The Journal of a Sporting Nomad 



sign of the trail is to break a twig off and leave 

 it hanging in the direction in which you propose 

 to proceed. This is a trick which soon develops 

 into a habit for those whose business takes them 

 much into a wooded country. 



The way was still uphill but the incline gentle, 

 for which I was duly thankful, as my load began 

 to feel uncomfortably heavy. I was carrying 

 about forty-five pounds a trifle compared to 

 Elia's and Shanghai's loads, which must have 

 been eighty pounds each. Hunter, too, had 

 much more than I had, but he stuck to it like 

 wax. 



We were approaching the edge of the timber 

 line, where moose paths were quite common, and 

 seemed to be much used. Once we came upon 

 a party of moose, but they crashed away through 

 the brush without giving us a sight of them, 

 much less a shot. At last we reached the camp, 

 situated close to the edge of the timber, and on 

 a small stream that came from the mountains. 

 Hunter called my attention to a bag of flour 

 which he had cached in the limb of a tree two 

 autumns ago, and which was still there. We 

 opened it to see how the flour had withstood the 

 rain and exposure, and I was surprised to find 

 it good enough. The outsides and top, where 

 the rain had penetrated, had formed into a hard 

 crust which practically sealed up the remainder 



of the contents of the bag. We had plenty of 



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