94 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[Aug. 3, 1895. 



All along to the north were low hills, back of which 

 were higher ones, and so on until we saw mountain 

 ranges and peaks standing out against the sky. On the 

 east is a range that terminates at Soda Springs. A mile 

 or two to the west of this terminus begins a range of the 

 Wasatch, which stretches away to the southwest. The 

 Bear River, coming up from Utah, runs through this pass, 

 and closely hugging the Wasatch turns around its bead 

 to the west and rushes back to Utah and the Great Salt 

 Lake. On the west were high mountains that form tbe 

 eastern boundary of the Bannock and Shoshone Indian 

 Reservation. 



As soon as we left the settlement we were at once in the 

 midst of wild life. Ducks were constantly quacking. 

 Some would take wing to get a better view of those that 

 were intruding on their homes, while many would sit in 

 the shallow water, their sides turned to the warm sun, 

 and preen their wings and look unconcerned and lazy 

 enough as we passed by at close range. Sickle-billed 

 curlew were unceasingly poising or circling above us, 

 calling out their name in clear and unmistakable notes, 

 while others hurried back and forth along tbe waterways, 

 giving cries of alarm and warning to their sitting mates. 

 I knew it was not in season to shoot, but wishing to take 

 home a curlew, I walked a few rods from the team and 

 shot one. As the report rolled away it fetched wild, 

 dreamy life into noisy activity, for from stream and pond 

 and marsh there arose flock after flock of ducks and 

 curlew and other water birds, all hurrying here and 

 there in noisy confusion to see what the matter was and 

 that everything was all right at the nesting place. Far 

 up and directly overhead a curlew poised, repeating its 

 name in shrill notes. "All right, you will do." And up 

 went the gun and down came the curlew, down, down, 

 as straight as a rock let out of the sky, and barely missing 

 my head struck the ground at my feet. 



Now and then a blue heron would rise and fly heavily 

 away. A startled rabbit would run a few feet, sit up and 

 watch us out of sight. Frequently a covey of sage grouse 

 was disturbed, and either flew away or squatted in fancied 

 security; or rising to the top of the bushes with great 

 flapping of wings would drop back to the ground again, 

 and that too at times within the length of a fish pole. A 

 swirl or splash in the narrow stream would take my at- 

 tention for a moment, and I felt that I could live every 

 summer in that dreamy valley, in the midst of this wild 

 life. All those sounds was music to me. Something con- 

 genial with my nature had rubbed up against me and I 

 had no wish to throw off the charm. So after spending 

 the "Glorious Fourth" in Harvard, Neb., the next Wednes- 

 day night found me with my family in Bancroft, and 

 the next day I camped with my wife, my two boys of 11 

 and 12 years, and my little girl of 2 years. 



We did not "go in light," but had a good quantity of 

 bedding and clothing of all kinds. Two folding cots, a 

 folding table, a small two-jet gasoline stove with adjust- 

 able oven, three folding camp chairs, a couple of ham- 

 mocks, and a provision box. Our tent was 12x16ft., of 

 lOoz. ducking. And if I were to say that we also took a 

 carpet some sportsmen no doubt would derisively grin, 

 but we had one just the same, and let me say that the 

 carpet never once gave me the least trouble during our 

 trip, but was as pleasing to live with in the tent as 3in. of 

 ash-like dust or 6in. of brush would have been. It was 

 easily put down with long steels nails. The bedding in 

 use was kept on the cots during the day. And with the 

 boxes at the back end of the tent, a cot on each side next 

 to the boxes, the table in one corner at the front end, 

 there was room for a band, a dance and a fair-sized audi- 

 ence. 



By this time the young sage grouse were large enough 

 to shoot, and I never have eaten tame fowls that were 

 Bweeter or nicer in any way. Sage grouse should be 

 drawn immediately after being shot. If treated in this 

 way they will not have any of the sage flavor, unless 

 killed during the winter, when they live to a great extent 

 on the sage leaves. They are handsome birds, a head and 

 shoulders larger than the prairie chicken. They are not 

 as gaudy as some birds, but the time will come when 

 they will be considered next to the wild turkey as a 

 noble game bird. They nest and rear their young in the 

 valleys, where the grass gives them better protection 

 from the wolves and birds of prey, and where they will 

 be near to water. When the young birds can fly nicely 

 the old bird often takes them up into the mountain 

 canons where it is cooler. Here they will stay in the 

 thickets until the latter part of the day, when they will 

 come down to the valley again to feed and drink along 

 the streams. When the young are being reared the male 

 birds gather in flocks and stay up in the foothill or a short 

 way up in the mountains the most of the time. The 

 males weigh from 4 to 81bs., a very few of the latter, and 

 few that do not weigh more than the former figure. I 

 shot but a few grown birds, as the young are better eat- 

 ing, and I did not shoot birds to throw away. 



I weighed but one; that one I got out of a flock of about 

 twenty-five males. I was hunting up a canon and started 

 the birds out of a quaking asp thicket. They flew over 

 the ridge, and I knew they would drop into some thicket 

 on the other side. 



Wishing to weigh one I went over into the next draw 

 and sent the dog around a thicket. He said they were 

 not there, so I went down to another thicket, and there 

 he found the trail. The bushes were 15ft. high, and I 

 worked into them very carefully, for I knew that if I 

 got one at all it would be by just a jerk and a shot. 



I had gone in about a rod, when two rods ahead up 

 went the grouse, and I let fly, not taking any particular 

 aim, for all I could see was heads, wings, brush and tails 

 in wild commotion as though a whirlwind had struck the 

 grove; and I think that no Aroostook Mountain moose 

 ever made more of a rumpus in getting away from some- 

 thing it did not like. After the splinters had stopped fly- 

 ing and things had settled back to natural quietness I 

 heard a rustling down ahead of me and picked up a com- 

 mon sized bird that weighed just 51bs. 



The service berries begin to ripen during the fore part 

 of August in the valleys, and come on later further up the 

 carions, where it is cooler and the bushes more shaded. 

 The berries are sweet, juicy and pulpy and have a blue 

 bloom. They are very much in size and appearance to 

 what I remember the New England bill berries to be. 

 The grouse as well as bears are very fond of these berries, 

 and the hunter can be sure of finding his birds around 

 these bushes at feeding time, especially if there ib water 

 near. 



Sage grouse may not be quite as quick to get up and 



get under headway as game birds of smaller size, but they 

 are quick enough to suit me, and lie fully as well to the 

 dog as pinnated grouse. And that reminds me of an 

 incident that happened over on the east side of the valley. 



Mr. Brainard and I were hunting in the foothills with- 

 out a dog. We flushed a covey of sage grouse that 

 scattered in all directions. One lighted in a small patch 

 of grass at the mouth of the draw. We went to the place, 

 keeping close watch to see that the bird did not fly, and 

 walked back and forth until we had covered the whole 

 patch of grass, which was from ankle to knee high. Then 

 Mr. Brainard told me to stand where I was and he would 

 put the bird up for me to shoot. The patch was not over 

 four rods across, and my friend worked every f oot_ of it, 

 and felt sure that he must have seen the bird if it was 

 there. Then saying it must be there, and he would go all 

 over the ground again. I was standing with my mouth 

 open, and gun in position ready to belch forth fire and 

 thunder the instant the bird sprang to wing. Mr. Brainard 

 would give it up, then get sort of half -mad and go at it 

 again. Finally mopping the sweat from his face, he said 

 it was too much of a puzzle for him, and he would look no 

 more for that bird, if it was the last one in Idaho. "But," 

 said he, "I will fire my gun and see what effect that will 

 have." Bang! not a feather stirred. Bang! nothing 

 moved but the echo along the canon side. Just then Mr. 

 Brainard's eyes fell at my feet and his mouth commenced 

 to spread out. "Why, man," said he, "no wonder the bird 

 don't fly with a big calf like you standing on its back; 

 look!" I was surely enough standing with my left foot 

 partly on its back and partly on its right wing, its head 

 was up half-way to my knee, and if that bird made a 

 movement during all that time I did not notice it, and if 

 it had not been badly injured it would have gone back to 

 the hills with its fife. 



One of the scenes of this trip most distinctly im- 

 pressed on my mind is Teton Peak, and it happened in 

 this way: My son Gillman and myself went up into the 

 mountains for a day's ramble. I carried a rifle and field 

 glass, he a shotgun and bottle of water. We rode with 

 a wood team for a few miles below Bancroft, and then up 

 a canon into the mountains for two miles, where the 

 woodchoppers were getting out telegraph poles to send 

 to Pocatello. Here we left the shotgun and lunch and 

 struck out for the top of the mountain. For some time 

 we followed a park where the grabs in places was hip 

 high and with pine woods on each side. We could have 

 spent the whole day in that park, but "away up yonder" 

 was the bare summit ridge, and I wanted to sit on those 

 rocks and see what things looked like over on the other 

 side. So coming to a ridge that seemed to run to the sum- 

 mit, we began to climb upward. But we found that we 

 could not reach the summit by this ridge, and about 11 

 o'clock we stopped to take our bearings, a drink of water 

 and some of the wobble out of our legs. We saw that 

 by going down the side of the ridge and on to another 

 ridge we could reach the top. We were hot and thirsty, 

 but that little sip of water in the bottle was precious, and 

 we agreed not to touch it until we had reached the other 

 ridge. The side of the ridge that we were on was quite 

 steep, with a little greasewood and now and then a tangle 

 of some kind of vine. I started first and we would just 

 let go and catch on to the first thing that we could cling 

 to, then look to each other to see if any harm had been 

 done. I kept just one shoot ahead of the boy, for I began 

 to think he might break his neck. Of course we made 

 motions along with our feet, but it had but little effect as 

 to regulating the speed". Before we had gotten half-way 

 down, and as I was catching on to some greasewood, and 

 my son making a sort of somersault into the tangle that 

 I had just let go from, I heard a grunt and a sound that 

 was very much like what I used to hear when I would 

 pepper the doves in father's barn window when a boy. 

 And right there, with the sweat trickling into my boots, 

 on the side of that sun-parched ridge, and gasping in the 

 noonday heat, I turned cold — or I think I did. 



"For heaven's sake, boy, is it broke?" 



"Smashed to pieces." 



"Look quick; can't you save a litte?" 



"Not a drop." 



For a moment I stood enjoying the fix we were in. 

 "Is your neck broken?" 

 "No, sir." 



"Any of your ribB?" 



"No, sir. Don't you wish we had taken a drink before 

 we started down?" 



"Yes; but come on, we must get to the bottom of this 

 ridge, and we can get a drink when we get back to the 

 team." 



When we reached the valley we decided to try to get to 

 the summit, and after a hard climb we reached the top of 

 the ridge and sat down on a rock to rest. Eighty rods above 

 us was the boulder-capped summit, but we thought it best 

 to go no further. We were hot, weak and suffering with 

 thirst. What good did it do us to look across the pine 

 tops to the snow-filled cafion a mile away; and so we 

 turned our attention to the grand view below us. 



There were narrow parks, green with rank grass, and 

 flanked on either side with pine forests. Long slopes, 

 with more or less grass and clumps of pines. Bare ridges, 

 with now and then a solitary pine standing like a signal 

 sentinel over the desolation of rocks, and solemn forests 

 beneath; or like a green monument to the naked forms 

 on yonder slope, the stark trunks of which stand gaunt in 

 the pitiless sun, or weakening lean on each other's necks 

 to bewail their fate for a time before falling to earth and 

 decay. But over across the valley, ten miles away, I see 

 a white speck and objects moving, and adjusting the glass 

 I see it is a tent and men at work on the irrigating ditch. 

 To the southeast I see the Bear River, where it sinks into 

 its canon and goes dashing around the head of the 

 Wasatch. Through the gap is Soda Springs, and now I 

 sweep the mountain tops. Back of the first range on the 

 east of the valley I see another, and beyond these I catch 

 glimpses of a still more distant range, and yet further on 

 I see the crown of some monarch rising from a range that 

 is hid from view. But what is this? 



"Gillman. do you see a white cloud over in the north- 

 east?" 



"No sir, I don't see anything white at all." 



No, it is not a cloud. That white object away in the 

 dim distance, away across that rugged stretch of one 

 hundred miles of mountain range and mountain peaks, 

 without one dark spot on its snow-white face, without 

 one nick in its regular lines, rising like a huge tent, 

 like a phantom pyramid away and far above everything 

 outlined against the horizon, is Grand Teton. 



Lowering the glass and looking hard I could barely see 

 a misty form, and all of old Teton that was not covered 

 with snow was below the horizon. It is near the Snake 

 River, over in the Jackson Hole country. 



On our way back to the team, my son picked a piece of 

 gum from a pine tree and said it chewed pretty fair, and 

 thinking that to chew some might allay my thirst I stepped 

 into the cool shade of a pine tree that was three feet 

 through and cutting a piece of gum commenced to work 

 it up in my mouth; but the stuff just slid right on to the 

 sides of my mouth and stuck there, and the more I 

 rubbed my tongue around the tighter it stuck. I began 

 to get desperate and pulled a handful of fine dry grass. 

 I put it in my mouth, thinking the gum would stick to it 

 and make a rough surface so that I would have some 

 "foothold" to work on. Well, the gum did an excellent 

 job of sticking to the grass, but did not let up at all on its- 

 first hold, and the inside of my mouth was surely very 

 unpleasant to line with, while around the outside was a- 

 sad mixture of gum, grass and mustache. And what is 

 more, as I stood there bent over in the shade of those far- 

 reaching boughs with my hat off, and my hands on my 

 knees, wagging my jaws and wolloping my tongue 

 around the ragged edge of my mouth, my son just leaned 

 up against the tree and laughed. I finally began to claw 

 the gum with my finger nails in about the same way that 

 a cat does when it has a bone in its throat, and got the 

 moBt of it out, but it was a number of days before I got 

 rid of the last of it and the nasty taste. I do not relate 

 this to show any great sagacity on my part, but to warn 

 fellow ramblers, no matter how desperate they may be, 

 to keep shy of pine gum. 



When we came in sight of the team I heard a snicker 

 behind me, and knowing what it meant, without turning 

 my head I said, "See here, boy, if you say anything about 

 gum I'll send you home on the first train." 



The men had the wagon nearly loaded, and as I leaned 

 my rifle against a tree, I said, "Men, for the love of 

 humanity, give us a drink of water." 



"I am sorry, friend, but we can't do it, there is not a 

 drop left in the keg." 



We took our lunch, and crawling under some bushes we 

 choked it down dry, glum and gloomy. 



It was about sundown when we reached our tent and 

 water. 



Ever since when I think of that summer's trip, one of 

 the first things to come up before my vision is old Teton, 

 and I have thought that under the conditions that pre- 

 vailed it might be that an image of Teton was sort of dried 

 on to the retina of my eye. 



When I began these lines I thought only of writing 

 about those few miles of sun-kissed stream in the north- 

 western part of the Squaw Creek Valley, but I have wan* 

 dered far, and hope that no reader will be bored. 



I killed no great amount of game. I shot two black* 

 tail deer and kept the table supplied with grouse, ducks* 

 and fish. 



I camped for a few weeks on the west shore of Bear 

 Lake, under the shadow of the frowning heights of the 

 Wasatch. Mr. Brainard and family and Mr. J. N. Hay- 

 den camped with us at this place for a time. 



Mr. Hayden and Mr. Hiram Schovile, who lives on the 

 shore of the lake, and myself went over into the Hams 

 Fork Valley in Wyoming, on a hunt. We shot only what 

 game we could use, but my bosom swells now when I 

 think of the days that I spent with these genial com- 

 panions among the wild life in that wild country. 



On Sept. 15 I was camped at Soda Springs, Idaho, and 

 as the date of our railroad tickets was about to expire, 

 and as we could not get an extension of time with sorrow 

 we packed our camping outfit and went to Bancroft be- 

 fore starting on our homeward journey. 



On arriving at Bancroft we put some bedding on the 

 floor of the unfinished hotel and slept some, rolled more, 

 and listened a good deal to the wolves that went howling 

 and galloping along "Main street." While Mr. Brainard 

 was at Bear Lake the wolves took every last chicken 

 that he had. The next day we left for home, and here 

 I am, July 4, 1895, hedged in on my 160 acres, with 

 but little to gratify my love for wild life, excepting one 

 lone prairie chicken and her little brood, and one covey 

 of quails. I don't feel good — and if I seek relief by giving 

 a war whoop or the laugh and hollow of the loon, or send 

 off a fair-sized wolf howl on the night air, then I catch it 

 from my wife, who is afraid the neighbors will think me 

 crazy — but I know I am not. When I have finished the 

 evening chores I usually sit on the kitchen steps, where I 

 can look toward the lakes and forests that I know to be in 

 Minnesota, and I can see the stars grow bright as they 

 come out over the New England hills, and I draw a long 

 breath as my mind wanders where my feet used to dur- 

 ing my boyhood days. And I watch the last gleam of 

 twilight as it follows the sunken sun, and wonder if the 

 deer on the mountain tops in Washington are coming out 

 to feed, and my heart goes out to the rolling plains and 

 wooded hills and rugged mountains of the whole North- 

 west. Mount Tom. 



Central New York Waters. 



Ithaca, N. Y. — A party of Ithacans were at Union 

 Springs on Cayuga Lake July 25, and caught 300 perch. 

 Some exceedingly fine bass and pickerel are being taken 

 from the lake at that point, along with some very nice 

 specimens of lake trout. 



The recent removal of Protector Henry C. Carr, after a 

 long term of satisfactory service, has aroused a storm of 

 indignation among sportsmen and G. A. R. members. At 

 the reunion of the Third Artillery of Auburn in this city 

 on the 25th, resolutions were passed denouncing in vigor- 

 ous terms Mr. Carr's removal, and the attention of those 

 high in State administrative councils was called to the 

 injustice lavished upon an old soldier, a courageous 

 officer and a justly esteemed citizen. The resolutions 

 asked for his reinstatement. 



The fine Italian hand of the politician, with the quid of 

 patronage rolled daintily under his tongue, is easily dis- 

 cernible in Henry Carr's removal. He has proved a 

 capable officer — one who never hesitated to run up against 

 the despoiler of the game and fish interests, regardless of 

 his size or the caliber of his gun. 



Since Mr. Carr's removal illegal fishing ia daily becom- 

 ing more open and notorious. Seines are said to have 

 been hauled in the neighborhood of Union Springs and at 

 other favorable points in open and loud-voiced defiance 

 of law, Let the merry dance of politics proceed! 



M. Chill, 



