Leaving Wrangell, Alaska, for Telegraph Creek, British Columbia, in the
spring of 1914, I overtook an Englishman who intended to spend the
summer in the interior of British Columbia, and after enjoying a big
game hunt in the fall would return to civilization.
Before we had got far up the river, night overtook us, making it
necessary for the "gas" boat on which we were travelling to tie up for
the night. The beach on which we landed was a sandy one that would
permit of walking along the shore for some distance; so my friend, the
Englishman, started out to stretch his legs.
Not far up the beach there commenced a large piece of low, swampy
country and just before coming to it my friend caught a glimpse of what
he thought was a large grizzly bear going speedily through the bush.
Wasn't the Englishman excited! A few well-directed spider-like movements
landed him back on the launch. After his struggle for breath was over we
learned the exciting news. We agreed that our friend should be allowed
to do all the execution, while we kept in the background in order to
help out should the brute attack.
Guns were made ready and a stealthy advance was commenced. At length the
rifle of our friend went to his shoulder and bang! In a moment the
monster was dead.
By this time it was quite dark, so we made haste and prepared to drag
the game to the launch to be skinned. Finally, after tugging and working
with all our strength, with perspiration pouring off our foreheads, we
concluded the carcass was too heavy to be handled by only six ordinary
men.
A suggestion was then made to run a line from the boat and attach it to
the hand capstan and haul him along in that way. This scheme was tried
and after working hard (putting more grease on the gears every ten
minutes) our enthusiasm began to wane and before another half hour had
passed it was decided to leave the monster where it was until daylight,
when it would be skinned where it lay.
We were up bright and early the next morning and while breakfast was
being prepared the hunting and skinning knives were ground and sharpened
to a fine edge and fit to cut the toughest hide or even to shave with.
Breakfast was finished and we trooped off to where lay the king of the
forest (especially the low-lying swampy fringed forest) and after coats
were thrown off and sleeves rolled up to above the elbows the operation
of skinning was ready to commence.
Our friend the Englishman was naturally anxious that the job be a neat
one, as he certainly was anxious to have that hide mounted, especially
on account of its large size and its being the first specimen of big
game killed by him in Cassiar, and he suggested that we wait a few
minutes longer until it was full daylight.
At last the light of the rising sun commenced to show brightly in the
east until it ended in one great burst of brilliant glory which held us
as in a trance admiring its beauty.
Finally we turned to the animal and the work of skinning. One glance in
the improved light was sufficient to show that there was something
wrong, and that our grizzly bear was not a bear after all.
But what was it? Owing to my years of experience the matter was referred
to me, and after making a close examination I was able to announce with
surety that the supposed grizzly bear was _only a common, everyday
Stikine River mosquito_, of perhaps a little greater size than is
usually encountered.
It was then up to everyone to remark that they were sure from the first
that it was not a bear. But the climax was reached when the Englishman
_expressed surprise that we had any doubts about what the animal really
was_ right from the start, because he had killed it _only to get the
stinger_, which, he was told, made an excellent golf club.