THE OREGON SPORTSMAN |: 299 
AN INTERESTING TRIP BY AUTO 
By T. E. HaAMMeERSLY. 
On July 10th the writer, accompanied by his family and Mr. Joe 
Hammersly, left Portland on a trip by auto which took us through 
some of the most interesting parts of Oregon and California. 
The night of the first day out found us in Eugene, the next in Gold 
- Hill, where we stayed four days, and then on we went to Ashland. 
Leaving Ashland, we soon crossed the state into California and visited 
Hornbrook and Shovel Creek, and then journeyed back into Oregon 
and visited Klamath Falls. Here we began to get “Fish Hungry,” so off 
we went to the Klamath Indian Reservation, where we secured a per- 
mit from the Agent to fish in the lake and the streams on the reserva- 
tion. Remember, when you want to fish or hunt on the Reservation 
you must secure a permit to do so from the agent, otherwise the Indian 
police will put you off in a hurry. 
Now the fishing began. We camped at Chiliquin, below the Falls, 
where we caught fifteen small trout, but could not catch any of the 
large ones. An Indian fished right along with us, and I am ashamed to 
say it, caught all he could carry in two hours. He knew just where to 
catch them. He said he knew right where the fish were feeding. He 
evidently did and we didn’t. Finally the Indian got to coaching me and 
was very nice, and I really believe he wanted me to catch some of the 
big ones, but they wouldn’t bite my hook. 
From Klamath Falls we went to Lakeview, and from Lakeview to 
Silver Lake, where we caught some nice trout just below the town in 
Silver Creek. From there we went to Pringle Falls, a lovely place to 
camp and the fishing cannot be equalled. We caught three Dolly Var- 
dens and twenty “Redsiders,” the Dollies being taken with a spoon and 
the Redsides with a fly. We would like to have stayed here a month, 
but was in a hurry to return home. 
Good fishing was reported at Crescent Lake, but it was off of our 
road and we did not get to go there. 
THAT FIRST BUCK 
(Contributed) 
You have been following their tracks for hours. You follow them 
up the draws down which rush mad mountain streams. You follow 
them along dizzy ridges where barren rocks themselves speak of the 
heights to which you have ascended. You keep your gun in such a po- 
sition that you will be able to fire at a second’s notice. Still, after 
hours of tramping, with your clothes wringing wet with perspiration, 
you have not seen even a doe. 
You start back to camp. The mountain ridges are fading from a 
purple to a deep grey in the hastening twilight. You start for the open 
country through which you may most easily get back to camp. You 
emerge from a thicket on the mountainside. There is a whir of red- 
dish brown, you know that you have seen a set of horns. Without 
knowing what you are doing you throw a shell into the barrel of your 
gun and fire at the fading animal, that clears brush and logs with an 
amazing celerity and inexpressible grace. 
You wonder if the cartridge will miss fire or the aim has been good 
for you have not had time to be sure of the aim. A sharp report re- 
