Terms, Four Dollars a Year, j 

 Ten Cents a Copy. J 



NEW YORK, THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 14, 1876. 



( Volume 7, Number 6. 



1 17 Chatham St. (CityHalI8qr.) 



For Forest and Stream. 



\onnt <§?#/*#£ ^cittgJj <^ofan. 



* — - 



FROM A MOUNTAINEER'S PORTFOLIO. 



OH yes, the orange, the olive, and the vine, shady lanes, 

 paved streets, and restaurant livin is fine, but who'd 

 want to live here all the time? Way up, you call it? 

 'Taint half so fur up ez my place is. Where is my 

 place, eh? Just you come out from under that orange tree, 

 here where thare ain't no durn house in the way, here 

 where the sun kin strike you a minit. Now looK thar! 

 No, don't waste your eye-sight on that first range, them 

 ain't nothin' but foot-hills to what's beyond. Clouds? no 

 stranger, I guess not; that's "flat Baldy," and sure nuff, 

 snow on top ov him! Now wipe the sweat out'n your eyes 

 and look along to the left. See that 'ere kind of a notch 

 in the main range, eh? Darker, eh? Well, yes, I. should 

 think so. Old Baldy ain't got nothin' on him but snow and 

 rocks, but that "darker" is just 1 he biggest kind ov pine 

 and cedar, with the lovingist little creeks and homiest 

 camping places, kinder sprinkled round loose like, you 

 ever saw. I like Los Angeles first rate. There's plenty of 

 most every tiling, and its middlin easy to get, but for a 

 home for keeps, to live in, a fellow like me wants moun- 

 tains, big timber, running water, out'n the trails ov money - 

 gettin people. I tell you what 'tis: bizsiness spiles heaps 

 ov good livin', and bright and early some good morning, 

 me and Boze is going to lite out ov this ranche and be 

 happy. Ole Boze 'n me is lets ov company for each other. 

 Don't know Boze? Why, that's him. What! grizzly 

 and ugly, eh? Look here, stranger, Boze'n me'r friends, 

 and you'd orter speak more respectf ull like of a dog, you 

 don't know nothing about, if he don't pretty much on the 

 outside. Well, no, ov course, ef you did'nt mean no of- 

 fense, only that there dog's got the biggest kind ov a heart, 

 just plum full ov clean grit and he just does the square 

 thing every time, you bet. Thank you! I ginerally does, 

 about this time o' day. You totes good likker, mister man, 

 in that little jug, but you looks kinder pale and soft-like. 

 You'd orter take a little trip. Mountain air and water, 

 billed deer meat, trout, and sich would do you heaps of 

 good. Beans too, fried beans is powerfull nourishing in 

 camp. 



Want to know somethin' about Pine Flat and the Prairie 

 Fork, do you? Why, there's where I live when I'm at 

 home, only I aint generally there much now. 



Oh! excuse me, Mister Edditur, I sot down here to 

 write you about hunting, but Tom, he kep foolin' aroun', 

 and talkin', and I jest wrote somethin' I sed to a feller the 

 other day in Guadalupe's orchard, and I think I'd orter 

 tear it up; but Tom (he's my pardner) sez "no, send her 

 along; 'sides, what do you keer? ef he don't want it, he 

 kin throw it away. Just go right along and tell him some- 

 thing about Pine Flat and the North Fork; but don't tell 

 nobody nothin' about Prairie Fork nur the Picacho. Ef 

 you do, you get Doc Shorbov Frisco arter you, shore." So, 

 here goes: — 



Last fall Tom and two burros and me left Los Angeles 

 one foggy mornin' for a sure-enuff hunt. For three miles 

 we walked through rolling hills dry enuff but covered with 

 good aljileria and burr clover hay. As we raised the last hills 

 the fog lifted and I though I'd never saw a prettier or more 

 enticing sight than the valley of the San Gabriel offered to 

 a civilized white man — a low brown valley streaked as far as 

 we could see, with the green ov orchards, vineyards, and 

 willows. We stood on hills sloping eastward, and as the 

 burros poked down the road kinder slow, like, we leaned 

 on our rifles and looked up the valley. On the north side, 

 and fur to the front, the coast range, rough and rugged, 

 scarred with bald slopes, gashed and seamed with canons, 

 strong and honest looking (Tom said, like the valley was a 

 young girl and they was thar to protect her); along the base 

 of the mountains and clost in their shadow lay the foot- 

 hills and mesa lands, brown and somewhat on even, but 

 with green spots in the mouths of the caiions and at the 



springs where the bee- ranchers live. Next on the line ov 

 mesas and reaching far out in the valley, with green nearly 

 filling the valley, lay the orchards and vineyards, fruit from 

 the pear to pomegranite, and grapes ov all classes. Where 

 this green met the brown of the plains stood the white 

 walls of the Mission, and far to the right with much brown 

 intervening were the fields and homes of El Monte, the 

 river San Gabriel, the pasture lands and smooth hills of 

 La Puente. Far from the east came the shadow of good 

 San Antonio, shading the rocks of Azusa but falling back 

 fast in the sun-light which now streamed from the white 

 top of the mountain. The view and the fresh air of the 

 morning was pleasant and 'happy-making, and as we fol- 

 lowed the pack-animals down into the valley our Hawkins 

 rifles felt as light in our hands as alder sticks. Through 

 the valley, past the Mission and Duarte, our way led 20 

 miles to the mouth of San Gabriel river, where it leaves 

 the mountains for the valley. Here we camped in good 

 time to kill a couple of rabbits and catch a few trout, rather 

 small, for supper; sleeping that night as no one ever 

 sleeps in walled-in beds, and rising the next morning with 

 a happy sense of freedom I had'nt felt for months. How 

 good coffee tastes in camp. 



Our road now lay for ten miles up the rocky bed of the 

 San Gabriel river, through steep brushy mountains. At 

 Spanish Camp I killed a wild cat much to Boze's disappoint- 

 ment. He wanted to kill that cat himself, but we had too 

 far to go to let him chance getting chawed up. At the 

 North Fork we left the main river, eat dinner at the Piedra 

 Pintada (painted rock,) and turning up the Lake Fork, 

 camped that night on Sycamore Flat, only four miles from 

 the lake and Pine Flat, our journey's end. The trails was 

 bad, burros walked slow, and we made camp, after a 20- 

 mile tramp, too late to either fish or hunt, eating for sup- 

 der a couple of grey squirrels Tom killed on the trail. 

 That night a cinnamon bear came within 20 feet of our 

 blankets but was run off by the dog. Soon after sun-up 

 the next morning Tom killed a small buck on a point over- 

 looking camp. I caught a good string of fish and our hunt 

 had finally begun. Sycamore Flat covers about 20 acres 

 of nearly level land on the highest fishing water of the 

 Lake Fork, and takes its name from two very large syca- 

 more trees near its center. The stream, which although 

 small, is well stocked with brook trout, cuts it nearly in 

 half; long canons full of acorn-oak and wild plum enter 

 the flat from both sides, while at its head is the continua- 

 tion of the Lake Fork from here on— a steep canon with 

 many precipices full of boulders and timber almost impas- 

 sible for man, but in its bed and on both mountain sides 

 having large cienegas, furnishing much feed for bear and 

 deer. That day we rested and loafed. Loafing is a heap 

 pleasanter in camp than any where else. In the evening a 

 doe came down to water, but we had meat and did'nt want 

 her. We killed two birds, however, out of a band of 

 mountain quail and caught what fish we could eat. Tom 

 made a splendid shot with his rifle at a blue-tailed hawk 

 sailing over camp, and after swearing that he could do it 

 again every time, missed its mate twice in succession. 



We found the camp so pleasant that we loafed away two 

 more days eating fish, smoking and sleeping. Meat getting 

 short, I started up the Pine Flat trail, on the west side of 

 the canon, about day one morning, leaving Boze in camp 

 with Tom. Bear sign was plenty and I went slow and 

 careful. At the third cienega near the head of the canon I 

 came suddenly on two bucks feeding in high grass below 

 me and not more than 20 steps off. A light breeze was 

 blowing down the canon and they did'nt wind me. As I 

 raised the rifle both saw me, but not quick enough, and I 

 shot the biggest in the sticking place, dropping him where 

 he stood. The other ran off about a hundred yards and 

 stopped. Reloading the rifle, I was about to pull on him 

 when he walked off, but stopping again near the ridge, I 

 shot, the ball striking too high for life but bleeding him 

 badly. I went over to where he was standing and finding 

 plenty of lung-blood concluded to let him lay down while 

 I hung up the other, a fine black-tail buck weighing dressed, 

 I should think, about 130 or 135 pounds. After getting him up 



to the trail, I took the track of the wounded deer and about 

 a quarter of a mile up the ridge found him lying in thick 

 brush so thick that I killed him easily with my knife. 

 While taking out his insides, I heard the brush break 

 several times just above me on the ridge, but thinking it 

 was another deer I did'nt at first look up. A little whiff 

 of wind brought a smell to my nose that made me grab for 

 my gun, like a cat for a quail. Jumping on a fallen log, I 

 saw my bear just waddling off up the ridge, I was just too 

 late to shoot. His belly was full, or he would have come 

 for that meat and me. He was hog- fat and I wanted him 

 bad. Supposing I knew where he'd stop, I followed for 

 three miles on the ridge, but the wind changed, as it gen- 

 erally does, blowing clown the canon at night and early 

 morning, and up all day, and I lost him. Upon returning 

 to the little buck, I cut off his head, skinned his legs down 

 to his knees and hams, cut off the feet and shin-bones, 

 tied the skin of each fore-leg to that of a hind-leg on the 

 opposite side, put my arms through, and packed him, knap- 

 sack-fashion, down to the trail where I found that Tom, at- 

 tracked by the firing, had come up and taken the other 

 deer same fashion to camp. This is the way we always 

 pack deer into camp in rough country where a horse 

 can't travel, and nearly always I pack in this way in pre- 

 ference to going for a horse, even in comparatively smooth 

 range. This meat we "jerked" in the open air without 

 smoke and as soon as it was dried moved camp to Pine Flat, 

 from which place I want to tell you something about Big 

 Horn hunting. El Cazador. 



Los Angeles, Aug. 23, 1876. 



*»»«. 



For Forest and Stream. •■ 

 DUCKING IN THE MONROE MARSHES. 



It being now about the time when the business man, 

 feeling the need of a respite from his labor, is in search of 

 a quiet place to rest his overtasked and wearied system; 

 when the sportsman, with his shooting paraphernalia in 

 readiness, is looking about in quest of the resort of his 

 favorite game, I thought that, perhaps, a description of 

 Monroe, Mich., and vicinity, might favorably arrest the 

 attention of such as desire the invigorating western air, 

 and where, moreover, one may be supplied with the com- 

 forts and luxuries necessary for the enjoyment of a pleas- 

 ure trip. 



Monroe, or the "Floral City," as it is often called, is 

 situated on [the River Rasin, a short distance from Lake 

 Erie. The river has its source near the middle of the south- 

 ern part of the State, and when it reaches the city it as- 

 sumes very decent proportions, although shallow. Within 

 the shallows black bass and pickerel seem to have taken 

 their especial abode; fly-fishing, consequently, has been of 

 late in high repute, and the strings of shining backs dis- 

 played by the enraptured angler, well attest to the abund- 

 ance of the finny tribe. For those that enjoy more quiet 

 fishing, the numerous creeks afford the lurking places of 

 the smaller bass and perch; while for those who want the 

 excitement of traveling, the usually placid lake hides be- 

 neath its surface myriads of the various bass tribe and 

 others. Along either bank of the river are seen the favor- 

 ite haunts of the woodcock, the thick stubble and rich peat 

 lands to which they are s o partial. By going a short dis- 

 tance into the country, yo u come upon the stubble and 

 thicket, the resorts of quail and ruffed grouse. 



But, though the river may be teeming with bass, the 

 shores lined with woodcocks, and the stubble alive with 

 quails, the great paradise of the sportsmen is to be found 

 in the marshes and bayous, at the mouth of the river. 

 Here it is that the native ducks breed in great number, and 

 where those from the North rest their wearied pinions in 

 their migrating flights. The marsh is not particularly ex- 

 tensive, but so beautifully situated, with the lake bordering 

 its eastern side, and so interspersed with creeks and open- 

 ings as to make any point easily accessible. This is also 

 one of the very few places where the lotus, the most stately 

 water flower in the world, grows in great numbers; acre 

 after acre of their tall blossoms may be seen rising above 



