DEER IN THE COAST RANGE. 



DANIEL ARROWSMITH. 



On the morning of September 13, 1893, 

 I saddled 2 of my friend's horses, and was 

 off for a 2-days' hunt after blacktails. My 

 destination was some springs near the head 

 of Pickett creek, in the heart of the Coast 

 range, 12 or 15 miles distant. 



The previous day, my friend's sister, 

 from Ohio, had come for a few weeks' 

 visit; so he, being busy, said to me: 



" Now, S , if you like, we'll get up the 



horses in the morning, so you can take an 

 outing and get some venison for Mary." 



" All right; nothing would suit me bet- 

 ter," so, getting my rifle, I was ready. This 

 was a No. 3 Remington, 32 inch barrel, 45 

 calibre, 11 pounds, shooting no grains of 

 powder, and a 325-grain hollow-pointed, 

 patched bullet (called " Col. Pickett's bul- 

 let "). 



At 10 o'clock I was on my way. Fording 

 Rogue river, 100 yards wide, I turned down 

 stream until I crossed Pickett's creek. 

 Turning up the North bank of this stream, 

 I left the dim wagon-road for the pack 

 trail, which wound around the base of the 

 steep mountain. I climbed higher and 

 higher, passing through heavy timber — 

 sugar and yellow pine, fir, and mountain 

 mahogany — all of tremendous growth; 

 now through dense thickets of chaparral, 

 now coming into an open of several acres, 

 covered with grass, with Only here and 

 there a tree, or a shrub; then down into 

 wooded ravines again, so steep in places 

 I dismounted and led the horses down. 



At 4 o'clock I reached the springs. After 

 picketing the horses and arranging the 

 camp, I still had 2 hours of daylight, so 

 I shouldered my rifle and started up the 

 trail, to a wooded slope of the mountain, 

 a mile above camp. Plenty of sign was 

 seen, but no deer. I returned, following 

 the summit, until just above the park 

 where my horses were feeding. . 



The sun was descending behind the 

 mountain forests. Spread before me, was 

 a scene I may never see again. To the 

 East, in the Cascades, rose the sharp cone- 

 shaped crest of Mt. Pitt, 50 miles away. 

 Across, and beyond the Siskiyous, in Cali- 

 fornia, 160 miles away, in bold relief against 

 the blue sky, shone the snow-crested sum- 

 mit of Mt. Shasta. Both Pitt and Shasta 

 were clad in perpetual snow. The inter- 

 vening mountains, with their dark tim- 

 bered sides and deep glens, all showed dis- 

 tinctly in the light of the setting sun. No 

 noise save the tinkling of Barney's bell, as 

 he quietly grazed in the luxuriant blue- 

 stem grass, disturbed the evening air. 



I descended to camp, built a fire, and was 

 soon eating my supper, by its light. Then, 

 filling my pipe, I seated myself to smoke 



and to muse on my first night-camp alone 

 in the mountains, 10 miles from any hu- 

 man habitation. 



That night, for the first time in my life, 

 I heard the cry of a cougar. I turned in 

 at 10 o'clock. About 3 hours later, I was 

 awakened by a cry, coming from a wooded 

 canyon, about 100 yards below camp. The 

 cry resembled the combined wail of a big 

 torn cat and that of the horned owl, but 

 louder. I disengaged myself from the 

 blankets, and got my rifle ready should he 

 come into sight. In about 5 minutes, the 

 cry came again, and that was the last I 

 heard of the animal. 



As soon as it began to grow light, I left 

 camp, going down the trail about half a 

 mile, then to the ridge of the mountain, 

 and hunted along just under the crest, to- 

 ward camp. With the sun had risen a 

 dense fog, which rolled up the gulches. 

 On passing over the crest to my side, it 

 would soon disappear. I was nearly back 

 to where I had stood the evening before, 

 when I saw, indistinctly, some moving ob- 

 jects in some shrubbery across a little de- 

 pression of the ridge, about 120 yards 

 ahead. 



The objects soon developed into 4 black- 

 tails, coming directly toward me; an old 

 doe, a yearling and 2 nearly grown fawns. 

 I dropped slowly to my left knee. The 

 deer gamboled and browsed along until 

 within 60 yards. Then with right elbow 

 resting on my knee, I drew bead on the 

 breast of the yearling, and laid her out. 



At the crack of the rifle, the fawns 

 jumped once, then stood with their black 

 tails straight out, not knowing what it 

 meant. The old doe slunk out of sight into 

 the low brush. Slipping another cartridge 

 into the chamber, I pulled for the shoulders 

 of one of the fawns. Down it went. One 

 more high leap by the remaining one. 

 Alighting in some firs about 2 feet high, it 

 was screened so I could not see the posi- 

 tion of its body. I fired but missed. An- 

 other spring and a stop, and the next shot 

 finished him. 



The doe had disappeared. I walked 

 down, drew the deer together, dressed 

 them, threw one over my shoulders — bul- 

 let-pouch fashion — and started down the 

 mountain. Camp was not 200 yards dis- 

 tant. I had scarcely started when I saw 

 the old doe returning. She saw the move- 

 ment as I dropped my load, and stopped, 

 not 60 yards away. I downed her with one 

 shot. I now gathered my deer into camp, 

 and after breakfast packed them on old 

 John. At 9 o'clock I broke camp, and at 

 4.30 that afternoon unloaded my cargo at 

 my friend's door. 



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