IN THE LARD E AU 



By R. J. WARREN 



T was last fall, in 

 September, "my 

 partner' 1 and I left 

 the little gold camp 

 early in the morning 

 with our packs on 

 our backs and our 

 trusty rifles in our 

 hands, and started up 

 the "Old Rawhide 

 Trail.'' We trudged 

 slowly and wearily 

 along, stopping here and there to re- 

 fresh ourselves with a drink of ice- 

 cold water as it came tinkling or tear- 

 ing down the mountainside, as it may 

 be, either in the streamlet or the rush- 

 ing, roaring mountain torrent which 

 was formed by some mountain spring 

 or the mighty glacier above. The 

 sound of the thrud; thrud, thrud of the 

 stamps in the mills below us is soon 

 lost to our hearing as they drop inces- 

 santly on the quartz, crushing it for the 

 extraction of the precious metal. 



We stopped at an old camp ground 

 to "Boil the Billy" (as the Australian 

 says). That is to make the tea and eat 

 our lunch. 



After a short rest we started on 

 again, and during the afternoon we 

 shot five grouse. At night we camped 

 at the "crossing," cooked our grouse, 

 ate them all but two breasts, which we 

 kept for our lunch next day. Nice fresh 

 grouse don't taste too bad, I guess, to a 

 pair of hungry hunters who have lived 

 in a mining and prospecting camp for 

 several years, where the bill of fare has 

 been bacon, salt pork, beans, canned 

 vegetables and occasionally ancient 

 beef long ago killed, preserved in cold 

 storage, shipped in by railroad, boat, 

 freight wagon and, lastly, on pack 

 horse up to the mine, to be seized by 

 that hungry miner the very moment it 



entered the dining-room, and devoured 

 before the very eyes of his best friend, 

 who had to be content with hearing all 

 the balance of the day, "Didn't you get 

 any?" "Well, I got mine," etc. 



That night two tired hunters slept 

 "the sleep of the just," awoke early the 

 next morning, ate their pork and por- 

 ridge, slung their packs on their backs 

 and left the trail to go over the summit 

 into the game country beyond, a place 

 I have visited several times before and 

 where I have never failed to get game, 

 Six long, weary hours of climb, climb, 

 climb and at last we have reached the 

 pass. Here we stopped to rest and eat 

 our lunch, surrounded by open glades, 

 sunny slopes, grassy parks on one side I 

 and on the opposite by mighty glaciers, 

 craggy heights, yawning chasms. Here 

 all was grandeur, all was magnificence 

 and awe, with naught to greet your ear 

 except the shrill whistle of the "Senti- 

 nel Whistler" as he warns his tribe that 

 possibly danger may be near. 



(The whistler is a small animal of 

 the woodchuck or ground hog species 

 that dwells in the rocks.) 



After our lunch we started on again 

 to some parks and meadows. We saw 

 plenty of sign that afternoon, but no 

 game. We pitched camp at night un- 

 der a spruce tree near some iron 

 springs, a place where caribou like to 

 drink. It was very cold that night for 

 September, and we kept a fire all night 

 at the risk of scaring the game out of 

 the country. 



The next morning, after we ate our 

 rations, we left camp to "shoot the big 

 caribou." We separated shortly, and 

 I followed some fresh trails uphill, 

 downnill, across meadows and parks, 

 but I did not see any caribou. 



After wandering around several hours 

 I shot some grouse, returned to camo, 





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