We crossed the famous rapid, described in _Kalevala_ as the scene where one of the heroes went swirling round and round; we watched women steering with marvellous agility and skill, and there, on the bank, we saw a stalwart Finn, with an artistic pink shirt, awaiting our arrival to pilot us down again, our host preferring to employ a pilot for the descent when he had any one on board besides himself.
The pilot was a splendidly made young fellow of twenty-four; a very picture, with his tan trousers, and long brown leather boots doubled back under the knee like a brigand, but ready to pull up to the thigh when necessary. On his felt cap he wore a silver badge with the letters L.M. clearly stamped. "What do they mean?" we asked.
"L.M. is an abbreviation for _laskumies_ or pilot--it means that he is a certified pilot for this stream," replied _Herr Renfors_, "and as there are ladies here I am going to get him to take the boat down--ladies are such a responsibility," he laughed, "I dare not undertake the task."
We soon entered into conversation with this picturesque Finn, and found his father was also a _laskumies_, and that as a boy he always went with him, steering the boat down when he was fourteen, although he did not get his badge till he was eighteen years of age. As soon as he got it he married, and now had two children. These pilots only receive their badges after careful examination from the government, and, the pay being good, and the position considered a post of honour, they are eagerly-sought-for appointments.
"How wildly exciting it is," we exclaimed, as we whirled round corners, waves dashing into our boat only to be baled out with a sort of wooden spoon.
"I make this little journey sometimes twenty times in a day," he replied; "but I can't say I find it very entertaining."
Sometimes we simply gasped--especially when nearing _Kajana_, and we knew we had to go under the bridge before us, while the youth was steering apparently straight for the rocks on the shore. Destruction seemed imminent, the water was tearing along under the bridge at an awful rate, but he still steered on for the rocks; we held our breath--till, at the eleventh and three-quarter hour, so to speak, the pink-shirted Finn quietly twisted his steering pole, and under the bridge we shot and out at the other side quite safely.