122 



RECREA TION. 



Old Smith at times was- a monotonous 

 post. The sun would rise out of the plains 

 and disappear over the mountains. Slowly 

 the days passed. Game was abundant. 

 From the top of the stockade could be seen 

 buffalo, elk, antelope and sometimes bear. 

 Small game was equally plenty, but it was 

 risking one's life to hunt. Many took the 

 chances, however, so we were usually pro- 

 vided with game. During the winter of 



'66 the garrison lived mainly on corn. No 

 train came through, while the Indians, 

 numbering thousands, had their winter 

 quarters on the Little Horn river. 



I have not been in that country since 

 1868, but I am told the remains of the old 

 post are visible amid the civilization that 

 has sprung up around it. The valley of 

 the Big Horn now blossoms as the rose, 

 and all is peace. 



IN THE LAND OF THE SHAG. 



F. J. CHURCH. 



A glance at a map of the United States 

 shows the extreme Northwestern part of 

 our country to be a peninsula, lying be- 

 tween Puget sound and the Pacific ocean. 

 Rugged mountain ranges practically cover 

 this whole region. The coast line, mouths 

 of rivers, and a few prominent peaks, are 

 correct on the maps; but the interior is 

 an unknown country. The greater ranges 

 are on the North and East, but many long 

 spurs run down to the Pacific, jutting into 

 the ever tumbling waters in the shape of 

 precipitous promontories of black and red- 

 dish rock. These rugged cliffs have been 

 worn into fantastic shapes by the action of 

 the waves. Scattered here and there in the 

 ocean, often 5 miles or more seaward, stand 

 portions of former coast lines that have 

 resisted the assaults of old Ocean. These 

 small rock islands, often of much greater 

 height than their horizontal extent, as well 

 as the promontories, are dwelling places 

 for sea fowl of all descriptions, but prin- 

 cipally of the red-breasted cormorants, 

 known as shags. 



They are peculiar birds, in appearance, 

 in habits, and in odor — particularly the 

 latter. Winter and summer, storm or calm, 

 thousands of them may be seen sitting on 

 some bleak rock, just beyond the full force 

 of the billows, or flying with their yard of 

 neck stretched out, their comparatively 

 small wings flapping in an absurdly rapid 

 manner. 



Three of us had spent nearly 2 months 

 knocking about in the interior of the 

 peninsula, packing our outfits on our 

 backs; so right glad we were to hear the 

 roar of the ocean, and feel the cold sea 

 breezes. The giant Western forests are 

 beautiful and wonderful, but when one is 

 tramping among trees that grow as close 

 together as the bushes in a thicket, with 

 tops 200 to 300 feet in the air, the view is 

 necessarily limited. The ocean beach, 

 therefore, which gave us plenty of room, 

 was a welcome change. 



Having rested over Sunday at the Gort 

 agency, at the mouth of the Quinault ,we 

 started out refreshed on Monday. After 

 wading streams and climbing rocks and 

 windfalls, the smooth, hard ocean beach 

 seemed better than any pavement we had 

 ever trod. 



Just North of Quinault, a long promon- 

 tory juts out into the ocean — Pt. Granville. 

 Through this a hole has been worn by the 

 waves, some 15 feet in diameter. Clamber- 

 ing over the slippery rocks that form the 

 floor of this double-ender cave, we were 

 gladdened by the sight of a long stretch of 

 beach that would have put to shame the 

 finest " pike " in the land. It is 3 miles 

 long, nearly 500 feet wide, at low tide, hard 

 and so nearly level that water stands in 

 shallow pools all over it. 



The shag were everywhere, walking the 

 beach, sitting on the rocks and cliffs, and 

 flying about in all directions. To the West- 

 ward, a constant stream of them were flying 

 up and down the coast. We were guilty 

 of shooting a number of them with our 

 rifles; but they offered such exceptional 

 marks, and made such absurd haste to get 

 away when not hit — which was usually the 

 case — that we could not resist the tempta- 

 tion. 



The coast, from the mouth of the Quin- 

 ault to Cape Flattery, is peculiar in its char- 

 acteristics, in part decidedly dangerous. 

 While there may be a quarter of a mile of 

 beach at low tide, when the tide is in, there 

 is no beach at all — the long giant rollers 

 from the Pacific dash against the foot of 

 the cliffs that everywhere fringe the coast. 



After plodding steadily onward for an 

 hour or so, we saw with some apprehen- 

 sion that the tide was running in rapidly. 

 Off we started at the highest speed a long 

 race and 60-pound packs would allow. Our 

 object was, to make the mouth of the Raft 

 river, where we could wait for the ebb tide, 

 and get fresh water. Toward the end, mat- 

 ters got entirely too interesting for com- 



