40 THE OREGON SPORTSMAN 
Returning hunters told us the gossip of the hills and the conditions 
we should find, and it is needless to say that we found things exactly 
as represented. Thus it was that the citizens of Butte Falls made a 
“hit” with me. 
We “pulled out” bright and early the next morning. The road 
wound among the hills and through the tall pines. Jack Frost had 
touched the maple and Oregon grape, and the sun shining upon them 
brought out their truly wonderful colorings. We arrived at Snow Shed 
Camp about 4 o’clock in the afternoon and struck camp. We found 
a party of three hunters already there, one of whom was Chris Beale, 
old-time game warden, hunter and trapper. Around the campfire that 
evening he told us many tales of bygone hunting days, cougar hunts, 
bear hunts, and pointed out the spot where they had killed a famous 
old grizzly many years ago. The next morning we were awake long 
before daylight. Beale and party were preparing for a deer hunt, 
Walker and I to visit some of the various other camps. 
Snow Shed Camp is situated some seven or eight miles west of 
Mt. Pitt, and it has all the requisites of a good camp, plenty of horse 
feed, wood close at hand and the best water I have ever drank. For 
the person who loves the beautiful in nature, I know of no more beau- 
tiful setting. Sunrise and sunset on Mt. Pitt present equal charms 
for beauty. In the morning you can see the first sunbeams gilding the 
top, gradually showing more and more until the whole mountain is 
flooded with light. In the evening you can watch the shadows climb- 
ing higher and higher, until only the highest point is bathed in sun- 
light, and with the passing of that one bright spot you find that dark- 
ness has come. To the hunter or camper who finds joy in material 
things, deer abound. And just west of camp, amid the pine burns, 
you will find acres and acres of the finest wild blackberries. When 
blackberry time has passed one can travel east a few miles, until he 
crosses the divide and drops down into Blue Canyon, with its myriad 
of pretty lakes. Here he can find fair fishing, and when tired of 
fishing he can find plenty of huckleberries to pick. 
We left our camp about 7 a. m. and started to make the rounds 
of the various hunters’ camps. The first day out little of interest 
occurred. The next day we started for Camp 76, on Four-Bit Creek. 
As we were riding through the timber we heard several shots down 
on the brakes near the creek, and as this was known to be a “Doe 
Country,” we instantly jumped to the conclusion that some hunter 
was trying for camp meat. As we were near the camp, we concluded 
to go over and see who were camped there. We found two camps. 
One of the parties had just arrived. Dropping down to the camp, 
found Mr. Warner and Jack Tungit hard at work getting their camp 
straightened out. We inquired if they had heard any shooting, and 
they told us that Mr. Hutchins had left the wagon at the ford and 
was making his way to camp along the creek bottom. Shortly after- 
ward Mr. Hutchins came into camp. His hands and hunting coat were 
covered with blood, and in the pockets of his hunting coat were the 
heart and liver of a small deer. Mr. Hutchins showed considerable 
surprise at our presence, and remarked that we had caught him “red- 
handed.” He remarked further that he had killed a spiked buck 
lower down on the creek and had come in to get the other boys to 
help him carry it in. By this time suspicion was rife within us, and 
Hutchins’ most innocent remarks were construed as evidences of 
guilt. Telling the boys that we must be on our way, we started back 
over the same route we had come. As soon as we were hidden from 
the camp we compared notes, and as both had concluded Hutchins 
