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taking a rest. Several of the men pulled out pipes and sat down to rest, while others scouted up and down the banks, looking for a safe place to cross.
    George and another man from California headed off to the right. They returned after a short time with a group of men carrying axes, huge saws and an assortment of other tools.
    â€œLookee what we found!” George said. “These fine Canadian gentlemen are building a real bridge up a little higher,” George explained. “But they’ve only got so far as clearing brush on this side of the bank.”
    â€œGood day,” the first of the strangers said. “You fellows having a rest?”
    Mr. Emerson puffed on his pipe. He scowled and nodded toward the river. “Too deep to cross,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the rushing water.
    â€œWould a bridge help?” one of the Canadian men asked.
    â€œWould a bridge help?” Mr. Emerson said, mimicking the man’s tone of voice. Given the fact that the men were toting a lot of sharp tools, I thought it was less than sensible to mock them. The Canadians seemed not to mind, but fanned out up and down the bank.
    â€œHere!” one of them shouted, and the others joined him. Their saws coughed and scraped through the bark of the massive tree they had chosen, two men at a time pulling at either end of a notched blade until the trunk was cut through and the tree crashed over, spanning the entire fifty-foot width of the river.
    â€œBravo!” Bart shouted, and George clapped one of the woodsmen on the back.
    â€œWell done!” George said as he hoisted his pack to his back. “But will it hold us?”
    â€œWait until we clear some of those big branches away.”
    With axes hacking, the woodsmen soon cleared a narrow space along the trunk, then hopped nimbly to our side and disappeared back along the river.
    â€œBy the time we travel this way again, the real bridge will be finished.” George nodded toward our giant log.
    Our spirits lifted at the sight of our lovely new bridge, but we were foolish to think our troubles were so easily solved. The Canadian woodsmen might have been used to balancing on a narrow log, but we were not. The tree was wet, and the bark, though it looked rough from shore, proved slippery.
    George made it safely to the other side, but the next man across, an Irish lad called Iain, caught his trouser leg on one of the cut-off branches and tumbled into the water. Luckily he fell on the upstream side and was able to hold onto the log until George could haul him out. Iain moved more slowly after that.
    The rest of us crossed without incident, but poor Iain was chilled to the bone, and it took him some time to dry out despite the heat of the afternoon. The worst part was that his Wellington boots had filled with water, and by the time we arrived at our camping place his feet were so blistered and painful that hewas scarcely able to hobble from the fire to the tent he shared with four other Irishmen. It was only after he had downed a considerable quantity of whiskey that he stopped complaining and instead, entertained the rest of us with his spectacular snoring.

Chapter 8
    When we reached Lilloet on the third day of our journey from Douglas, it felt at first as if we had survived a great ordeal. This feeling soon disappeared as our group discussed the best route to the Cariboo.
    â€œWe’re still two hundred and fifty miles from Antler Creek,” George said.
    â€œI can’t carry any more weight,” Mr. Emerson said, and I nearly laughed out loud, especially when Bart’s shoulders quivered.
    The noisy discussion soon attracted others, until there were about thirty men gathered around, all shouting and arguing about the best way to proceed.
    â€œI say we buy mules!”
    â€œI hear that they charge thirty-five cents a pound for bacon at Antler Creek—if you can find anyone to sell to you! We’d better buy plenty