And then it's over. We meet Ian on a riverside rock, tip the water from the canoe, and turn back toward the river. The mountainside on the south bank rises straight from the rocky James, soars through forest and exposed limestone to a conical peak a quarter-mile up. Hope almost whispers. The falls are roaring.
Sunshine falls bright and golden on the boulders.
A heron, wings flapping heavily, makes a splash of gray-blue against the trees. The riffles at our feet are sparkling. But I haven't found that any other place suits me as well as this.'' I feel a tremendous urge to go get my boat and try to run Big Balcony myself. By noon the dreaded gorge is behind us. By tomorrow, the last of the mountains will be.