SEVENTH CHAPTER 

 MOOSE AND CARIBOU 



Sunday, September i, which was the day 

 following our hunting on the barrens above 

 Harris Creek, when Harry James killed his bull 

 caribou, we folded our tents and quietly slipped 

 away, following down Harris Creek and camp- 

 ing on the west bank of the Generc. There was a 

 certain sadness in our act, for it meant the turn- 

 ing homeward on what was so far an unsuccess- 

 ful trip. And yet the country was so beautiful, 

 the sun so splendid and the air so perfect that 

 none but a confirmed pessimist could help ap- 

 preciating it. I don't believe I ever enjoyed a 

 horseback ride more than that one on Sunday, 

 September i, 1918. There seemed to be just 

 enough woodland, the right contour of mountain, 

 the perfect touch of vista, the proper swing to the 

 stream below, the right trail undulation for 

 this was a real trail, albeit a crude one and the 

 perfect temperature and light to cause exhilara- 

 tion of spirit, and, as the poet hath said, "a pure 

 serenity of mind." I felt a desire to drink in the 

 atmosphere and scenery in big gulps. Removing 

 the Stetson, and with one leg over the withers 



'43 



