THE OREGON SPORTSMAN 35 
the shore of Fish Lake, a beautiful body of mountain water filled 
with the gamiest of mountain trout. Since our first trip there, Mr. 
Cochran has erected and equipped, at considerable expense, a shug 
little hunting cabin that is known as “The Shack.” 
Last fall Mr. Cochran and I left Medford for our annual hunt 
at about 4 a. m. on October 1, using his automobile for the first thirty 
miles to the Farbow ranch on Butte Creek, where we had breakfast, 
got our saddle horses in readiness and were met by our teamster, 
George Fry, with the supply wagon. It was not long after breakfast 
until all was ready, and we mounted our horses and began the last 
fifteen miles of our journey over the rugged mountain road that leads 
to Fish Lake, filled with hope and enthusiasm. We had lunch at the 
McCallister Soda Springs, or rather, a banquet, for such are the 
lunches that are prepared by Mrs. Cochran. Few people ever have 
been endowed with the ability and good taste possessed by her for 
preparing lunches for hungry men. 
When we had reached a point about three miles from Fish Lake, 
J. H. instructed our teamster and sent him on, while we cut through 
tht woods by way of Rye Flat on a preliminary scouting trip for deer. 
Rye Flat is our favorite hunting grounds and is situated about a mile 
from and north of “The Shack,” at the top of a mountain, the name 
benig derived because of a little prairie, in which some wild rye- 
grass grows. Around this mountain is sure the home of the old bucks. 
On this scouting trip we found plenty of “beds” and big tracks and 
saw several small deer, so feeling assured of success, we rode on 
down to “The Shack,’ where we found Mr. Fry and one of Mike Han- 
ley’s cowboys—‘‘Milo Connelly’—preparing dinner. After dinner we 
engaged in reminiscences, hair-breadth stories and plans for the fol- 
lowing day. 
The following day we were out of bed, eyes half closed with 
sleep, at 2:30 a. m. Some early, you will say, but if the reader will 
recall it was very dry about the first of October, and we thought our 
chances better in the early morning. After breakfast we rode north 
of the gentle slope that leads to Rye Flat. Upon reaching the hunt- 
ing grounds we separated, J. H. going to the west and I to the east. 
I hunted cautiously, but failed to get my optics fixed on a larger deer 
than a spiked buck, he being sacrificed with the hope of getting a 
larger one later. I returned to camp before noon and was joined a 
little later by J. H., who wore a broad smile on account of having a fine 
five-point buck tied behind his saddle. He had been fortunate enough 
to find two big bucks, but was able to only get the one shot. We had 
seen lots of bear sign and plenty of small deer. Part of the afternoon 
was spent in fishing, and we succeeded in taking sixteen nice lake 
trout, measuring from 12 to 16 inches. The evening brought forth 
its usual quota of thrilling stories. 
Sunday being a day of rest, we did not arise until 8 a. m. Then, 
again, we wanted to be in camp, for another member of our party 
was to arrive that day, Mr. P. L. Cochran, of Stevensville, Montana. 
The breakfast dishes were hardly washed, when in stepped P. L., 
worn and tired from his hard trip, and in possession of the greatest 
appetite I ever saw in a little man. We finally filled him up, though. 
This was quite a reunion, we three not having met for many months. 
As the day drew on we decided to take a little hunt. J. H. took the 
west side, P. L. the center, and I the east, hunting north toward Rye 
Flat. This was a real “water haul,’ no deer being jumped so far as 
we knew. 
