i8o The Wilderness Htmter, 



often renders it impossible even to sit upright. We had a 

 very good camp-kit, including plenty of cooking- and eat- 

 ing-utensils ; and among our provisions were some canned 

 goods and sweetmeats, to give a relish to our meals of meat 

 and bread. We had fur coats and warm clothes, — which 

 are chiefly needed at night, — and plenty of bedding, includ- 

 ing water-proof canvas sheeting and a couple of caribou- 

 hide sleeping-bags, procured from the survivors of a party 

 of arctic explorers. Except on rainy days I used my buck- 

 skin hunting-shirt or tunic ; in dry weather I deem it, 

 because of its color, texture, and durability, the best 

 possible garb for the still-hunter, especially in the woods. 



Starting a day's journey south of Heart Lake, we 

 travelled and hunted on the eastern edge of the great basin, 

 wooded and mountainous, wherein rise the head-waters of 

 the mighty Snake River. There was not so much as a 

 spotted line — that series of blazes made with the axe, man's 

 first highway through the hoary forest, — but this we did 

 not mind, as for most of the distance we followed well-worn 

 elk-trails. The train travelled in Indian file. At the head, 

 to pick the path, rode tall, silent old Woody, a true type 

 of the fast-vanishing race of game hunters and Indian 

 fighters, a man who had been one of the California forty- 

 niners, and who ever since had lived the restless, reckless 

 life of the wilderness. Then came Ferguson and myself ; 

 then the pack-animals, strung out in line ; while from the 

 rear rose the varied oaths of our three companions, whose 

 miserable duty it was to urge forward the beasts of burden. 



It is heart-breaking work to drive a pack-train through 

 thick timber and over mountains, where there is either a 



