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[Illustration: HERD OF ELK.]
INTER-OCEAN
HUNTING TALES
BY EDGAR F. RANDOLPH
ILLUSTRATED
NEW YORK
FOREST AND STREAM PUBLISHING CO.
1908
Copyright, 1908,
By Forest and Stream Publishing Co.
FOREWORD
In this volume will be found a series of articles which in recent years
have appeared in _Forest and Stream_. The incidents recounted took
place in widely separated parts of the United States and Canada.
As time slips by there is a pleasure in recalling hunting exploits
which have become relegated to a past that can be lived over again only
in memory. Whoever feels the sportsman’s ardor kindle when blood red
tales of the hunt are related--an ardor which the camera enthusiast,
who possesses merely a platonic love of sport cannot appreciate--may
discover an excuse for this book. Its style may strike one as somewhat
informal and lacking in literary finish, but it should be borne in mind
that too much formality is likely to take away the charm of camp life.
If you picture yourself seated on a log by the open camp-fire you will
not be apt to criticize the absence of polish in the composition of the
text. You would as soon ask your guide to substitute patent leather
shoes for his greased boots.
_May, 1908._
CONTENTS
PAGE
A REMINISCENCE OF THE ROCKIES 1
EXPENSE OF AN OUTING 33
A NEW BRUNSWICK HUNT 37
ROUNDING UP CATS IN COLORADO 47
DUCK SHOOTING IN CALCASIEU PARISH 69
OUTING AT TWO-OCEAN PASS 82
CAMP LIFE NEAR THE TETONS 96
BLOODLESS SPORT 122
WESTERN CAMP LIFE 130
ELK HUNT IN WYOMING 143
ILLUSTRATIONS
FACING PAGE
HERD OF ELK (Frontispiece)
PACKING A BRONCHO 5
MARVIN LAKE 47
HITTING THE TRAIL 65
THE TETON RANGE 83
BREAKING CAMP 95
A GLIMPSE OF ROCKY MOUNTAIN SCENERY 109
PACK HORSES ROUNDED UP FOR THE RETURN 120
MOUNTAIN CLIMBING 130
VIEW FROM MT. LEIDY 140
GUIDE EDWARD SHEFFIELD AND TWO ELK HEADS 145
VALLEY OF GROS VENTRE 150
CHAS. HERDICK SKINNING A BULL ELK, THE AUTHOR AT THE RIGHT 160
GROS VENTRE RIVER 171
INTER-OCEAN HUNTING TALES
REMINISCENCE OF THE ROCKIES
In the fall of 1896 I decided upon taking a hunting trip to the White
River country in Colorado. At that time the White River country was
well supplied with game and might almost be considered a sportsman’s
paradise, or, as an Indian described it to me, like the “happy hunting
grounds.” Deer were very plentiful, and around Hayden and in California
Park antelope were numerous, although very shy. Bull elk occasionally
adorned the landscape with their imposing presence and splendid spread
of antlers. The cougar was heard occasionally, although never seen
unless hunted with dogs. Old “Silver Tip” frequented the neighborhood,
but had a way of making his bulky form vanish like some apparition.
His depredations, where he had mangled the carcass of some animal or
disturbed the habitations of a lot of small fry under a rotten log,
furnished evidence of his presence. There was enough large game in
the country to give some idea of what it had been at a time when the
Redskin was the undisputed proprietor of the soil.
I had secured, through correspondence, the services of a guide who had
been well recommended. Having heard considerably about the cowboy, my
curiosity had been somewhat excited, and I desired to form a better
acquaintance from actual experience. The West was then, to my mind, a
geographical area possessing a certain wildness and wooliness, which
my imagination pictured to me. The rapid trend of events makes a book
describing its general conditions seem behind the times almost as soon
as it is published. Much of what I had read and heard, however, seemed
to me like a fairy tale in the face of actual experience, although,
allowing for exaggeration, back of it all it had a foundation of
facts. Every time I have visited the West I have noticed the rapid
progress of change.
During my first hunting experience, I noticed that the typical bad man,
of whom I had heard so much, with his rough-and-ready manner, accoutred
with dangerous weapons, his social position established by the size
of his private graveyard, was wanting. The facetious desperado, who
had a pleasant way of requesting the “tenderfoot” to dance while he
marked time with his six-shooter, was “non est.” An unappreciative
community had organized from time to time a few “necktie parties,”
and the experience of such gentlemen has since become an interesting
theme for romance. The large settled communities of course had the same
cosmopolitan air and character that one finds in the East. There was,
nevertheless, something in the social atmosphere which impressed you
with the feeling that everything was very different. The cowboy, of
whom I had heard so much, I learned to recognize as generally a very
quiet, civil person, never going out of his way to do extraordinary
things nor to make himself conspicuous. A man of few words and not
inclined to familiarity, he is essentially a man of action, and prefers
to take a short cut to accomplish his purpose. If one should conclude
that his reserve and his reticence were the result of mental torpor,
he would make a great mistake. Apparently taking little interest in a
new acquaintance, and seeming to lack ordinary curiosity, I find that
he is, notwithstanding, a very close observer and has a quiet way of
extracting information without appearing eager to do so.
My guide engaged to meet me at Buford, Colo. Being unacquainted with
the locality, I wrote to obtain information concerning the railroad
station nearest my destination, and learned that it was Rifle. When I
arrived at Rifle, I inquired about the best way to get to Buford,
and was informed, to my surprise, that I had a journey by wagon of
sixty miles to make. This was my first experience with the magnificent
distances of the West. The result was that I miscalculated the time
of meeting my guide by an entire day. When I arrived at Buford on the
evening of the next day, my guide, whom I saw for the first time, rode
up on a mustang, seated in a big Mexican saddle. With an easy air, as
though we had been acquainted all our lives, he expressed his pleasure
at meeting me and advised all necessary arrangements for the morrow’s
start on our hunt back in the mountains.
[Illustration: PACKING A BRONCHO.
Blindfolding a vicious animal is an expedient that generally attains
its purpose.]
It is interesting to notice how quickly and skillfully an experienced
man can pack a lot of horses, apportioning the loads with great
fairness, and balancing the dead weight so that it will ride easily on
the backs of the not overwilling animals. Packing seems easy, and if
you want to know how easy it is, try it. After you have ridden a mile
or so, perhaps, some critical beast will begin to subject your work to
a severe test by bucking. To express the state of your feelings when
this happens would be impossible, unless your sympathetic guide, who is
generally an expert in swearing, can help you out.
The first day’s journey was rather long and tedious, a large part of it
through monotonous stretches of sage brush. When at length the timber
was reached, the change was most agreeable. We arrived at the location
of our first camp without a mishap, unless having my legs squeezed
between the horse and a tree a couple of times could be considered
as such. Although my guide knew his business as a guide, I could not
recommend him as a first-rate cook. His efforts at making bread proved
a flat failure, and we had to do without the staff of life. The canned
provisions, which required practically no skill in their preparation,
made the inefficiency of the cooking less apparent.
The camp being pitched in a well timbered and picturesque spot, we
spent the rest of the afternoon in arranging everything and laying our
plans for the next day. The waning sunlight found us spread comfortably
around a big camp-fire, which sent its genial glow far into the dark
recesses of the gloomy forest. When a great heap of burning faggots
had sunk into a bed of smouldering ashes and the rising wind murmuring
through the pines gave warning of an approaching storm, I concluded
to crawl under the bedding and sleep. The hard, frozen ground is not
as comfortable as a spring mattress, but I had to get used to it,
and was sleeping soundly, when I was awakened in the morning by the
cheerful voice of the guide, who called out, “Breakfast!” as if he were
summoning all the guests of a boarding house to a feast. When I crawled
out of my sleeping bag into the chilly atmosphere, I found the guide
doing the chores in his stocking feet. A few dashes of ice-cold water
from the stream hard by drove away all feeling of drowsiness, and made
me conscious of the fact that I had an appetite.
After breakfast, without waiting to put camp in order, for the morning
was already advanced, we started out in search of game. On coming to
the edge of the timber, where the country opened up into one of the
little parks which we frequently found in that locality, I saw the tall
form of my guide slowly stoop behind some bushes, while, at the same
time, he motioned me to be cautious. I soon saw what had arrested his
attention. A magnificent blacktail deer, with a fine set of antlers,
stood out in full view, not more than a hundred yards away. There were
a half a dozen does nearby, but they did not interest me. I brought
“Old Meat in the Pot” to my shoulders, for that is what my guide had
christened my .45-90, and after taking deliberate aim, fired. Which
was the most astonished, the buck, or myself, I could not say. He
stood perfectly motionless, like an image in bronze. I had evidently
missed him. A second shot fared the same; then the whole bunch of deer
began to scamper off unharmed by any of the shots I had fired at the
buck. I could not account for the bad marksmanship, for I knew that I
did not have the buck fever. The guide said that I had killed one of
the deer, which I disputed, until he pointed to a dying animal lying
in a dense thicket just to the rear of the deer that had served as my
target. I had not even seen it, until it was pointed out to me after I
had shot it. After making several experiments with the rifle without
satisfactory results, I found that the sight had been knocked out of
place. I then handed the rifle over to the guide without correcting the
error and requested him to let me see how a cowboy could shoot. With
evident pride in his skill he brought the gun to his shoulder, but he
shot as badly as any tenderfoot.
In the meantime, the air was full of sounds more terrible than the
report of the rifle. Any one who has heard a cowboy swear when he is
really in earnest can understand what I mean.
At last it occurred to him that the sights might be out of order, and
when he examined them and discovered the trouble, he looked at me, and
seeing my complacent smile, the whole truth dawned upon him. We both
laughed heartily at our mutual discomfiture and pledged each other’s
health from the flask to celebrate the occasion.
I returned to the camp without a trophy to commemorate my first success
in killing deer, although I had secured an abundant supply of meat.
The next day we covered considerable ground on horseback, without
success. I had, however, an interesting experience in climbing a
mountain known as Old Sleepy Cap, sometimes, because of its peculiar
formation at the summit, called the Razor Back. The ascent of this
mountain was not particularly easy, on account of its abrupt elevation,
although the height above the surrounding country was not great. The
formation at the summit, which gave the unpoetical name of Razor Back
to the mass, consisted of a long, narrow ridge, not more than eighteen
inches to two feet in width, bristling with sharp projections of rock
of quite uniform height extending nearly its entire length of about
ninety yards. At each end it broadens out in a space conveniently
large for a temporary resting place. After satisfying my curiosity, I
suggested a descent into the valley, where the cool atmosphere would
afford a welcome relief from the blazing rays of the sun. Much to my
surprise, the guide informed me that the ascent was much easier at the
point we came up than the descent, unless I wished to reach the bottom
in a fashion that would imperil my neck. After discussing the matter
with him a few moments and carefully studying the position, I came to
the conclusion that he was right. We observed that at the other end
we could find an easy way to descend. That meant a rather long and
disagreeable walk on the serrated ridge, attended with considerable
danger, or a still more unpleasant experience if I should attempt to
crawl on hands and knees for greater safety. Like a couple of tomcat
serenaders promenading on the top of a brick wall liberally strewn with
broken bottles, we crawled to the far end of the ridge, where, with
some difficulty, we descended. We returned to camp with no better luck
than securing a snowshoe rabbit, which I shot through the head.
For some days I conscientiously hunted, but found it difficult to
come close enough to get a good shot at deer. I saw quite a number
bounding away far out of range, often stopping at a safe distance
to observe our movements. For lack of better sport, I occasionally
practiced on the “fool grouse”--a bird very similar in appearance to
our Eastern partridge, but about the tamest game I have ever shot. I
could generally have three trials at one before it would move. I would
pace off the proper space, and then aim at the head. The flesh was not
particularly delicate, and would certainly not please the palate of an
epicure.
One day as we were traveling in a blinding snow flurry, we came to a
precipice thickly fringed with undergrowth and small trees. Impelled
by curiosity, I got off my horse and went near the edge to get a view
of the country below. The waving tops of the pines beneath were barely
visible, the force of the wind coming through the great long valley at
my feet, sounded like the hollow roar of the ocean. As I stood upon
the cliff, gratifying my fancy with the weird and strange impressions
the surroundings made upon me, the storm began to abate, and through
the diminishing fall of snow the sun gradually diffused its light,
and presently the atmosphere cleared up, and the entire landscape was
revealed to view as though a great white sheet concealing nature’s
panorama had been pulled aside. On a ledge jutting out from the base
of the precipice, about two hundred feet below, I observed the shapely
form of a deer with a fawn lying on the rock alongside of it. As far as
the eye could distinguish, a great forest of aspen with white trunks
and branches sparsely decorated with yellow leaves, filled the valley.
Dense masses of pines, which completely covered the steep mountain
sides, except where the ragged projections broke through, formed a dark
setting to the brilliant landscape which lay between. My reverie was
finally broken by a voice nearby: “Well, pardner, it’s pretty late and
we are a long way from camp.” Traveling in that rough country after
dark is not attractive to one who is not looking for trouble. So I
mounted my horse and began to occupy myself with observing game signs
and incidentally thought of the camp-fire and kettle.
It is interesting to notice how strangely the element of luck will
enter into a sportsman’s experience. One day, after hunting faithfully
from early dawn until evening without success, I concluded to vary
the monotony by shooting at a mark. I had not been engaged in that
pastime very long before my attention was arrested by hearing something
crashing through the brush at the foot of the hill where I stood,
and presently I saw a fine blacktail buck come bounding up the slope
directly toward me, accompanied by a doe. My rifle was just ready to
bring up to my shoulder, but I remained motionless in plain view,
waiting for the game to come within easy range. A more picturesque
sight than that blacktail, easily and gracefully clearing the fallen
timbers, I have rarely seen. My eagerness did not interfere with my
sizing up the well-proportioned and beautifully poised antlers, which
I regarded as already mine. As I raised my rifle to shoot, although
the action was quite deliberate, it was immediately noticed. The deer
changed its course when not over forty yards away, exposing its broad
flank to my aim. It ran some distance after I fired, clearing with ease
the trunk of a large fallen tree, and giving me no little concern for
a few moments. Following his tracks, I soon came upon the deer, dead.
It was indeed a fine specimen, weighing perhaps two hundred and fifty
pounds, in good condition and with a perfect set of antlers.
I had often heard of the remarkably acute senses of wild animals; the
timidity and keenness of deer are proverbial, and yet here was an
instance which seemed to belie all former stories and past experience.
Standing in plain view while firing at a mark, the buck ran directly
toward me. One would naturally suppose that the noise of the shooting
would have driven the animal away. My theory about the occurrence is,
that when the report of the rifle is first heard, the tendency is for
a wild animal to become alarmed and run in the opposite direction, but
presently when it catches the echo, the real direction of the sound
is misconceived, and it will then run in the direction of the firing.
Other sportsmen have agreed with me in this view. There is no doubt
that deer and other wild animals can tell the direction of sound, and
consequently, when one becomes alarmed by the shooting and runs toward
the place where the sportsman is located, it is not the ear, but the
judgment that is at fault. A wild animal can have no correct idea of an
echo, but undoubtedly imagines that it is an entirely different sound,
and being last heard determines its final course.
This, however, does not explain the action of the deer in running
directly toward me when I was in plain view. All sportsmen soon learn
to recognize the fact that animals, although keen of sight, are not
very discriminating. Birds, as well as wild animals, will frequently
continue their course when it lies in the direction of a human being,
provided there is no perceptible movement to attract their attention.
Any kind of motion is immediately noticed, particularly if it is at all
sudden. Stationary objects are not apt to attract much attention unless
there is something very strange in their appearance, especially if the
coloring does not harmonize with the general surroundings and happens
to be different from what is ordinarily seen.
Animals use their faculties in a very mechanical way, and this
observation is more true of sight than of any other sense. I have seen
a pack of dogs which had followed a bobcat’s tracks to a tree where
they supposed it had taken refuge, baying and standing guard, while it
was perfectly evident to any one who was not blind that the cat had
escaped. The sense of smell had directed the dogs to the spot, and
relying upon the information received in that way, they failed to avail
themselves of the intelligence they might have derived from another
source. I have no doubt that the sight of dogs is particularly keen,
but they rely almost entirely upon the sense of smell. When the mind is
greatly absorbed in one direction, it is for the time being far less
observant or attentive in other ways. A human being depends mostly upon
the sight, and next upon hearing; the sense of smell is the least used
of any of the senses. Among animals, with few exceptions, smell is the
principal sense, and all the others are little used in comparison,
although very acute.
Having secured a good deer trophy, I next turned my thoughts to a
different kind of hunting, and concluded that antelope would afford a
pleasing variety, both as a prize and in the method of hunting.
The next day the outfit was got in readiness and we started for a
place called Hayden, located in California Park. The sun had melted
the snow, and the journey was hot and dusty. Traveling over the steep
mountain trails, the guide gave me the lead, while he rode at the rear
of the pack horses strung out in single file, and made use of all the
arts of persuasion to keep them going, frequently leaning down to pick
up a rock or a stick to hurl at some “ornery” beast that would turn a
deaf ear to the appeal, “Wake up and pay for your bedding.” Speeches in
true cowboy style, with plenty of rhetorical flourishes, were delivered
almost without intermission, when the traveling was particularly
difficult.
After leaving the timber, we had a tedious journey through long
stretches of sage brush. The land where the sage brush abounds seems
desolate and forsaken, and would impress the casual observer as
perfectly worthless. While reflecting upon the forbidding aspect of
the country, I wondered if this land could be rendered productive
upon the arrival of that era “when the desert would blossom as the
rose.” I discovered an answer to my question ere long, when my sight
was gladdened by a neat little ranch located near a stream, with about
two acres of ground irrigated and under cultivation. If it had been
an oasis in a desert, the contrast could not have been more striking.
A great stack of alfalfa hay stood near the ranch, exposing a cut
in its side which revealed the interior perfectly green. At first I
thought that the grass had not been properly cured, but I learned
afterward that the alfalfa contains so much nutriment that it remains
green a long time after it has been cured and stacked. There were
quite a number of fruit trees of small size so laden with fruit that
the branches had to be propped. All that is needed to make the soil
productive, is to clear off the sage brush, and irrigate.
We camped that night by a stream in a clump of aspen trees, many of
which, although dead, were still standing. The aspen when dead becomes
exceedingly dry and light, and makes a very hot and bright fire, but
quickly burns out, leaving a small quantity of ashes to the amount of
wood consumed. After the evening meal, we piled the dead aspen wood
upon the fire until it formed a heap nearly as high as our heads.
The flames shot well into the air and lighted up the landscape for a
considerable distance. Listening to the guide spinning his yarns as we
lay by the cheerful blaze, the time slipped by rapidly. It may not be
out of place to relate one of the stories my guide told me, as a sample
of the kind of intellectual treat they furnished.
Among his acquaintances was a telegraph operator at a place called Red
Wing on the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad. The operator had taught
the guide a smattering of telegraphy, and the sequel will prove the
truth of the saying that “a little knowledge is a dangerous thing.”
The operator was on very friendly terms with a young lady in the
same employment at a station not many miles away, and when business
was slack they freely corresponded in complimentary and sometimes
sentimental messages, until at length their feelings toward each
other had deepened into something more than friendship. One day the
guide dropped into the office, and while he was there, the operator
had to leave for a short time on other business. During his absence
a message came over the wire of the usual sentimental kind. The
“chargé d’affaires” did not recognize the sender nor understand the
message, but being possessed of ready wit and unlimited assurance,
he immediately sent back a reply characterized by brevity, force and
spiciness. When the regular operator returned and endeavored to resume
a tête-à-tête he could get no response, nor was further communication
continued, except in the ordinary course of business. An effort to
obtain an explanation received no notice, as he was supposed to be the
guilty party and naturally would understand the cause of the trouble
well enough without it. While the operator was pouring out the burden
of his troubled soul to the guide a few days after, a suspicion flashed
across the mind of the latter that perhaps the fragrant message he
had sent at random might have been the cause of the misunderstanding.
He so informed the operator, and matters were finally satisfactorily
explained, and the former friendly relations restored.
When California Park was at length reached, we found the country very
hilly, but open. There were a number of antelope in that locality, but
it was almost impossible to get a good shot at one. The atmosphere is
so deceptive that it is very difficult to gauge the distance. I made a
good many quite accurate line shots, but they were invariably either
too high or too low. It was some time before I could form a correct
idea of the distance. I believe it is best for any one shooting in
a strange country where distances are deceptive, to ask information
of the guide, so that he may be able to sight his rifle at the right
elevations. In an open country, where the atmosphere is rarefied and
objects are seen very distinctly, it is easy to underestimate the
range of your mark; while in the timber, particularly if it is fairly
dense, the tendency is to overestimate and consequently shoot too high.
After a couple of days, I at last succeeded in bagging an antelope and
tried to run down on horseback another one that I had creased, but it
managed to escape. It would frequently stop and look back while being
pursued. Once I checked my horse and waited. The antelope stood still
and watched me at a safe distance. I observed that it grew no weaker
from the loss of blood, and when I resumed the chase I became convinced
that it was probably more than a match in speed for my jaded horse. I
did not seem to gain on it, and the horse was showing great distress
under the strain. I had not the heart to apply the stimulus to make him
quicken his pace as the guide did to his horse, fairly raking his sides
from the shoulders down with the great Mexican spurs until they were
red with blood.
My experience in hunting antelope convinces me that a sportsman earns
about every trophy he gets. No man can be a sluggard and succeed in
hunting this kind of game. With senses as acute as any wild animals
possess, they live in an open country, where every object is visible
except for the slight concealment offered by the sage brush or some
depression of the ground. The antelope have one stupid habit--very
remarkable on account of their keenness in other respects. They
will almost always follow their leader, strung out in single file,
notwithstanding that in doing so the end of the line may come close to
a hunter in pursuit who is cutting across their course. When the line
is strung out to a considerable length, and the mounted hunter is not
more than a few hundred yards away and is riding at right angles to the
course that the antelope are pursuing, it can readily be seen that the
last of the herd will have allowed the pursuer to gain considerable
distance. There has been a good deal of discussion in regard to the
possibility of running antelope down by mounted hunters. The stratagem
usually employed is to surround a bunch of antelope by making a wide
circle sufficiently large to avoid giving immediate alarm to the herd.
Several men begin the chase by riding toward them from several widely
separated points and driving the herd in the direction of another
group of hunters, who are concealed from sight in some depression of
the ground. When the herd reaches the point where the other hunters
are concealed, they are pursued by men on fresh mounts. Sometimes the
herd is scattered, and some stray confused animal will try to rejoin
the others, and in doing so will run straight in the direction of his
comrades, quite regardless of the closeness of his pursuers. I saw one
lone distracted animal trying to rejoin the herd come within sixty
yards of a dismounted hunter, who tried to get a shot at it, but was
prevented by his horse straying in front of him and moving in such
a way that his aim was cut off, until the antelope had considerably
increased the distance, and then escaped the shots fired.
My time being limited, I was compelled to cut my antelope hunt short
without having secured a suitable trophy, although I had plenty of
hard riding and excitement. On the return trip, as the guide and
myself sat by the camp-fire, a cowboy joined us who became quite
companionable, and gave us all the news after his mind had been
sufficiently stimulated by several generous pulls at the flask. It
appeared that a couple of days before an attempt had been made one
night to rob the bank at Meeker. Before the robbers could accomplish
their purpose, the citizens discovered what was taking place and
quietly surrounded the building. When the men came out they were shot
down and killed; the ends of justice were thereby satisfied without
the proverbial law’s delay. The cowboy then told me of another bank,
in which he was a depositor, which had been robbed not long before by
one of its officers, who had gotten off with a considerable sum. I
asked him what the liabilities were. The word staggered him. Although I
recognized that he was a man of resources, yet I felt sure that I had
“stumped him,” and felt sorry for it. He stared vacantly at the fire
a few moments and slowly shifted a quid from one side of his mouth to
the other and sent a long, yellow stream into the center of the blaze,
which I thought for a moment would extinguish it; at length he replied
in a leisurely way: “Wal, pardner, the liabilities are--if they catch
him they will hang him.”
Two days afterward I took leave of my guide; I felt as I clasped his
great strong hand that the compression came as much from the heart as
the muscles.
I soon found myself again in civilized surroundings. A barber’s skill,
a warm bath and conventional attire had already wrought a wonderful
transformation. As I sat in a comfortable seat and looked out of the
car window, observing the strange and beautiful scenery, so continually
changing with the rapid movement of the train, every hour covering a
greater distance than I could travel with a pack outfit in a day, I
felt how much easier it was to take it all in this way; no fractious
horse to control; free from the burning sun, which would often shoot
down its rays upon one like the heat waves from a furnace, and while
in the midst of this ordeal, the climate would sometimes suddenly
change with the clouds gathering in the sky, and a cold wave, perhaps
accompanied by a snowstorm, would follow. When I reflect upon my
experience in after years, the scenery I observed so rapidly and with
no effort, reappears to my mind like a blurred photograph as compared
to what I saw while traveling with the pack outfit. The charm of
natural scenery grows upon one by degrees; whoever thinks that the
charm wanes when the novelty has worn off is not a true admirer of
nature.
Whatever opinion one may entertain of the foregoing statement, it is
very certain that the sportsman cannot gratify his favorite desire and
at the same time consult his ease in all respects. A royal sportsman
may afford the luxury of having a force of game keepers drive wild
beasts within range of his rifle, and imagine that he is enjoying the
real thing. The average man has no such opportunity, and I believe
has no reason to regret it. The best hunting sections of the country
are remote from settlements, and are generally somewhat difficult
of access. Game is by no means so plentiful now as it was when the
country was being opened to civilizing influence by the introduction
of railroads. It is no longer possible for a wealthy man, who likes
sport without inconvenience and hardship, to have his parlor car
side-tracked, and to make it a headquarters while enjoying the
pastime. One is compelled to rough it to some extent to obtain success
in hunting big game at the present time. But after all, is that an
objection? Does it not put a keen edge on the sportsman’s desire?
Those hunting incidents which have given me the greatest trouble
and exercised my skill the most are the ones I recall with greatest
pleasure.
EXPENSE OF AN OUTING
The expense of a Western hunting trip after big game, and what is
necessary to make it a success, will largely depend upon how much or
how little one requires. The average man, accustomed to the ordinary
comforts of civilized environment, should be careful to supply himself
with as many of these as possible, without too greatly increasing the
expense and the bulk of what has to be transported.
The season of the year makes a difference also. In the late fall or
during the winter any one who is not accustomed to camping out in cold
weather will find a tent with a light, portable sheet-iron stove, which
can easily be carried on a horse’s back, very serviceable.
My last hunting trip in the West was late in the fall, and I had
everything complete. I will enumerate what I took and then state the
cost: I had a guide and a cook; a tent for myself and another which
served as quarters for the three men and also for a dining pavilion;
a sheet-iron stove for each tent, which, with several lengths of
pipe weighed very little; two folding tables and several chairs that
packed into very small space; plenty of warm bedding and underwear; a
liberal supply of canned stuff--soups, meats, vegetables, preserves,
etc.--besides the usual standbys, flour, bacon, my rifle, ammunition,
etc., and a few books to read when I was tired of hunting and wanted
to loaf in camp. The cost was as follows: Guide, $3 per day; horse
wrangler, $2 per day; cook, $3 per day; eight pack horses, 50 cents
apiece per day; six dogs, no charge.
Provisions, consisting principally of canned stuff, at from 15 to 20
cents a can, I purchased at St. Anthony, Idaho. I had about $60 worth
of canned stuff, and had some left over after camping out thirty
days. In round figures it cost me about $14 a day while camping out.
This expense can be cut down, if one wishes to economize. Great care,
however, should be taken about attempting to cut off too much.
I have heard much adverse criticism in regard to canned goods, but in
my own experience I find them most serviceable. What are generally
sold contain, as a rule, a large quantity of water, and this adds
unnecessarily to the weight and bulk. A great deal of this may be had
in a condensed form; before cooking, water can be added to it.
The success of a hunting trip depends almost entirely upon the guide.
Great care should be taken against securing the services of any one
without first finding out something about him in advance. If you
are fifty or one hundred miles out in the wilderness and your guide
should prove unsatisfactory, you cannot conveniently dispense with his
services. In that case you have nothing to do but to make the best of
a bad bargain.
With the disappearance of big game almost everywhere, and the greater
difficulty of securing it, more skill and special knowledge are
required now than formerly. There are a good many men who have shot
large game and lived in the wilderness who would not make competent
guides. The man whose time is limited must select as his guide someone
who has a good knowledge of woodcraft, understands the habits of wild
animals and is able to furnish a good outfit.
A NEW BRUNSWICK HUNT
The Province of New Brunswick, in the neighborhood of the Tobique
River, was once noted as a favorite resort for caribou, but for some
reason this fickle, migratory animal has become somewhat scarce in
that locality. The moose has become more abundant. Various reasons are
given for the diminishing number of caribou and the increase of moose,
but I do not undertake to explain the cause of the change. There are
certainly quite a number of moose in the country, and if one is not
too eager to shoot the first chance he gets, and will wait till he
sees a good head, a hunt of several weeks ought to secure satisfactory
results. The law allows a sportsman only one moose, and that fact
should make him careful about bagging anything which comes in sight.
The true sportsman should form a resolution to secure a good trophy
or nothing. It is pitiable to see what rubbish some people lug out
of the woods--heads that are wanting in size and defective in fair
proportions. The head of the moose lacks the grace and beauty of
outline which characterize the elk, the only large animal of this
continent which can compare with it in size, and so it must make up in
massiveness what it lacks in other respects. Whether large or small, an
elk’s head is almost invariably beautiful and graceful. In securing a
trophy one can afford to be more independent of size when an elk head
is the object sought, and not the head of a moose.
The attractiveness of a moose head consists largely in its
grotesqueness; the size has quite as much to do with that as its shape.
If one intends to hunt in New Brunswick, a great deal depends upon the
kind of hunting desired, whether one goes early or late in the season.
In the early part of the season, say from the first of September to the
25th of October, there is little or no snow, and at that time it is
extremely difficult to get any large game by stalking, for the ground
is covered with dry leaves and brittle wood, which make considerable
noise at every step. At that season one must depend largely upon canoe
work and calling for moose, while caribou and deer are then still more
difficult to hunt.
Moose frequently come down to the water, of which they are very fond,
and in which they bathe and wallow. Caribou are less apt to frequent
such spots. Calling is a favorite method of bringing moose within
range, but great care has to be exercised, for a single false note and
your noble quarry, instead of accepting an invitation to a funeral,
which he is to grace, will retire to a place of safety.
When there are a few inches of snow on the ground, hunting becomes more
attractive to the sportsman. Instead of sitting in his canoe waiting
for something to come within range, he is vigorously exercising his
muscles and his knowledge of woodcraft to secure a shot, and often his
skill is put to a considerable test in shooting through thick timber.
There is nothing more improving to health and conducive to happiness
than strenuous exercise in the cold, bracing air, with sport as an
incentive. Whatever may be the outcome of your hunting, you are sure
to take out of the woods with you an increased supply of vital energy
and robustness, which, after all, is very important. If your hunting
should not furnish you with such tangible results as you would like to
see, console yourself with the reflection that a very wealthy man once
offered “a million dollars for a new stomach,” and perhaps you have
secured an equivalent for a great deal less.
Early in October of 1904 I joined my guide at the forks of the
Tobique. We immediately started out in a canoe, into which I packed
all my things, to pole up the Little Tobique. The water was pretty
high, and this increased the difficulty of ascending the river, whose
current, naturally strong, was interspersed by rocks and the débris
of stray logs and woodland refuse. The sturdy skill of the guide was
considerably taxed in spite of the small assistance rendered by me with
the paddle; and yet I was of some assistance in forcing the canoe over
places where there was no poling bottom. In about five hours we reached
our destination and put up at the camp, which consisted of a very
commodious log cabin, where we found the cook, who soon began to busy
himself in preparing the evening meal. The two succeeding mornings I
got up before day, while stars were still bright, and returned late in
the morning, having as a reward for my pains a good appetite and plenty
to satisfy it, when I could succeed in getting it down. The third
morning both the guide and myself overslept, and with a blush of shame
I encountered the glare of Old Sol as he fiercely showered his burning
rays upon our heads.
That same morning a lazy bull moose had been guilty of the same
offense, and appeared at the bank of the river to take his belated bath
just as our canoe came dancing and twisting down the swift, turbid
stream toward him. The big bull did not seem in the least concerned,
although every moment we were rapidly drawing nearer. If he had been
standing in the water, I believe he would have let us run into him
had we been disposed to do so. With a quick movement of the paddle,
the guide turned the canoe so that I could secure an easy position to
shoot, and then a sharp crack of the Mauser rifle, followed by the
heavy swaying motion of the animal as he sank down to pour out his life
blood on the sand, closed the incident.
The head measured fifty-two inches, and was quite shapely. As I
surveyed the prostrate form of this pride of the Canadian forest, I
thought that it was no particular skill of mine which had brought it
within easy reach and secured me a fine trophy. It seemed to me as
though the original owner of the antlers had almost made me a present
of them. We do not greatly appreciate things which come too easily into
our possession. I would have been better pleased if the royal beast
had made the shot more difficult and had given me a chance to exercise
my skill. He may have mistaken me for one of those sportsmen who
tremblingly pass the gun to the guide and ask him to shoot.
During that time I saw another moose, which I declined to shoot,
because, as I informed a friend, I had all the law allowed, and for the
further reason that “it had no head.” When I informed my friend that
the moose “had no head,” he seemed somewhat incredulous, but after I
explained that this was an Irish bull, he seemed better satisfied.
During the rest of my sojourn I had considerable amusement in shooting
at a mark with my .22 automatic Winchester, which affords plenty of
practice without making too much noise, and is also useful for small
game.
The return trip home was diversified with the common experiences of
the transition from the rough camp life to your own fireside, when you
sit in an easy chair and talk it all over with your friends. Sixty
miles’ paddling down the Tobique, ever impelled by its rapid though
wayward current, which required the constant correction of your course,
and gave delight in the survey of the beautiful banks, decorated by
the virgin forest for miles, marked the first day’s journey. The next
day a ride in stuffy cars over a second-class railroad, until you
finally land in a Pullman coach and spin along at the rate of sixty
miles an hour. Perhaps you pick up a chance acquaintance in one or
two sportsmen who have just returned from a similar outing, and tell
you of their mighty deeds which lose nothing by repetition; you shrink
within your modest little self as you listen, for you know you have
accomplished nothing which will stand well in comparison.
On my way back I met several sportsmen, one of whom related to me
his exploits, which were very tame on first recital. We were sitting
in the smoking apartment of the Pullman, when presently two other
sportsmen came in and we got into conversation over our different
hunting experiences. The two sportsmen who came in last related the
wonderful feats which they had accomplished. After they had talked
themselves out, my first acquaintance, who had been so modest in what
he related, much to my surprise took a fresh start. I think a couple
of good drinks, which stimulated his imagination and stirred his
personal pride, had something to do with it. With an eloquence which
truly surprised me, he added the “verisimilitude of truth to otherwise
bald and uninteresting statement of facts.” It was evident that the
newcomers were outclassed, for my modest friend was not only gifted of
tongue, but he told his story last. I have discovered that there are
more ways than one of establishing a reputation as a sportsman, and
sometimes the “gift o’ gab” is more important than skill in handling a
rifle.
[Illustration: MARVIN LAKE, COLORADO.]
ROUNDING UP CATS IN COLORADO
The mountain lion of the West is the panther or cougar of our Eastern
States, sometimes called “painter” by the old-fashioned backwoodsman;
in some localities it goes by the name of “Indian devil,” no doubt on
account of the weird, unearthly noises it makes at night. In Mexico it
is known as the “puma,” and grows to a larger size than elsewhere. In
appearance the mountain lion is very similar to the African lioness,
having a smooth, tawny skin, without any mane; a full-grown animal that
will measure from seven to eight feet from its nose to the end of the
tail and weighs about 180 pounds, is considered a large specimen. They
seldom exceed this, and more frequently fall below it.
Although often engaged in hunting big game, I never saw a mountain
lion at large except when one has been rounded up by a pack of dogs.
In their habits they are stealthy and secretive, carefully keeping
concealed, and never willing to fight unless cornered, with no chance
of escape. Occasionally, when the odds are overwhelmingly in its favor,
a lion will provoke a battle, but this is not often the case.
In disposition and character the mountain lion belies its name; of all
carnivorous beasts it is, perhaps, the most cowardly. Being exceedingly
destructive, it not only kills for food, but it also kills out of
wantonness. I have run across numbers of deer that have been destroyed
by the same animal within short distances of each other, the carcasses
being allowed to remain almost entire. It has also been stated on good
authority that one lion will be likely to kill in the course of a year
about one hundred and fifty deer.
Considering its destructive disposition, I have no doubt that in a
country where the deer are at all numerous, this statement is not far
from the truth. The ranchman has a cordial hatred for this destroyer of
his stock, and the cunning displayed by the lion in evading traps and
turning away from poisoned meat makes him all the more unpopular. This
animal will not eat of any kill unless it is his own or that of some
other lion. Extremity of hunger may cause him to act differently, but
it is exceptional. Most success in hunting this game is to be found in
localities where the deer are plentiful. It is practically useless to
attempt any hunting of this kind unless you have a pack of well trained
dogs handled by some one who has complete control over them. Great care
and patience has to be exercised in breaking a pack of dogs for this
purpose, and to prevent them from running other game. If, for example,
a pack should take after a timber wolf, that animal is so fleet that he
would distance most of his pursuers and string them out considerably.
The wolf has been known to turn on the pack thus separated and kill
a number of the dogs, one after the other, before the pack could be
united. The disappointed huntsman, reaching the end of the run on his
jaded horse, might survey the remnants of his pack--first the survivors
with downcast heads and apologetic tails between their legs--and then
some dog fur scattered over the blood-bespattered ground, and here and
there a mangled corpse. It is no joke to have a pack run for miles
after the wrong game over rough country, your whole day’s sport broken
up, and perhaps lose your dogs for several days.
The mountain lion has not much endurance in the chase, although very
fast for a short distance, which he covers by a series of leaps. In
a short time he is treed or driven to the ledge of a precipice or
into some hiding place. If you are fond of hunting with a camera,
you generally have ample time to take a photograph of your prize,
perhaps posing in the branches of a tree and looking as pleasant as
possible--for a mountain lion!
The lively serenade furnished by the dogs, which the lion recognizes
by continual growls, displaying his whole set of ivories, completes
a scene not soon forgotten. Your share of the business is very tame,
although absolutely effective. A shot at close range behind the
shoulder, and the lion tumbles among the savage dogs to engage in a
losing fight; while in the agony of death, not infrequently he leaves
some little reminders of his long claws and strong teeth upon his
assailants.