266 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 



patience without seeing a single goat. The month 

 was November, and our camp thermometer fell 

 each night below zero. The stalking, I remem- 

 ber, was uncommonly stiff, because the snow hid 

 all mantraps, and again and again we tumbled 

 ignominiously between trunks of fallen trees, or 

 tobogganed down slopes, nilly- willy, — misadven- 

 tures which look trivial enough on paper, but 

 which discolour and distort the pleasures of big 

 game shooting. Bad bruises mean sleepless nights, 

 and sport without sleep ceases to be sport. 



Many men think that hardships are part of the 

 fun, but I am not of their opinion. Hardships, of 

 course, must be endured cheerfully and patiently, 

 but they need not be sought. For instance, it is 

 folly to go into the wilds ill-equipped with food 

 and bedding. My cousin and I were chaffed by 

 the cowboys of Wyoming because our kit included 

 rubber mattresses and rubber baths. These arti- 

 cles occupied little space, but how largely they 

 added to our comfort ! 



One of the pains and penalties which wait upon 

 a sportsman in the wilderness is being lost. Lost ! 

 What a word of ill omen ! A word that in four 

 letters embraces an encyclopaedia. And the man 

 who is cocksure of his bearings, who brags of his 

 bump of locality, is, generally speaking, the first 

 to go astray. Hills in a new country are amaz- 

 ingly alike. A familiar contour beckons you; a 

 caiion invites you to enter; a stream prattles 

 sweetly of banks higher up, where you have 

 camped before. In the forest the trapper blazes 

 his trail, but in the open foothills he must trust 



