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Updated: June 11, 2025
The broken path was like a ladder. "How shall we ever get down?" sighed Greygown, as we dropped from rock to rock; and at the bottom she looked up sighing, "I know we never can get back again." There was not a foot of ground on the shores level enough for a tent. Our canoe ferried us over, two at a time, to the island.
Hampered by revolt, himself in character little more than a bold, dashing soldier, Fulk's son, Geoffry Greygown, sank almost into a vassal of his powerful neighbours, the Counts of Blois and Champagne. But this vassalage was roughly shaken off by his successor.
Greygown stepped demurely down from her pinnacle, and as we drifted down the pool in the canoe, under the mellow evening sky, her conversation betrayed not a trace of the pride that a victorious fisherman would have shown.
"The bed was made, the room was fit, By punctual eve the stars were lit" but Greygown always insists upon completing that quotation from Stevenson in her own voice; for this is the way it ends, "When we put up, my ass and I, At God's green caravanserai." Our permanent camp was another day's voyage down the lake, on a beach opposite the Point Ausable.
We launched our canoes again on the great pool at the foot of the first fall, a broad sweep of water a mile long and half a mile wide, full of eddies and strong currents, and covered with drifting foam. There was the old campground on the point, where I had tented so often with my lady Greygown, fishing for ouananiche, the famous land-locked salmon of Lake St. John.
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