An Elk-Hunt at Two-Ocean Pass 215 



I rode at the head of the train. It still lacked an hour 

 of noon, as we were plodding up a valley beside a 

 rapid brook running through narrow willow-flats, 

 the dark forest crowding down on either hand from 

 the low foothills of the mountains. Suddenly the call 

 of a bull elk came echoing down through the wet 

 woodland on our right, beyond the brook, seemingly 

 less than half a mile off; and was answered by a 

 faint, far-off call from a rival on the mountain be 

 yond. Instantly halting the train, Woody and I 

 slipped off our horses, crossed the brook, and started 

 to still-hunt the first bull. 



In this place the forest was composed of the 

 Western tamarack; the large, tall trees stood well 

 apart, and there was much down timber, but the 

 ground was covered with deep wet moss, over which 

 we trod silently. The elk was traveling up-wind, 

 but slowly, stopping continually to paw the ground 

 and thresh the bushes with his antlers. He was very 

 noisy, challenging every minute or two, being doubt 

 less much excited by the neighborhood of his rival 

 on the mountain. We followed, Woody leading, 

 guided by the incessant calling. 



It was very exciting as we crept toward the great 

 bull, and the challenge sounded nearer and nearer. 

 While we were still at some distance the pealing 

 notes were like those of a bugle, delivered in two 

 bars, first rising, then abruptly falling; as we drew 

 nearer they took on a harsh squealing sound. Each 



