GOATS AND ROCKS. 



DR. ARTHUR A. LAW. 



In September, 1895, I joined a hunting 

 party bound for the Bitter Root moun- 

 tains. There were 4 of us; Mr. O. D. 

 Wheeler, Mr. W. H. Wright of Missoula, 

 as guide, Mr. Havelin, as cook, and I. 



Leaving Missoula we pushed on 15 miles 

 beyond the terminus of the Bitter Root val- 

 ley railroad, Southward, to Wood's ranch. 

 Here we completed our outfitting and 

 started with pack train, by way of Lost 

 Horse canyon, for Moose creek, across the 

 Idaho line. The creek is one of the tribu- 

 taries of the Clearwater river. 



In 2 days' time we had crossed the divide, 

 and were camped in a beautiful clearing on 

 Moose creek. On Saturday, the 28th, I 

 awoke at 6 a.m. to find it bitterly cold. 



After breakfast, Wright announced that 

 the sport for the day, would be goat stalk- 

 ing. Wheeler, being somewhat under the 

 weather, decided to remain in camp; so 

 Wright and I started for Moose canyon. 



I carried an '86 model, 40-82-260 Win- 

 chester repeater, and Wright, a 45-70 Win- 

 chester single shot. We struck across the 

 clearing; skirting the creek until, at the 

 edge of the woods, we crossed it on a fallen 

 tree. 



On we went, through the wet bottoms 

 where moose and elk tracks had cut deep in 

 the mud. We reached the first ascent of the 

 mountains, and made our way over wind- 

 falls and rocks and through thick alder 

 brush. Then over a hog-back, and down in- 

 to Moose canyon, which ran into our camp 

 canyon almost at a right angle. Up Moose 

 canyon we went, through the timber on 

 the mountain side, over horribly rough 

 ground and through the interminable alder 

 brush. 



Here we found game signs in plenty. 

 Great moose and elk tracks criss-crossed in 

 every direction the smaller, more dainty 

 foot prints of deer. Here and there we saw 

 old bear sign. 



We struck the trail of a big bull moose, 

 apparently made that morning and point- 

 ing up the canyon. We followed it as best 

 we could, over rocks and logs, through the 

 brush and in the open; and in high brush 

 grass we found beds where the beasts had 

 lain. Finally, we lost the trail in a wilder- 

 ness of alder brush; the growth was so 

 thick we could not see 30 feet ahead of us 

 and it was useless to hunt there. We went 

 down and across Moose creek, and then up 

 the canyon; hoping to jump a black tail 

 deer or an elk. 



The canyon turned slightly to the right 

 until it ran parallel to our own. separated 

 from it by a mighty and forbidding range. 

 Moose creek grew smaller and noisier as 



we got higher, until it became but a tiny 

 stream trickling over the rocks. 



We found Moose canyon a blind one, 

 ending in a pocket surrounded by jagged, 

 rocky ridges. Up the end of it we went, 

 until we got above the timber line; here 

 we followed what seemed to be a game trail 

 to the summit, and reached it, at last, out of 

 breath but happy. 



We worked along the ridge, over rough 

 rock, for about a mile, moving back in the 

 direction from whence we came. 



Coming to what looked like an ideal goat 

 country, we descended some distance and 

 reached a spot that repaid us for all our toil. 

 There were narrow benches, carpeted with 

 a luxuriant growth of green, and studded 

 with tiny springs of ice cold water. The 

 benches afforded good footing, which was 

 a relief after our arduous climb. Great 

 masses of granite were grouped in pictu- 

 resque profusion all about; some of the 

 blocks symmetrical, others rent into fan- 

 tastic shapes. Here we saw old and fresh 

 goat signs in plenty, proving that we were 

 in a splendid goat country. 



While working our way over a strip of 

 slide rock, a block of stone tilted under me 

 and I went down. My Winchester flew from 

 my hand, falling muzzle down upon the 

 rock, then exploding and bounding into 

 the air, and finally bringing up in a crevice. 



Happily the force of explosion spent it- 

 self on the granite beside me; doing no 

 damage aside from blowing particles of 

 powder, mud and snow into my face, and 

 scaring Wright out of a year's growth with 

 the belief that I was shot. We went ahead, 

 thankful it was no worse, and determined 

 not to leave a cartridge in the chamber in 

 future. This resolution nearly proved my 

 Waterloo. 



At a little pool, we saw tracks that were 

 very fresh, and so large that they looked 

 like those of an elk calf. Wright said, they 

 were the tracks of an enormous old goat. 



We went on again, talking and laughing, 

 for perhaps 100 yards. Glancing up, I saw 

 a goat rise slowly to his feet. He had been 

 on a shelf not 50 yards away, lying down 

 for an afternoon's siesta when our noise 

 disturbed him. 



He lurched up in an awkward way. look- 

 ing as big as a buffalo, with great shaggy 

 mane, big black horns and long, venerable 

 beard. 



" Look! " I yelled, and threw up my 

 rifle. Snap went the hammer, but no ex- 

 plosion followed: and I remembered, with 

 a feeling of dismay, that I had left the 

 chamber empty. 



Wright, hearing my gun snap, and seeing 



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