There was no living thing near.The river had by this time entered a deeper gorge; walls of rocks rose perpendicularly on either side,--picturesque rocks, painted many colors by the oxide of iron.It was not possible to climb out of the gorge; it was impossible to find a way by the side of the river; and getting down the bed, over the falls, and through the flumes, was not easy, and consumed time.
Was that thunder? Very likely.But thunder showers are always brewing in these mountain fortresses, and it did not occur to me that there was anything personal in it.Very soon, however, the hole in the sky closed in, and the rain dashed down.It seemed a providential time to eat my luncheon; and I took shelter under a scraggy pine that had rooted itself in the edge of the rocky slope.
The shower soon passed, and I continued my journey, creeping over the slippery rocks, and continuing to show my confidence in the unresponsive trout.The way grew wilder and more grewsome.The thunder began again, rolling along over the tops of the mountains, and reverberating in sharp concussions in the gorge: the lightning also darted down into the darkening passage, and then the rain.
Every enlightened being, even if he is in a fisherman's dress of shirt and pantaloons, hates to get wet; and I ignominiously crept under the edge of a sloping bowlder.It was all very well at first, until streams of water began to crawl along the face of the rock, and trickle down the back of my neck.This was refined misery, unheroic and humiliating, as suffering always is when unaccompanied by resignation.
A longer time than I knew was consumed in this and repeated efforts to wait for the slackening and renewing storm to pass away.In the intervals of calm I still fished, and even descended to what a sportsman considers incredible baseness: I put a "sinker" on my line.
It is the practice of the country folk, whose only object is to get fish, to use a good deal of bait, sink the hook to the bottom of the pools, and wait the slow appetite of the summer trout.I tried this also.I might as well have fished in a pork barrel.It is true that in one deep, black, round pool I lured a small trout from the bottom, and deposited him in the creel; but it was an accident.Though I sat there in the awful silence (the roar of water and thunder only emphasized the stillness) full half an hour, I was not encouraged by another nibble.Hope, however, did not die: I always expected to find the trout in the next flume; and so I toiled slowly on, unconscious of the passing time.At each turn of the stream Iexpected to see the end, and at each turn I saw a long, narrow stretch of rocks and foaming water.Climbing out of the ravine was, in most places, simply impossible; and I began to look with interest for a slide, where bushes rooted in the scant earth would enable me to scale the precipice.I did not doubt that I was nearly through the gorge.I could at length see the huge form of the Giant of the Valley, scarred with avalanches, at the end of the vista; and it seemed not far off.But it kept its distance, as only a mountain can, while I stumbled and slid down the rocky way.The rain had now set in with persistence, and suddenly I became aware that it was growing dark; and I said to myself, "If you don't wish to spend the night in this horrible chasm, you'd better escape speedily."Fortunately I reached a place where the face of the precipice was bushgrown, and with considerable labor scrambled up it.
Having no doubt that I was within half a mile, perhaps within a few rods, of the house above the entrance of the gorge, and that, in any event, I should fall into the cart-path in a few minutes, I struck boldly into the forest, congratulating myself on having escaped out of the river.So sure was I of my whereabouts that I did not note the bend of the river, nor look at my compass.The one trout in my basket was no burden, and I stepped lightly out.
The forest was of hard-wood, and open, except for a thick undergrowth of moose-bush.It was raining,--in fact, it had been raining, more or less, for a month,--and the woods were soaked.This moose-bush is most annoying stuff to travel through in a rain; for the broad leaves slap one in the face, and sop him with wet.The way grew every moment more dingy.The heavy clouds above the thick foliage brought night on prematurely.It was decidedly premature to a near-sighted man, whose glasses the rain rendered useless: such a person ought to be at home early.On leaving the river bank I had borne to the left, so as to be sure to strike either the clearing or the road, and not wander off into the measureless forest.I confidently pursued this course, and went gayly on by the left flank.That I did not come to any opening or path only showed that I had slightly mistaken the distance: I was going in the right direction.
I was so certain of this that I quickened my pace and got up with alacrity every time I tumbled down amid the slippery leaves and catching roots, and hurried on.And I kept to the left.It even occurred to me that I was turning to the left so much that I might come back to the river again.It grew more dusky, and rained more violently; but there was nothing alarming in the situation, since Iknew exactly where I was.It was a little mortifying that I had miscalculated the distance: yet, so far was I from feeling any uneasiness about this that I quickened my pace again, and, before Iknew it, was in a full run; that is, as full a run as a person can indulge in in the dusk, with so many trees in the way.No nervousness, but simply a reasonable desire to get there.I desired to look upon myself as the person "not lost, but gone before." As time passed, and darkness fell, and no clearing or road appeared, Iran a little faster.It didn't seem possible that the people had moved, or the road been changed; and yet I was sure of my direction.
