American Big Game in its Haunt 



That night the wind veered to the west, and 

 just as I was about to turn in, the rain stopped and 

 a few stars shone faintly in the heavens. The 

 weather had been so constantly bad that even these 

 signs failed to cheer me, and I had decided that 

 we would break camp the next day no matter what 

 the conditions might be. But the morning (Sep- 

 tember 22) opened bright and clear, with the first 

 good frost in two weeks. We were most anxious 

 for a cold snap, for the leaves were still thick upon 

 the trees, which made it next to impossible to see 

 game in the woods at any distance. 



After breakfast we shouldered our packs and 

 were soon on the march, expecting to reach our 

 permanent quarters in the moose range before 

 noon, and have the afternoon to hunt. Bright 

 days had been so rare with us that we meant to 

 make the most of this one. 



The heavy rains had flooded the woods, and the 

 deep worn game trails that we followed were half 

 full of water, while the open meadows and tundra 

 that we occasionally crossed were but little better 

 than miniature lakes. We had made about half of 

 our march and my pack had just begun to grow 

 doubly heavy from constant floundering around in 

 the mire, when we came out into a long and nar- 

 row meadow. There were a few dwarf spruce at 



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