Tim saw one first—a long, sloping bank along the edge of the creek. Spruce trees grew down almost to the edge of the water. They would help shield us from the rain. Tim and my father pulled for it. We had just gotten ashore when the first of the rain hit. We took the bit of folded canvas Tim had been using for a seat and spread it over some branches and sat down beneath it, snug and cozy. It was almost noon, so we ate the last scraps of the food Miss Pauline had provided for us—more cold biscuits, some fried chicken, and a soggy chunk of blueberry pie. Now we would be on our own as far as food went, except for the beans and a few other cans we had brought along.

When we had finished my father said quietly: “I’ve made a mistake.”

“What do you mean?” Tim said.

“I’ve been watching the sun. We’re not in Beaver Creek. I must have taken the wrong logging trail off the main road. Beaver Creek heads steadily northwest. We’ve been working our way east.”

“I’ll get the map,” Tim said.

“No, never mind. I’ll show you later where we are. But it is my opinion that we have gotten ourselves into one of the tributaries of Cold River. That means that if we continue our course, we’ll find ourselves on the way to Schoon Lake or even Pottersville. I don’t think we could go as far as Ticonderoga, although it might be possible. Now we have a decision to make. Should we work back upstream and take the canoe to the right logging trail, so as to continue our original plan, or should we change our minds and make Pottersville our destination?”

Slowly Tim said: “If we stay in the Cold River, will we still see the wild game you promised?”

“I think so,” my father said.

“How long would it take to get back to the Model T?” I asked.

“At least a full day, maybe more,” said my father. “But remember, if we stay in the Cold River, no one will know where to look for us if we turn up overdue.”

“That doesn’t bother me,” I said. “I’m against retracing our trail. That’s only wasted motion. It doesn’t matter which river we ride as long as we’re not lost.” How easily I said the words—and how much, later, I wished I never had.

“I think Lizzy’s right,” said Tim.

“Okay,” said my father. “I don’t know how I made such a dumb mistake, but we’ll just do our best with it.”

The brief rain shower was over, so we reboarded the canoe, bailed water for a few minutes, and continued our journey.