The Elk of the Pacific Coast 1 8 1 



which a long strip of bark had not been rubbed 

 by the elk cleaning the velvet from their horns, 

 either in that year or the one before. Horns in 

 all the stages of decay were around us, with elk 

 trails innumerable. But there was no trail of man 

 to tell us where we could go, no feed but wild 

 peas and a few small patches of grass that the 

 horses would eat up over night, so that we would 

 have to move on in the morning. Shade almost 

 solid ruled over all. The Douglas fir towered 

 one hundred and fifty feet on the hills, with trunks 

 like shipmasts mingling their feathery tops so as 

 to shut out the sun, while down in the gulches 

 the great Port Orford cedar deluged the depths 

 with heavier gloom. Through the few openings 

 from which we could look out upon the world, 

 there was nothing in sight but ridge after ridge, 

 cutting the sky line with serried ranks of pine, and 

 great gulches between, hazily blue with solid tim- 

 ber. The whole was interlaced with such a tangle 

 of fallen trees that one would suppose an elk safe 

 anywhere. 



But the wary animal knew better. Though no 

 white man penetrated those shades except at in- 

 tervals of years, the elk took no chances on the 

 movements of the butcher. Hence, when done 

 feeding he wandered off to the heads of the great 

 slides and washes that broke in ragged seams 

 from the tumbling hills. There, where the pine 



