MOUNTAIN GAME. 143 



chagrin when I finally reached the carcass, 

 after a tedious and circuitous climb,- to the 

 foot of the cliff, I found both horns broken 

 off. 



It was late in the afternoon, and we clam- 

 bered down to the border of a little marshy 

 alpine lake, which we reached in an hour or 

 so. Here we made our camp about sunset, 

 in a grove of stunted spruces, which furnished 

 plenty of dead timber for the fire. There 

 were many white-goat trails leading to this 

 lake, and from the slide rock roundabout we 

 heard the shrill whistling of hoary rock-wood- 

 chucks, and the querulous notes of the little 

 conies — two of the sounds most familiar to 

 the white-goat hunter. These conies had 

 gathered heaps of dried plants, and had 

 stowed them carefully away for winter use 

 in the cracks between the rocks. 



While descending the mountain we came 

 on a little pack of snow grouse or mountain 

 ptarmigan, birds which, save in winter, are 

 always found above timber line. They were 

 tame and fearless, though hard to make out 

 as they ran among the rocks, cackling noisily, 

 with their tails cocked aloft ; and we had no 

 difficulty in killing four, wliich gave us a good 

 breakfast and supper. Old white goats are 

 intolerably musky in flavor, there being a very 

 large musk-pod between the horn and ear. 

 The kids are eatable, but of course are rarely 

 killed ; the shot being usually taken at the 

 animal with best horns — and tlie shes and 

 young of any game should only be killed when 

 there is a real necessity. 



These two hunts may be taken as samples 



