290 
FOREST AND STREAM 
brook, sleeping the sleep that knowns no waking. Owing 
to some knowledge of woodcraft we escaped. 
In narrating all this I have made no mention of any “sign,” 
save “the outline of one edge of a moccasin,” and the un- 
initated will say, “What a fool to care for that. It might 
have been a week old for all he knows. Why did he not 
go and examine it? Why did he turn away, and the mo¬ 
ment he got round,the angle of the stream, race off like a 
madman?” “Softly, my friend, and I will translate that 
‘single cutline of the side of a moccasin.’” 
The spot where the occurrence took place lay nearly due 
east and west, and the sun was about three hours high; 
just the latter part of the afternoon, say foul' o’clock. 
Consequently, its rays shone right down the creek, and 
directly in my face as" I went up. Ergo, anything between 
the sun and myself would give a shadow. When I stepped 
aside, I threw the faint outline of the moccasin track out of 
the line of the direct rays of the sun, and it disapeared. I 
stepped back, and it reappeared. This is simple. The 
creek was rather wider here than usual, and the pool, or 
rather series of pools, some eighty or ninety yards long. 
The stream on the south side ran close under the bank, 
which was densely covered with the overhanging thicket of 
alder, wild rose and briers of every kind. On tne north 
side of the creek was a wide sand-bar, perfectly smooth, 
the wind, as it blew down the creek, having swept it as 
evenly as a floor, and on this sand there teas no footprint, 
though the toe of the moccasin pointed to it, and it was so 
soft and yielding that 1 sank in it half shoe deep. In the stream 
itself were several clusters of rocks, dividing it into pools; 
their tops being above water and not so far apart but that a 
man could spring from the shore to a rock, and from rock 
to rock, and so cross over dry shod. On one of the rocks 
the wind had blown a little sand, in which the foot-print 
was partly stamped. This was only visible when brought 
directly between the sun and myself. No one could see it 
in any other position, and it had thus escaped the keen eyes 
of the savages. On the north side of the sand-bar the dense 
undergrowth came down as thick and as close as on the 
south side. An acute and practiced observer would also 
have noticed that the sand of the bar, though perfectly 
smooth, yet did not look precisely correct, You could not 
exactly say parts looked fresher or were more uneven than 
the rest; yet, a perfect woodsman would have noticed this 
indescribable something, though the untaught would have 
asseverated that there was nothing unusual there. 
These were the circumstances, and here is the transla¬ 
tion :— 
First, the outline of a moccasin showed that some human 
being had passed over the spot, and that human being an 
Indian. “It might have been a hunter,” I heap some one 
say. “No,” for a hunter would have walked along the bar 
and left a wide trail easily seen, for in that place he could 
have had no cause for concealment. Next, the lines of the 
heel and toe, projected, led from one dense thicket to the 
other, in a short bend of the stream where any one crossing 
would be visible but for a short distance and a few mo¬ 
ments. And there was no other sign visible —the trail had 
been concealed. “How?” The Indians, .one after the other, 
(“Indian file,”) separating the branches had sprung from 
the high bank to tlie rocks and crossed the sand-bar, each 
treading in the steps of the other so as to make as small a 
trail as possible. The one had drawn the bushes together 
so as to show no gap and look perfectly natural, and when 
he crossed the sand-bar, with a branch, previously plucked 
far off in the woods, as with a broom, had. carefully swept 
away all traces of the trail, a few handsful of perfectly dry 
sand obliterating all signs of freshness. 
Well, we have now a concealed Indian trail. What does 
that mean? A war party. I need not explain this term; 
every one who '‘reads the papers” knows that it means 
death, rapine, destruction, and all kinds of diabolical out¬ 
rage. So here was the trail of a band of Indians on the 
war path. But my friend says “it might have been a week 
old.” “Hold,” the same wind that blew the sand on the 
rock would blow it off again. It was, even then, a little 
puffy, and the outline of one edge of the track only re¬ 
mained, and that would not be for long. The day had not 
been remarkably quiet. The morning breeze had commen¬ 
ced at the usual hour, and it had been blowing all day— 
sometimes quietly and steadily, and sometimes fitfully and 
in gusts. What then? Why, the trail could be but a few 
minutes old or it icould hare been blown away. A war party 
then must have passed less than twenty minutes before my 
arrival. 
Have I made out my case? Verily, woodcraft is a 
science, and “a straw will show which way the wind 
blows.” “There are sermons in stones, books in running 
brooks, and God in everything,” and to Him be thanks For 
giving us the intellect to read the lessons of the woods. 
We recovered our rods and lines by sending one of the 
friendly Indians for them. An Indian can find anything if 
you can at all approximate its locality. The same Indian 
also told us our foes numbered sixteen. Whether he 
learned it from others, or followed up the trail and so dis¬ 
covered it, I never asked. An Indian thinks it silly to ask 
questions, and the “Big Medicine” of the “Great White 
Chief” could not condescend to expose his ignorance. 
Monmouth. 
For Forest and Stream. 
THE NEVERSINK COUNTRY. 
T HOSE who love fishing, not merely for its associa¬ 
tions, and love nature as well; who would be 
content to wade the stream all day, perhaps without land¬ 
ing a half pounder, and who enjoy the hardships of a life 
in the woods, and the spice of camping out; would do well 
to make a short trip to the wild lands of Ulster . and Sulli¬ 
van counties. They are easy of access, and in point of 
solitude. I have no doubt they are superior to the Adiron- 
dacks, where, I believe a man can not bathe in a mountain 
lake without cutting his feet on the remnants of some 
broken whiskey bottle, or lie down at night without stain¬ 
ing his blanket on a cigar stump—eloquent traces of some 
of our modern woodsmen. 
The Beaverldll and Neversink rivers, the most import¬ 
ant streams in this region, have for many years been well 
known to New York sportsmen, and are now almost 
abandoned, and considered “fished out,” but there are still 
many parts of this wilderness, especially at the. headwaters 
of the Neversink and its tributaries, which have never yet 
been visited by the white man, and numerous streams, 
small but well stocked with gamey little trout, and un¬ 
fished, save by the wary mink. 
During the summer of 1872-3, in company with a college 
friend, I traversed these jjsolitudes in all directions, climb¬ 
ing mountains and exploring lonely valleys by day, and 
camping at sunset by some cool mossy stream, where 
twenty minutes fishing always provided aiYample supper. 
Often after we had selected a spot for our camp, clearing 
away the brush and starting the fire, just as the shadows 
were gathering beneath the hemlocks, we would sally forth, 
flyrod in hand, one up and the other down stream, steal¬ 
ing silently along the margin, treading deftly on mossy 
stones, and casting over dark rifts, and returning through 
the dark woods, one to dress the trout while the other 
made ready the coffee and flapjacks. 
And then after supper, piling one or two green beech 
logs on the fire, and lighting cigar or pipe, w T e would lie 
back on the damp, springy "balsam boughs, and pass the 
hour before bed time in telling old stories and singing old 
songs. It is very pleasant, this lying out in the woods and 
talking oneself to sleep without even the responsibility 
of going to bed. A great advantage over civilization, 
where if one feels sleepy he has to undergo the torture of 
undressing himself, after which he is thoroughly roused 
up, and may lie awake all night. 
There are several ways of reaching this region, but the 
shortest and least expensive is to take the afternoon boat 
from New York to Rondout, on the Hudson, and pass the 
night at a hotel, taking the 7 A. M. train the next morning 
on the Rondout & Oswego R. R. for Big Indinn Station. 
Reaching here at 9 A. M. a tramp of five or six miles on a 
road which follows the Big Indian River to near its head¬ 
waters, and then crosses the mountains, will take you to 
the sources of the west branch of the. Neversink. There 
are log houses here and there along the road at which you 
can inquire the way and purchase such provisions as you 
can carry. It will pay to camp the first night on the Big 
Indian, and by striking down a bark peelers’ road about 
half a mile above the last saw mill, you will reach a wild 
little hollow through which the stream flows. A rod or 
two above the old corduroy bridge, and close beside the 
stream are the poles of a shanty, and in front of them the 
remains of a fire, where I camped one night last summer, 
and had fair luck with the trout before dark and after sun¬ 
rise the next morning. The east and west branches flow 
about twelve miles separated by high and thickly wooded 
mountain ranges, before uniting to form the main stream. 
Each is full of trout, as are also the Biscuit and Fall 
Brooks, tributaries of the west branch. The trout are 
small, a half pounder being generally the maximum of a 
day’s fishing, and the average much less. The most taking 
flies I have found to be the whitewinged coachman and 
the brown hen. But the trout rise so well to every thing, 
there is no necessity of changing the cast very often. 
The expenses of a two or three weeks trip, including, ex¬ 
tras, are $15. Items: Fare on boat from New York to 
Rondout, including supper $2, hotel at Rondout, $1.50, 
fare to Big Indian, about $2, making for trip and return 
$11,00. As there are no expenses after leaving Big Indian 
Station, except buying bread and butter &c., at an occa¬ 
sional log house, the $4 remaining will be amply suffi¬ 
cient. 
For baggage I carry a fly rod, axe, rubber blanket, coffee 
pot and creel. Although the nights are usually very cold, 
I have dispensed with the blanket, and carry only a rubber 
blanket to roof the shanty. Though wild pigeous are 
sometimes numerous, it will be hardly necessary to carry 
a gun, unless for the study of ornithology. Partridges, 
though abundant, are out of season, and the latter is also 
the case with deer, which may be sometimes seen. Many 
of the rarer warblers will be found breeding here, as also 
the hermit thrush, olive backed thrush, and olive sided 
flycatcher. Bear tracks are frequently seen, and foxes 
and porcupines though, very numerous, are not often met 
with. 
In closing I would remark that the Neversink country is 
no place for those who cannot camp out without all the 
luxuries of civilization and who require three or four 
guides to do their work. Guides cannot be had, and a man 
must be content with such luxuries as he can carry on his 
back for ten miles over some of the-steepest mountains in 
the State. P. C. B. 
^ For Forest and Stream. 
THE SALMON FISHERIES OF OREGON. 
S O very few from New York visit this portion of the 
Union it occurred to me that some practical remarks 
on the great pleasure they lose might not prove unaccept¬ 
able, especially as the trip can be made so easily and with 
comfort. Good steamers make the trip from San Francisco 
to the bar of the Columbia River in from fifty to sixty 
hours, and, if not delayed by a heavy sea or fog from cross¬ 
ing this dangerous bar” pass right into Astoria and up the 
river a trifle over 100 miles to Portland, Oregon. They 
stop on their way up at the different salmon canneries to 
leave supplies of tin, solder, etc. The steamer J. D. Ste¬ 
phens, in which we came, had about $40,000 worth of tin 
alone to be used in making cans. 
There are nine important canneries, and the amount of 
salmon packed up is immense. At the present time equal 
to ten thousand fresh salmon, averaging twenty-two 
pounds each, are daily cut up and packed in the cans of 
one, two, and three pounds each, and shipped via Ban Fran¬ 
cisco to all parts of the world. These salmon are pur¬ 
chased by contract from the fishermen, the price this year 
for each" salmon being twenty-five cents per fish, not 
pounds, no matter if it weighs ten pounds or fifty. I saw 
one of fifty-four pounds weight which cost but twenty-five 
cents. The meshes of the nets are made so large that but 
few fish under twenty pounds are taken, the general aver¬ 
age being placed at twenty-two pounds weight by the fish¬ 
ermen themselves. 
The labor In the canneries is done almost entirely by 
Chinamen, who become exceedingly expert at the busi¬ 
ness. One man, with a large sharp knife, severs the head 
at one blow, then rapidly cuts off the tail'and fins, and 
opens and cleans the fish in a few seconds, passing it into a 
large tub of water to be washed. Another places it on a 
table, turns a crank, and a number of circular knives cut 
it into the proper sizes for packing into the cans, which the 
others are constantly engaged at. The lid is soldered on, 
leaving a pin hole in the centre; then the cans are lowered 
into hot water for a short time to exclude all air, and the 
pin hole immediately soldered up, which seals them her¬ 
metically. When cool the cans are packed into boxes of 
four dozens of one pound each, and ready for market. The 
steamer on which I write has on board 7,000 boxes, equal 
to 175 tons of fresh salmon, and this business goes on for 
about three and a half months every year. 
The waters of. the Columbia are cold, and the flavor of 
the fish excellent, much better than those taken in 
California rivers, which are warmer, being ‘in some ten rl 
grees lower latitude. I have inquired of everybody t 
thought likely to know if they had ever known the salm 
to rise to a fly in the Columbia River, and invariably 
have answered no, except one person, who had heard off 
fly fisherman having been successful in the Columbia abo & 
the Snake River, one of its largest tributaries. To me tli 
reason is very apparent. I have killed salmon in the river 6 
emptying into the St. Lawrence, but the water was alwa? 
clear, while here,' during the fishing season, the snows nr 
melting in the Cascade and other mountain ranges contim' 6 
ally, which make the waters of the Snake River ver 
cloudy, affecting the whole of the Columbia below it 
giving it a muddy appearance, which is very perceptibl 
outside of its entrance into the Pacific Ocean. This T 
think, is the only reason why salmon will not take the flv 
for in Puget Sound, which I visited also, tliev do take the 
fly readily, but the water is beautifully clear and cold 
Some tolcPme that at the mouth of this river fresh run sal¬ 
mon are taken with roe bait and the murderous spoon w 
of course no sportsman will kill a Salmon with such 
weapons. The salmon fisheries of the Columbia last year 
amounted to $4,000,000; one man alone cleared $70 000 
profit. At the Cascades and Dalles the Indians take them 
out with scoop nets. I saw two taken at once. 
Portland is a thriving city, situated on the Williamette 
River, a few miles above the Columbia. At Portland the 
tourist takes a river steamer for the Cascades and Dalles 
City, and a short railroad to Celilo, giving a fine view of 
the whole of the Dalles. The -scenery on the Columbia is 
magnificent, and well repays for the long journey made 
from New York or elsewhere. ' jy 
Steamer 11 Ajax,” Columbia River, Oregon, May, 1874. 
-- 
For Forest and Stream. 
JAUNTS ROUND ’FRISCO. 
N OW that “Vasquez,” the bandit, has been captured 
and California has been relieved of one of the greatest 
drawbacks to the pleasure of the tourist, perhaps" a few 
notes regarding the pleasantest excursion one can take from 
San Francisco in a day will not prove uninteresting to your 
numerous and pleasure-loving readers. My business for 
some years was that of a commercial traveller in Califor¬ 
nia, and when I state of all the numerous rides and stage 
coach journeys I ever took in that State none embrace so 
great a variety of scenery, both landscape and marine, with 
such great variations of temperature, as a trip across the 
Santa Cruz mountains in the spring time, you will doubt¬ 
less believe me. 
The stage leaves Santa Cruz at nine A. M., and I would 
advise your readers to engage a seat on the outside, with 
the driver. This can be done by telegram from your hotel 
the day before. No fear of rains, as it rains only in the 
winter months in California. The first of the journey, 
after leaving Santa Cruz, is dull, dusty, and altogether un¬ 
interesting and hot, but as the stage commences "to ascend 
the mountains the air becomes cool, the dust you have left 
behind, and instead are to be seen on either hand flowers of 
every hue and fragrance. Presently you come to a beau¬ 
tiful spring of mountain water, from which “Jehu” waters 
his six horses, and as he mounts to his seat he will tell you 
how many thousand trout can be caught. Remember, here 
you have no mosquitoes. The air is loaded with the per¬ 
fume of flowers, and “camping out” is a luxury that the 
most delicate invalids indulge in. If you should not fancy 
camping out, or roughing it, the Fifth Avenue hotel is not 
far distant from this and numerous other streams of equal 
beauty, and possessing as many attractions for the “pisca- 
tor” as the one just passed. 
Perhaps a description of the Fifth Avenue hotel of the 
Santa Cruz country would not prove uninteresting. About 
midway to the summit the forest trees assume proportions 
perfectly astonishing to a stranger in California. They 
are not as large as the trees of “Calaveras Grove,” but you 
can form some idea of their immenseness when I tell you 
that several of the trunks of them have been dug out so as 
to form sleeping apartments, in some of which are five or 
six couches, and in one is a large. drinking establishment, 
where champagne on draught can be had at two bits (twenty- 
five cents) a glass. The proprietor of this rustic retreat is 
a great “piscator,” and quite an artist in his way. The 
stage is welcomed on its arrival by the proprietor, violin in 
. hand, upon -which he plays a selection from some opera, 
accompanying the instrument with a voice not altogether 
bad. The fare here is good; the fishing in the locality bet¬ 
ter. This hotel possesses a great many advantages. It is 
cool and airy, no bugs of i\ny kind, and although one has 
to “sleep in a tree,” you need have no fear of lightning 
striking it, for a thunder storm has not occurred in Cali¬ 
fornia but twice in fifteen years. The mountain scenery is 
very grand. As the stage ascends the mountain tlie an 
-commences to have a slight, aroma of the sea, and is con¬ 
stantly getting cooler till the summit is reached. 
Mountain 
Before reaching the summit the stage stops at “Mountain 
George’s.” He is the chief guide and hunter of the.range, 
and is the greatest enemy of bruin in California. His head 
and face are most frightfully scarred. From the formei a 
large piece of the skull was knocked out by a cinnamon 
bear about six years since. Small game, such as quad, 
mountain, or jackass rabbit, George can find, but “bar is 
his specialty. He will warrant any of his friends a shot at 
a bear if the friend goes according to his (George’s) direc¬ 
tions. He is a most amusing companion on a hunt, ana 
rarely returns to his home without bridging in a fine speci¬ 
men "of the “monarch of the American forest.” Those o 
your readers who are* fond of this sort of sport would a 
well to give George a call when they go to California, 
The stage reaches the summit shortly after this stop, an 
such a sight! The grand old'ocean stretches out betoi 
you, and you wonder why at this altitude China and JapA 
cannot be seen. Truly they are just, before you, ami 
object intervenes to obstruct the view T . The ascent i < 
been slow and laborious—for the horses. So much 
been passed of interest, so much that is new, so ma ) 
changes from the parched valley of Santa Clara to the su 
mit of these beautiful mountains, whose tops and sides ‘ j 
always green, always inviting, where game and fish about 
that time has slipped by, as it were, unobserved, a dd 
not fatigued; you look forward to your journey’s end \ ^ 
a feeling of regret, and say inwardly I would like I » 
right back over the same road. . 
The descent is rapid, and at times the curves in ^ 
are so abrupt that the leaders are lost to view in the to S 
and flowers ahead. The horses go down the mountain 
