A Ten Days' Trip In The Wilderness--Going It Alone
ABOUT the only inducements I can think of for making a ten days'
journey through a strong wilderness, solitary and alone, were a liking
for adventure, intense love of nature in her wildest dress, and a
strange fondness for being in deep forests by myself. The choice of
route was determined by the fact that two old friends and school-mates
had chosen to cast their lots in Michigan, one near Saginaw Bay, the
other among the pines of the Muskegon. And both were a little homesick,
and both wrote frequent letters, in which, knowing my weak point, they
exhausted their adjectives and adverbs in describing the abundance of
game and the marvelous fishing. Now, the Muskegon friend--Davis--was
pretty well out of reach. But Pete Williams, only a few miles out of
Saginaw, was easily accessible. And so it happened, on a bright October
morning, when there came a frost that cut from Maine to Missouri, that
a sudden fancy took me to use my new Billinghurst on something larger
than squirrels. It took about one minute to decide and an hour to pack
such duffle as I needed for a few weeks in the woods.
Remembering Pete's two brown-eyed "kids," and knowing that they were
ague-stricken and homesick, I made place for a few apples and peaches,
with a ripe melon. For Pete and I had been chums in Rochester and I had
bunked in his attic on Galusha Street, for two years. Also, his babies
thought as much of me as of their father. The trip to Saginaw was easy
and pleasant. A "Redbird" packet to Buffalo, the old propeller Globe to
Lower Saginaw and a ride of half a day on a buckboard, brought me to
Pete Williams' clearing. Were they glad to see me? Well, I think so.
Pete and his wife cried like children, while the two little homesick
"kids" laid their silken heads on my knees and sobbed for very joy.
When I brought out the apples and peaches, assuring them that these
came from the little garden of their old home--liar that I was--their
delight was boundless. And the fact that their favorite tree was a
"sour bough," while these were sweet, did not shake their faith in the
least.
I stayed ten days or more with the Williams family and the fishing and
hunting were all that he had said--all that could be asked. The woods
swarmed with pigeons and squirrels; grouse, quail, ducks and wild
turkeys were too plentiful, while a good hunter could scarcely fail of
getting a standing shot at a deer in a morning's hunt. But, what use
could be made of fish or game in such a place? They were all half sick
and had little appetite. Mrs. Williams could not endure the smell of
fish; they had been cloyed on small game and were surfeited on venison.
My sporting ardor sank to zero. I had the decency not to slaughter
game for the love of killing, and leave it to rot, or hook large fish
that could not be used. I soon grew restless and began to think often
about the lumber camp on the Muskegon. By surveyors' lines it was
hardly more than sixty miles from Pete Williams' clearing to the Joe
Davis camp on the Muskegon. "But practically," said Pete, "Joe and I
are a thousand miles apart. White men, as a rule, don't undertake to
cross this wilderness. The only one I know who has tried it is old Bill
Hance; he can tell you all about it."
Hance was the hunting and trapping genius of Saginaw Bay--a man who
dwelt in the woods summer and winter, and never trimmed his hair or
wore any other covering on his head. Not a misanthrope, or taciturn,
but friendly and talkative rather; liking best to live alone, but fond
of tramping across the woods to gossip with neighbors; a very tall man
withal and so thin that, as he went rapidly winding and turning among
fallen logs, you looked to see him tangle up and tumble in a loose
coil, like a wet rope, but he was better than he looked. He had a high
reputation as trailer, guide, or trapper and was mentioned as a "bad
man in a racket." I had met him several times, and as he was decidedly
a character, had rather laid myself out to cultivate him. And now that
I began to have a strong notion of crossing the woods alone, I took
counsel of Bill Hance. Unlike Williams, he thought it perfectly
feasible and rather a neat, gamey thing for a youngster to do. He had
crossed the woods several times with surveying parties and once alone.
He knew an Indian trail which led to an old camp within ten miles of
the Muskegon and thought the trail could be followed. It took him a
little less than three days to go through; "but," he added, "I
nat'rally travel a little faster in the woods than most men. If you can
follow the trail, you ought to get through in a little more'n three
days--if you keep moggin'."
One afternoon I carefully packed the knapsack and organized for a long
woods tramp. I took little stock in that trail, or the three days'
notion as to time. I made calculations on losing the trail the first
day and being out a full week. The outfit consisted of rifle, hatchet,
compass, blanket-bag, knapsack and knife. For rations, one loaf of
bread, two quarts of meal, two pounds of pork, one pound of sugar, with
tea, salt, etc. and a supply of jerked venison. One tin dish, twelve
rounds of ammunition and the bullet-molds, filled the list, and did not
make a heavy load.
Early on a crisp, bright October morning I kissed the little fellows
goodbye and started out with Hance, who was to put me on the trail. I
left the children with sorrow and pity at heart. I am glad now that my
visit was a golden hiatus in the sick monotony of their young lives and
that I was able to brighten a few days of their dreary existence. They
had begged for the privilege of sleeping with me on a shake-down from
the first; and when, as often happened, a pair of little feverish lips
would murmur timidly and pleadingly, "I'm so dry; can I have a drink?"
I am thankful that I did not put the pleader off with a sip of tepid
water, but always brought it from the spring, sparkling and cold. For,
a twelve-month later, there were two little graves in a corner of the
stump-blackened garden, and two sore hearts in Pete Williams' cabin.
Hance found the trail easily, but the Indians had been gone a long
time and it was filled with leaves, dim and not easy to follow. It
ended as nearly all trails do; it branched off to right and left, grew
dimmer and slimmer, degenerated to a deer path, petered out to a
squirrel track, ran up a tree and ended in a knot hole. I was not
sorry. It left me free to follow my nose, my inclination and the compass.
There are men who, on finding themselves alone in a pathless forest,
become appalled, almost panic stricken. The vastness of an unbroken
wilderness subdues them and they quail before the relentless, untamed
forces of nature. These are the men who grow enthusiastic--at home--
about sylvan life, outdoor sports, but always strike camp and come home
rather sooner than they intended. And there be some who plunge into an
unbroken forest with a feeling of fresh, free, invigorating delight, as
they might dash into a crisp ocean surf on a hot day. These know that
nature is stern, hard, immovable and terrible in unrelenting cruelty.
When wintry winds are out and the mercury far below zero, she will
allow her most ardent lover to freeze on her snowy breast without
waving a leaf in pity, or offering him a match; and scores of her
devotees may starve to death in as many different languages before she
will offer a loaf of bread. She does not deal in matches and loaves;
rather in thunderbolts and granite mountains. And the ashes of her
campfires bury proud cities. But, like all tyrants, she yields to force
and gives the more, the more she is beaten. She may starve or freeze
the poet, the scholar, the scientist; all the same, she has in store
food, fuel and shelter, which the skillful, self-reliant woodsman can
wring from her savage hand with axe and rifle.
Only to him whose coat of rags
Has pressed at night her regal feet,
Shall come the secrets, strange and sweet,
Of century pines and beetling crags.
For him the goddess shall unlock
The golden secrets which have lain
Ten thousand years, through frost and rain,
Deep in the bosom of the rock.
The trip was a long and tiresome one, considering the distance. There
were no hairbreadth escapes; I was not tackled by bears, treed by
wolves, or nearly killed by a hand-to-claw "racket" with a panther; and
there were no Indians to come sneak-hunting around after hair. Animal
life was abundant, exuberant, even. But the bright-eyed woodfolk seemed
tame, nay, almost friendly, and quite intent on minding their own
business. It was a "pigeon year," a "squirrel year," and also a
marvelous year for shack or mast. Every nut-bearing tree was loaded
with sweet well-filled nuts; and this, coupled with the fact that the
Indians had left and the whites had not yet got in, probably accounted
for the plentitude of game.
I do not think there was an hour of daylight on the trip when
squirrels were not too numerous to be counted, while pigeons were a
constant quantity from start to finish. Grouse in the thickets and
quail in the high oak openings, or small prairies, with droves of wild
turkeys among heavy timber, were met with almost hourly, and there was
scarcely a day on which I could not have had a standing shot at a bear.
But the most interesting point about the game was--to me, at least--the
marvelous abundance of deer. They were everywhere, on all sorts of
ground and among all varieties of timber; very tame they were, too,
often stopping to look at the stranger, offering easy shots at short
range, and finally going off quite leisurely.
No ardent lover of forest life could be lonely in such company and in
such weather. The only drawback was the harassing and vexatious manner
in which lakes, streams, swamps and marshes constantly persisted in
getting across the way, compelling long detours to the north or south,
when the true course was nearly due west. I think there were days on
which ten hours of pretty faithful tramping did not result in more than
three or four miles of direct headway. The headwaters of the Salt and
Chippewa rivers were especially obstructive; and, when more than half
the distance was covered, I ran into a tangle of small lakes, marshes
and swamps, not marked on the map, which cost a hard day's work to
leave behind.
While there were no startling adventures and no danger connected with
the trip, there was a constant succession of incidents, that made the
lonely tramp far from monotonous. Some of these occurrences were
intensely interesting, and a little exciting. Perhaps the brief recital
of a few may not be uninteresting at the present day, when game is so
rapidly disappearing.
My rifle was a neat, hair-triggered Billinghurst, carrying sixty round
balls to the pound, a muzzle-loader, of course, and a nail-driver. I
made just three shots in ten days, and each shot stood for a plump
young deer in the "short blue." It seemed wicked to murder such a
bright, graceful animal, when no more than the loins and a couple of
slices from the ham could be used, leaving the balance to the wolves,
who never failed to take possession before I was out of ear shot. But I
condoned the excess, if excess it were, by the many chances I allowed
to pass, not only on deer but bear, and once on a big brute of a wild
hog, the wickedest and most formidable looking animal I ever met in the
woods. The meeting happened in this wise. I had been bothered and
wearied for half a day by a bad piece of low, marshy ground and had at
length struck a dry, rolling oak opening where I sat down at the foot
of a small oak to rest. I had scarcely been resting ten minutes, when I
caught sight of a large, dirty-white animal, slowly working its way in
my direction through the low bushes, evidently nosing around for
acorns. I was puzzled to say what it was. It looked like a hog, but
stood too high on its legs; and how would such a beast get there
anyhow? Nearer and nearer he came and at last walked out into an open
spot less than twenty yards distant. It was a wild hog of the ugliest
and largest description; tall as a yearling, with an unnaturally large
head and dangerous looking tusks, that curved above his savage snout
like small horns. There was promise of magnificent power in his immense
shoulders, while flanks and hams were disproportionately light. He came
out to the open leisurely munching his acorns, or amusing himself by
ploughing deep furrows with his nose, and not until within ten yards
did he appear to note the presence of a stranger. Suddenly he raised
his head and became rigid as though frozen to stone; he was taking an
observation. For a few seconds he remained immovable, then his bristles
became erect and with a deep guttural, grunting noise, he commenced
hitching himself along in my direction, sidewise. My hair raised and in
an instant I was on my feet with the cocked rifle to my shoulder--
meaning to shoot before his charge and then make good time up the tree.
But there was no need. As I sprang to my feet he sprang for the hazel
bushes and went tearing through them with the speed of a deer, keeping
up a succession of snorts and grunts that could be heard long after he
had passed out of sight. I am not subject to buck fever and was
disgusted to find myself so badly "rattled" that I could scarcely
handle the rifle. At first I was provoked at myself for not getting a
good ready and shooting him in the head, as he came out of the bushes;
but it was better to let him live. He was not carnivorous, or a beast
of prey, and ugly as he was, certainly looked better alive than he
would as a porcine corpse. No doubt he relished his acorns as well as
though he had been less ugly, and he was a savage power in the forest.
Bears love pork; and the fact that the hog was picking up a comfortable
living in that wilderness, is presumptive evidence that he was a match
for the largest bear, or he would have been eaten long before.
Another little incident, in which Bruin played a leading part, rises
vividly to memory. It was hardly an adventure; only the meeting of man
and bear, and they parted on good terms, with no hardness on either side.
The meeting occurred, as usually was the case with large game, on dry,
oak lands, where the undergrowth was hazel, sasafras and wild
grapevine. As before, I had paused for a rest, when I began to catch
glimpses of a very black animal working its way among the hazel bushes,
under the scattering oaks, and toward me. With no definite intention of
shooting, but just to see how easy it might be to kill him, I got a
good ready, and waited. Slowly and lazily he nuzzled his way among the
trees, sitting up occasionally to crunch acorns, until he was within
twenty-five yards of me, with the bright bead neatly showing at the
butt of his ear, and he sitting on his haunches, calmly chewing his
acorns, oblivious of danger. He was the shortest-legged, blackest and
glossiest bear I had ever seen; and such a fair shot. But I could not
use either skin or meat, and he was a splendid picture just as he sat.
Shot down and left to taint the blessed air, he would not look as
wholesome, let alone that it would be unwarrantable murder. And so,
when he came nosing under the very tree where I was sitting, I suddenly
jumped up, threw my hat at him and gave a Comanche yell. He tumbled
over in a limp heap, grunting and whining for very terror, gathered
himself up, got up headway and disappeared with wonderful speed--
considering the length of his legs.
On another occasion--and this was in heavy timber--I was resting on a
log, partially concealed by spice bushes, when I noticed a large flock
of turkeys coming in my direction. As they rapidly advanced with their
quick, gliding walk, the flock grew to a drove, the drove became a
swarm--an army. To right and on the left, as far as I could see in
front, a legion of turkeys were marching, steadily marching to the
eastward. Among them were some of the grandest gobblers I had ever
seen, and one magnificent fellow came straight toward me. Never before
or since have I seen such a splendid wild bird. His thick, glossy black
beard nearly reached the ground, his bronze uniform was of the richest,
and he was decidedly the largest I have ever seen. When within fifty
feet of the spot where I was nearly hidden, his wary eye caught
something suspicious; and he raised his superb head for an instant in
an attitude of motionless attention. Then, with lowered head and
drooping tail, he turned right about, gave the note of alarm, put the
trunk of a large tree quickly between himself and the enemy, and went
away like the wind. With the speed of thought the warning note was
sounded along the whole line and in a moment the woods seemed alive
with turkeys, running for dear life. In less time than it takes to tell
it, that gallinaceous army had passed out of sight, forever. And the
like of it will never again be possible on this continent.
And again, on the morning of the sixth day out, I blundered on to such
an aggregation of deer as a man sees but once in a lifetime. I had
camped over night on low land, among heavy timber, but soon after
striking camp, came to a place where the timber was scattering and the
land had a gentle rise to the westward. Scarcely had I left the low
land behind, when a few deer got out of their beds and commenced lazily
bounding away. They were soon joined by others; on the right flank, on
the left and ahead, they continued to rise and canter off leisurely,
stopping at a distance of one or two hundred yards to look back. It
struck me finally that I had started something rather unusual and I
began counting the deer in sight. It was useless to attempt it; their
white flags were flying in front and on both flanks, as far as one
could see, and new ones seemed constantly joining the procession. Among
them were several very large bucks with superb antlers, and these
seemed very little afraid of the small, quiet biped in leaf-colored
rig. They often paused to gaze back with bold, fearless front, as
though inclined to call a halt and face the music; but when within a
hundred yards, would turn and canter leisurely away. As the herd neared
the summit of the low-lying ridge, I tried to make a reasonable guess
at their numbers, by counting a part and estimating the rest, but could
come to no satisfactory conclusion. As they passed the summit and loped
down the gentle decline toward heavy timber, they began to scatter, and
soon not a flag was in sight. It was a magnificent cervine army with
white banners, and I shall never look upon its like again. The largest
drove of deer I have seen in twenty years consisted of seven only.
And with much of interest, much of tramping, and not a little
vexatious delay, I came at length to a stream that I knew must be the
south branch of the Muskegon. The main river could scarcely be more
than ten miles to the westward and might be easily reached in one day.
It was time. The meal and pork were nearly gone, sugar and tea were at
low ebb and I was tired of venison; tired anyhow; ready for human
speech and human companionship.
It was in the afternoon of the ninth day that I crossed the South
Muskegon and laid a course west by north. The traveling was not bad;
and in less than an hour I ran on to the ruins of a camp that I knew to
be the work of Indians. It had evidently been a permanent winter camp
and was almost certainly the Indian camp spoken of by Bill Hance.
Pausing a short time to look over the ruins, with the lonely feeling
always induced by a decayed, rotting camp, I struck due west and made
several miles before sundown.
I camped on a little rill, near a huge dry stub that would peel, made
the last of the meal into a Johnnycake, broiled the last slice of pork
and lay down with the notion that a ten days' tramp, where it took an
average of fifteen miles to make six, ought to end on the morrow. At
sunrise I was again on foot, and after three hours of steady tramping,
saw a smoky opening ahead. In five minutes I was standing on the left
bank of the Muskegon.
And the Joe Davis camp--was it up stream or down? I decided on the
latter, and started slowly down stream, keeping an eye out for signs.
In less than an hour I struck a dim log road which led to the river and
there was a "landing," with the usual debris of skids, loose bark,
chocks and some pieces of broken boards. It did not take long to
construct an efficient log raft from the dry skids, and as I drifted
placidly down the deep, wild river, munching the last bit of
Johnnycake, I inwardly swore that my next wilderness cruise should be
by water.
It was in late afternoon that I heard--blessed sound--the eager clank,
clank, clank of the old-fashioned sawmill. It grew nearer and more
distinct; presently I could distinguish the rumble of machinery as the
carriage gigged back; then the raft rounded a gentle bend, and a mill,
with its long, log boarding-house, came full in sight.
As the raft swung into the landing the mill became silent; a
brown-bearded, red-shirted fellow came down to welcome me, a pair of
strong hands grasped both my own and the voice of Joe Davis said
earnestly, "Why, George! I never was so damned glad to see a man in
my life!"
The ten days' tramp was ended. It had been wearisome to a degree, but
interesting and instructive. I had seen more game birds and animals in
the time than I ever saw before or since in a whole season; and, though
I came out with clothes pretty well worn and torn off my back and legs,
I was a little disposed to plume myself on the achievement. Even at
this day I am a little proud of the fact that, with so many temptations
to slaughter, I only fired three shots on the route. Nothing but the
exceptionally fine, dry weather rendered such a trip possible in a
wilderness so cut up with swamps, lakes, marshes and streams. A week of
steady rain or a premature snow storm--either likely enough at that
season--would have been most disastrous; while a forest fire like that
of '56 and later ones, would simply have proved fatal.
Reader, if ever you are tempted to make a similar thoughtless,
reckless trip--don't do it.