An excerpt from John L. Peyton’s book, "Bright Beat the Water"

From the Chapter: "Spirits Beneath the Ice"

We had just finished eating when we heard the soft sigh of a canoe beached in the sand beneath us. An old woodsman had seen our fire. He came climbing up the bank for a visit. It wasn’t hard to get him talking about the early times,

Late one winter, while tending a trap line along this same stream, he had felt the ice give way beneath him.

The current was strong with the urgency of coming spring. By the time he had kicked off his snowshoes, torn the traps from his waist, and pulled out of his parka, he had been carried far down the river.

He struggled up against the ice, battering at it with his hands, but was unable to break through. Desperate, he pushed his face against it. Right there he found a little space between ice and water, a bite of air.

He made his way upstream, swimming, clawing at the snow-darkened ceiling. At last he saw dim light ahead. As he struggled toward it, it became a shaft of sunlight coming down through the hole where he had broken through.

This was at a point where the river narrowed. The faster current here had thinned the ice. The edges gave way under his weight as he tried to lift himself. He broke his way through to where the water was slower and the ice thicker. There he climbed out. He was dangerously chilled, but he got to a spruce thicket, broke off some dry twigs, opened a wax-sealed packet of matches, and started a fire. The men of those days were not easy to kill.

An excerpt from John L. Peyton’s book, "Bright Beat the Water"

From the Chapter: "Spirits Beneath the Ice"

We had just finished eating when we heard the soft sigh of a canoe beached in the sand beneath us. An old woodsman had seen our fire. He came climbing up the bank for a visit. It wasn’t hard to get him talking about the early times,

Late one winter, while tending a trap line along this same stream, he had felt the ice give way beneath him.

The current was strong with the urgency of coming spring. By the time he had kicked off his snowshoes, torn the traps from his waist, and pulled out of his parka, he had been carried far down the river.

He struggled up against the ice, battering at it with his hands, but was unable to break through. Desperate, he pushed his face against it. Right there he found a little space between ice and water, a bite of air.

He made his way upstream, swimming, clawing at the snow-darkened ceiling. At last he saw dim light ahead. As he struggled toward it, it became a shaft of sunlight coming down through the hole where he had broken through.

This was at a point where the river narrowed. The faster current here had thinned the ice. The edges gave way under his weight as he tried to lift himself. He broke his way through to where the water was slower and the ice thicker. There he climbed out. He was dangerously chilled, but he got to a spruce thicket, broke off some dry twigs, opened a wax-sealed packet of matches, and started a fire. The men of those days were not easy to kill.