IN THE COAST RANGE. 
D, E. WYNKOOP. 
From Puget sound South nearly to the 
Northern boundary of California lies a 
strip of territory not often invaded by the 
sportsman tourist; yet its endless variety 
of mountains, gorges and dashing streams, 
broad fertile valleys, vast timber and game 
reserves and its superb climate combine to 
make it a land of delight for the traveling 
pleasure seeker. One can see objects 20 to 
30 feet below the surface of the clear, cold 
waters of lakes or still pools in the rivers, 
while the depth does not seem half so great 
as it really is. Here at Salem, looking East 
from the dome of the Capitol building one 
can see the snow capped peaks of Hood, 
Wilson and Jefferson mountains. To the 
Westward at about an equal distance is the 
broad Pacific. 
I realize that the name Pacific is most 
appropriate to that vast expanse of water, 
for I went out several miles on its placid 
bosom in a row boat. I caught several fish, 
among them cod, bass and a bright yellow 
fish called a grouper. The water teemed 
with life. I saw 2 whales and many seals 
and sea lions, besides numberless fish, in 
my sojourn of 5 days at Ocean Park. 
The beautiful Chinook salmon were just 
running up the Nestachee river to spawn, 
and I saw a farmer with a load of 35, which 
he said weighed nearly 700 pounds. Game 
of nearly all kinds is abundant, especially 
deer, black and brown bear, California 
quails and Mongolian pheasants. 
I heard so much about hunting bear that | 
I visited the region where the animals are 
said to be most numerous; namely, the 
coast range of Southwestern Oregon. Ar- 
riving July 13th at the place recommended 
to me, the ranch of a guide named Fetter, 
I made arrangements for a 3 days’ trip in 
the mountains, Leaving the ranch early on 
the morning of the 14th we went with our 
pack ponies and bear dogs to a certain 
slide, or washout, in the mountains. My 
guide said he seldom visited that place with- 
out securing deer, mountain lions, bear, or 
elk. The open season for deer begins July 
15th, which I consider much too early, 
and as elk killing is prohibited, the only 
game I cared to see was a bear or a 
cougar. 
Nearly all day we trailed along a narrow 
canyon leading up a mountain 7,000 feet 
above sea level. About 5 o’clock we reached 
the slide, which was nearly a mile long. 
There we camped for the night. During 
our trip up the mountain the guide had 
loosed the dogs. One, the best bear dog, 
had gone off on the trail of some animal 
and we did not see him again until we re- 
turned to the ranch. 
The next morning we started down the 
slide through an almost impenetrable thicket 
of fern, maple and alder. We had not been 
out more than an hour when I became sepa- 
rated from my guide. The tangle of brush 
and chapperal seemed to grow more dense 
and I looked with apprehension at the hol- 
lows made through the fern by bear in quest 
of skunk cabbage. Perhaps an hour had 
passed since I saw the guide when I heard 
a shot far over on the other side of the 
slide. Waiting a few moments and not 
hearing any further noise I made my way in 
the direction whence I had heard the shot. 
After a struggle through the tangle I came 
to where the guide had shot and wounded 
a large bear. Together we trailed the 
wounded animal for the greater part of 
the day, until the guide said we would bet- 
ter give up fhe chase if we wanted to réach 
camp before sundown. 
After resting our tired bodies for the 
night beneath the overhanging boughs of a 
yellow fir, we set out in the morning of the 
third day in a new direction to the top of 
the mountain. We crawled through fern 7 
feet high, along ledges, over fallen timber 
and down rocky runs. Occasionally we 
saw footprints of deer or bear crossing 
some mossy mound or open spot. About 3 
p. m. we came to a trail which led to camp 
and were slowly picking our way along 
when, not more than 50 yards away, I 
heard a sharp crackling of twigs as if 
some heavy animal had started to run. In- 
stinctively I tightened the grasp on my rifle 
and retracing a few steps I saw a bear 
bounding along about 80 yards away. I 
quickly sent a bullet from my Savage flying 
after him and he disappeared from view. 
Where I had last seen the bear I found a 
trail of blood and had not followed it far 
until I saw the animal’s head peeping 
from between 2 rocks. I gave him another 
bullet, this time through the head, and 
killed my first Dear. 
I later visited the Grande Ronde Indian 
reservation and saw old Fort Yamhill still 
standing, a monument to the red man’s love 
for his home. No wonder the Indian loved 
and fought for this grand old hazy summer- 
land of indolence and repose, 
Mamie-~What is biology? 
Gladys—I suppose 
shopping.—Chicago Daily News. 
282 
it’s the science of 
