As the river narrowed and its banks grew rockier, we towed our canoe by foot through light rapids. Trees overhung each bank, almost meeting overhead, and side creeks were dammed by beaver. Half this wilderness, in fact, seemed water. I spied a yearling buck but I dared not risk a shot because of the noise. We went on hungry, warily watching. It was drawing toward evening when Namida reached from behind and lightly touched me on the shoulder. “They’re nearby,” she whispered. I looked around. “How do you know?” “Birds flew up. Someone is on the river ahead.” The women, I had noticed, could see things we couldn’t, hear things we were deaf to. I glanced nervously at the trees, worried that birds would announce us. “We must get off the river,” Pierre said. “There—that tributary! We’ll hide and scout.” We turned into a creek, a green tunnel in the trees. The woods seemed deathly silent and I tensed for an arrow, but none came. After a quarter mile we came to a beaver dam, its quiet pond beyond.
