DISCOVERY OF BROOKS' LAKE. 



B. B. BROOKS. 



Ever since the days of " Astoria " and 

 " Captain Bonneville," Northwestern 

 Wyoming and the head waters of Wind 

 river, have stood renowned as the hunter's 

 paradise. 



Not only famous as the natural resort for 

 every species of big game in North Amer- 

 ica; not only celebrated for the size and 

 quality of the mountain trout that fill her 

 icy streams; but here nature unrestrained, 

 chants her grandest most soul-inspiring 

 hymns. Here the world was finished. Here 

 on the eleventh hour of the sixth day, the 

 Mighty Sculptor dropped a handful of left- 

 over clay. The result was the anarchy of 

 nature — sublime chaos! The snowy moun- 

 tain peaks rising so far above the dark 

 pines, that the eye grows dizzy searching 

 for their summits, are here tossed in inde- 

 scribable confusion. Could we scale them, 

 we might tickle the feet of the Angels. It 

 is the backbone of the world, and down its 

 cragged sides rush melting snows, that 

 spread and swell, until they traverse % of 

 the United States. 



In '89, I escorted some gentlemen from 

 Lincoln, Nebraska, on a 6 weeks' trip to the 

 head of Wind river. We outfitted at Cas- 

 per, Wyo. A mess wagon, 4 big mules, with 

 old reliable " Post Hole Jack " holding the 

 ribbons, a cook, horse wrangler, and 5 well 

 mounted hunters composed the party. Do 

 you know about the 150 mile stretch be- 

 tween Casper and Lander? If not you have 

 missed nothing. From Lander we struck 

 across the great Indian reservation, passed 

 Ft. Washakie and pushed on up the great 

 valley of Wind river. 



What a chance to study the untutored 

 savage! How we enjoyed peeking into 

 the tepees, and watching the sports of the 

 little copper colored children! How we ad- 

 mired the masterly horsemanship of the 

 bucks, and the ingenuity of their tireless 

 squaws! 



And those night camps on the banks of 

 Wind river! How soundly we slept, lulled 

 by the music of the rock-tossed, rushing 

 waters. 



Finally turning up the Riviere du Noir, 

 we reached the head of navigation, so to 

 speak. Right at our feet, towering one 

 above the other, stretched the rocky, pine 

 clad hills of the great Sierras. 



After unloading our pack-saddles, and 

 carefully concealing our wagon and har- 

 ness, we started out on the most enjoyable 

 hunt of my life. 



We pushed far back into the heavy pine 

 forests, and found deer, mountain sheep, 

 elk, and bear in abundance. After the 

 fourth day, while gathered at evening about 



the camp-fire, we made a solemn compact 

 that none of the party should kill another 

 elk. In the 7 days following, we killed 9 

 bears, 8 of which were shot in fair fight, the 

 other being caught in a trap. It chanced, 

 however, that this last, a mammoth grizzly, 

 came nearer making things warm for us, 

 than any of the others. This fellow broke 

 the chain, and escaped. Three of us were 

 trailing him along an elk path on the side 

 of a canyon, close by which grew a small 

 clump of brush. I cautioned the men to go 

 slowly, as " Old Eph " might be hidden 

 there. However after reconnoitering care- 

 fully, we concluded Bruin had passed 

 on. But just as we were skirting this clump 

 of bushes, our grizzly with a " woof! " 

 suddenly reared up, not 20 feet from us. 

 The straightness of his bristling hair was 

 fully equalled by that of our own. The 40 

 pound trap with its broken chain, hung to 

 one front paw, but he handled it as if it had 

 been a feather. 



Three rifle shots echoed sharply through 

 the canyon. The bear was dead. Three 

 excited hunters told how they were perfect- 

 ly cool, not one bit afraid, and just where 

 they had aimed so as to hit the grizzly and 

 kill him instantly. The skin was removed, 

 and carefully examined. One bullet hole, 

 and one only had pierced the hide. Every 

 man claimed the honor. 



The next day I went out alone, after 

 mountain sheep; as one of the party was 

 extremely anxious to get a good specimen 

 head to take home with him. 



That was one of the red letter days of my 

 life. I wish I could now experience but a 

 small part of the keen enjoyment that day 

 produced. Next to a renewed acquaintance 

 with the feelings which that day transported 

 me to a higher plain, I would be content if 

 only I had the ability to pen-picture them, 

 so that others might feel and know. 



Well, I did not kill my sheep, or anything 

 else. I did not even fire a shot. In fact 

 about 11 o'clock that day, while descending 

 a frightful bluff, in search of big horn, my 

 horse slipped, fell, and rolling over a few- 

 times, broke off the stock of my gun. All 

 that beautiful morning, I had followed fresh 

 sheep tracks from cliff to cliff, from crag to 

 crag. All that morning I had gazed at the 

 grandeur and sublimity of surrounding nat- 

 ure. For simple deviltry, I had startled a 

 band of elk and sent them dashing down 

 the great canyon. For amusement, I had 

 baited a porcupine, until in rage, he shook 

 the spines from his quivering tail. The 

 very air seemed to breathe new life, and 

 hope, and joy. 



After the accident, I started out, like Co- 



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