44 AN ANGLER'S REMINISCENCES. 



That same year I had an upset at Pig's Eye Bar, just below St. Paul, to pay 

 for it. My friend, D. C. Estes, a naturalist, started in his own sailboat for a 

 voyage down the river to Lake City, camping out and shooting July woodcock by 

 the way. Our outfit was complete in every particular, and a grand time was antici- 

 pated, but disappointment soon came, for when about one mile below town a flaw 

 of wind jumped the high cliff and struck the sail, and the boat at once went over 

 in mid river and in deep water. Numerous bundles, carpet-bags, guns, rods, 

 blankets, tents, in fact everything, was either set afloat or sent to the bottom. 

 Being a good swimmer, I set out boldly in boots and corduroys for land, 

 while the doctor, to save the boat from going down stream and himself 

 from going to the bottom, stuck to the craft, and setting himself astride of the 

 capsized boat, succeeded, after about one hour's hard paddling, in reaching the 

 shore. The boat, as soon as possible, was righted and bailed out, and gave chase 

 to the floating bundles and valises, but before they could be reached all had sunk 

 but one of little consequence. Two valuable guns, a great quantity of tackle of 

 every description, composing the outfit ; all the clothing, money and other valu- 

 ables were lost. Fifteen hundred dollars would hardly cover the loss. 



I recall my numerous friends among the shooting clubs at Price Lake and 

 round about : Timberlake, Seabury, Zimmerman, E. F. Warner, R. W. Mathews, 

 Geo. R. Finch. 



At the traps I used to average three to five birds out of ten, but my comrades 

 expected better things. 



The best field work I ever did was among the July woodcock in the cornbrake 

 of Bay City, Mich. A companion sportsman and I walked down parallel rows, 

 one shooting to the right and the other to the left, so as not to hit each other. 

 The dog took the center to flush the birds. We bagged a dozen fine ones and 

 took them to the hotel. The cook burned them to a crisp. Blackbirds used to 

 flock by millions in North Dakota during the grain harvest. They would rise in a 

 cloud so dense as to obscure the sun. I fired two barrels into the mass and 

 dropped fifty-seven killed and wounded. Geese in the fields were better game. 

 Coming home at dark after a successful hunt in the Gereaux Slough back of 

 Pembina in September I shot at a blue wing teal over my head and dropped him. 

 As he fell a barred owl dove for him at the flashlight out of the dark and I 

 got him with my second barrel. 



Once on the Yellowstone, near Pryor's Creek, I climbed the top of a bluff, 

 and peering over the edge of the bank rested my gun on the sod where a bevy 

 of sage hens were going through a minuet, and dropped seven, one after another, 

 until I had killed the most of them. The fool hens couldn't guess what struck 

 them, and the noise of the gun did not scare them. Talk about pot-hunting, I was 

 right in it. I strapped the heads into the bights of as many leather whangs which 

 were tied to my saddle and started down to the bottom among the plums and 

 cottonwoods. Lieutenant Fuller, a soldier from Fort Custer, took one side of the 

 timber belt and I the other, looking for bush deer. Returning I ran up against a 

 big grizzly which had ridden down a plum tree between his legs and was busy 

 pulling the plums off a branch by the armsfull. He had the stem of the tree under 

 him between his hind legs and the branches close to his face. He looked at me 

 for an instant, and regardless continued his repast. I concluded not to meddle 

 with him and rode out of the timber. When I reached the mesa I found just one 

 chicken head in its loop. In my interview with Ephraim I forgot about the dead 

 birds at my saddle bow. 



