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 of a wide and rapid river—known as the Mad among the natives, on account of its wild and turbulent course—where a consultation was held as to whether it should or should not be followed. It was wide and deep enough to admit the passage of canoes, and it might possibly flow into the Columbia. The Canadians one and all preferred traveling by water to "scrambling over the backs of mountains," their trips up and down the St. Lawrence and across the Great Lakes having rendered them the most expert of oars-*men. Already they saw themselves shooting from the Mad River into the Columbia, and thence to Astoria.

Embarkation was almost unanimously decided on—although one or two of the older members of the party hinted at the difficulty of return, if, after all, the Mad River did not flow into the Columbia—and a fatal mistake would probably have been made, had not two Snake Indians from the West arrived in the nick of time, with the glad tidings that a trading post, situated on the upper branch of the Columbia, was not far off, and that from it the passage down to the sea was easy.

The programme was changed at once. The encampment was broken up, the Mad River crossed, and a little later the post alluded to was reached. It was deserted, but its log huts afforded an admirable shelter during the construction of canoes for the voyage down the river; and on the 18th of October all was ready for the last stage of the long journey. Fifteen canoes were launched on the Henry River, so called after the owner of the trading post, and a day's paddle brought the Canadians to its junction with their old friend the Mad River.

The united streams now took the name of the Snake, and turned out, on examination, to be identical with the Lewis fork of the Columbia—a fact which greatly cheered the travelers, though their troubles were by no means yet at an end. The Snake was encumbered with rocks, its bed was seldom level, and again and again the canoes were nearly upset in the rapids. Not a human creature was to be seen on the banks; and as prairie succeeded prairie, and one wilderness of deserted mountains after another was passed, the spirits of the adventurers flagged.

On the 28th October the climax of the difficulties was reached. The Snake River entered a "terrific strait," its whole volume being compressed into a space less than thirty feet in width, beyond which it flung itself down a precipice, and continued its course, raging and roaring in such a manner that Hunt named the cataract the Lion Caldron, a title which it still bears.