curling wave right at the top of the falls? As long as we stay right on top of that, we'll be okay. That will be your job. You've got to steer us right over the crest. Otherwise the curl of the wave will flip us over before we even get to the falls!"

If I am supposed to be reassured by this, I am not. But, like a river driver, I am not to be outdone. Besides, I see he has a point. If we line up perfectly, if we hit the crest, we can shoot the rapids and the falls. And if we do it carrying enough speed to crash through the monster standing wave at the bottom of the falls, we'll be all right. It's just that there's no room for error.

The other canoes in our party opt to carry around. They tell us we are fools but assure us they will pick up the pieces that come floating downstream.

Back in our boat above the rapids, I feel a rush of adrenaline mixed with a hefty dollop of fear. We untie from the rock and paddle hard, angling upstream against the flood to get out into the main current where we can position ourselves to get safely around the blind corner.

“You ready?' yells Ed.

“Let's do it!” I shout back.

And then we turn the canoe and face downstream. The current is violent. It catches the hull and sweeps the boat swiftly toward the chaos ahead. Racing forward, we clear the corner and now I can see the spray hanging in the air above the waterfall. The roar of the falls and the strength of the current intensify as we hurtle toward the edge. My senses are bombarded. I remember to take a deep breath and use my paddle. "This is insane," I think.

In the bedlam I remember to look for the curling rooster tail wave, knowing that if we don't line up properly, we won't have a chance. Scanning ahead, I try to pick it out but I can't see it! The river looks completely different from down here at water level than it did from high above. “Focus,” I tell myself, then, “Breath.”

At the last possible moment I see the rooster tail. It's just ahead and to the right. I react with a quick, powerful cross-bow draw and the boat pulls over sharply, aiming right for the top of the curling wave. "Way to go!" shouts Ed, and then we shoot right over the lip.

Time and canoe hang suspended as we free-fall for at least a full second, but it seems much longer. We slide downward violently on the rushing water, then crash right into the trough beneath the towering wave. The canoe seems to shudder, almost stops, but then punches on through. The wave has gone completely over my head. We are soaked; the canoe is filled and is pitching from side to side and threatening to capsize. But we are upright. We made it!

From the bank a loud cheer goes up where the vultures were watching. Ed and I gingerly paddle the wallowing boat to shore, and when we get there our erstwhile companions slap our backs, give us high-fives, and congratulate us on our daring and on our paddling skills. Ed and I feel like modern folk heroes of the Penobscot.

As we empty out the boat, I turn to the others and say, "Hey, have you guys heard the story of Big Seb...." But they aren't there. Not to be outdone, they are carrying their canoes back to the top of the falls.