KILLING THE CARIBOU. 



Here's sport iiuleed I 



— Cymbeline. 



\ Tk luul been semi-prisoners tor about Uiree weeks, 

 lAj with rains and lii-b winds, which elTectnally pre- 

 vented the hunting of big .game successfully in 

 the location of our camp. h'.arly on the morning of 

 Mondav, October 5th, my guide said to me " suppose we 

 go and try to hunt that dam." We had heard a great 

 many stories a1)out a cUim at the heatl of the stream 

 which forms the inlet to our little lake l)ut were 

 inclined to think some of these stories Munchausenish. 

 None of our guides h.ad ever seen the dam antl had 

 only hearsay for its U)cation and distance. One 

 maintained it was but five miles away ; another six, 

 and the third one vowed it was a good eight miles off: 

 besides there are two branches to the stream, and no one 

 knew on which branch the dam wasjilaced. So the gui.le 

 and I started in light hunting order, with a few Inmillon 

 capsules which were to serve us tor dinner an<l supper 

 and possiblv breakfast, if we shouldn't get back that 

 night. We found a "spotted" path through the woods 

 that led to an ohl ■' tote "" road up which we went si>la-h- 

 ing through the water accumulated by weeks of rain : up 

 to our very knees in mud sometime-, slip])ing, fdling and 

 stumbling over cedar roots, climbing over and under 



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