224 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[Sept. 14, 1895. 



At this juncture a heavy rain squall came up, and that 

 ended our deer exhibit for the time being with a record 

 of an even two dozen, of which the last thirteen ha d been 

 seen within less than three-quarters of an hour, 



"We got to camp and ate some lunch about 10 o'clock, 

 and then, the rain having ceased, we broke camp and 

 proceeded down the main stream to the lake. 



Just below the carry we saw deer number seventy- 

 three, a doe. She was moving down the shore, and 

 coming to a log in her way 3 or 4ft. high leaped over it 

 gracefully. At first we thought she had seen us and was 

 off, but the next instant she turned down to the water's 

 edge and was just reaching for a lilypad when something 

 made her look up. The canoe was slipping noiselessly 

 toward her head on. with never a motion to reveal its 

 human freight. We were within range and ready to 

 photograph her at any moment. 



The doe seemed riveted to the spot by an uncontrollable 

 fascination. She raised her head higher and higher with 

 little jerks, as if letting out reefs in her neck, till I took 

 pity on her and released the shutter, thus breaking the 

 spell. 



Numbers seventy-four and seventy-five were in com- 

 pany, a lordly buck and a comely doe. They came out 

 from the shelter of the trees directly ahead, and walked 

 side by side down to the water. The wind was beginning 

 to blow again in a gusty way from behind, and though 

 150yds. away we knew the deer must soon scent us. The 

 doe, with more delicate discernment, was the first to 

 do this. She made several nervous little leaps, but was 

 ashamed to run away, while as yet the buck had noticed 

 nothing, and in deference to his less acute senses she 

 seemed almost to doubt her own. The buck looked up 

 lazily to see what startled her, and the same instant an 

 unmistakable whiff of our presence was borne to his 

 nostrils. He did not stand on the order of his going, but 

 ungallantly led the way for his fair companion. 



This was at 11:45 A. M. Five minutes after noon we 

 sighted our last deer for the day, numbers seventy-six and 

 seventy-seven. These were two does which allowed us to 

 come fairly close, but not quite as near as we desired. 



Despite wind and unfavorable weather which ruled the 

 major part of the six days we were on Sebois Grand 

 Lake, we had seen an average, lacking a small fraction of 

 thirteen deer per day. 



We camped that night at the "Thoroughfare," and the 

 following morning got an early start for the flesh pots of 

 civilization. Just below camp we came rather unexpect- 

 edly upon a doe walking on the shore. The large camera 

 was in readiness, however, and we secured her picture, 

 though she was too much in shade for a satisfactory result. 

 On White Horse Lake we saw our seventy-ninth and last 

 deer, but did not get close enough to determine its sex. 



We reached Hay Brook without further incident. 

 While ascending this stream we heard voices, and round- 

 ing a bend, came face to face with a party of Canucks 

 out for an outing. There were two men and two women 

 in a tiny flat-bottomed boat, which was in fact so small 

 that its human cargo lapped over the sides and threatened 

 to spill. 



"Your boat is pretty well loaded," we remarked, 

 "Yes," replied one of the women in a high nasal tone, 

 "but we can't do nothing more'n get drownded." 



One of the men possibly recognized Jock as a warden. 

 At any rate he endeavored to conceal an old Henry re- 

 peating rifle that had been placed in the boat convenient 

 to his hand. It would have been hard for them to ex- 

 plain what this rifle had to do with their ostensible 

 fishing trip. 



That night we reached civilization, putting up at 

 Hackett's comfortablo hostlery in Patten about 11 

 o'clock. We were still seven miles from the railroad, but 

 we were happy, for we were in a country where even a 

 game warden could get three square meals a day with 

 meat enough and to spare. 



In summing up the results of our expedition it must be 

 remembered that we labored under unusually unfavorable 

 conditions for game photography. Perfectly calm weather 

 is an essential for the highest degree of success in this de- 

 partment. The walls of forest trees that follow the wind- 

 ing shores of the streams and lakes make eddies and back 

 currents in the steadiest winds, and the best laid plans 

 of approach are likely to be spoiled if the wind is stirring 

 at all. 



Then, too, the time for seeing game in greatest abun- 

 dance along the water had passed, as the fly season was 

 practically over. We saw no deer standing submerged in 

 the water, as would have been the case if the flies were 

 bothersome, and none that had not come for food or to 

 drink. 



We had missed the best season purposely, however, for 

 we wanted to find the bucks with well-grown antlers, and 

 not the undeveloped ones of the early summer. 



Our desire to find moose and caribou kept us constantly 

 on the move, whereas if we had looked for deer only we 

 could no doubt have adopted more successful tactics. The 

 deer had certain recognized feeding grounds, such as the 

 neighborhood of the sand beeches already mentioned, and 

 on still days one could undoubtedly get very close shots by 

 laying in ambush at some well-selected spot and letting 

 the deer come up to him, instead of attempting the much 

 more difficult task of approaching them. 



This plan, however, would require plenty of leisure on 

 the part of the photographer, for only a few pictures 

 could be taken at any one time, and he might have to 

 wait several weeks for a suitable day. 



The subject of game photography is one of fascinating 

 interest, and one that is bound to commend itself more 

 and more to the sportsman. It possesses in a high de- 

 gree the charm and uncertainty of hunting, in which 

 the unexpected always happenB, and it is not hampered 

 by any close season. 



Many business men who find it impossible to be in the 

 woods during the shooting season will find a source of 

 consolation in game photography which will compensate 

 for the actual killing. In fact, the number of sportsmen 

 who have taken up this department is already great. 



A good apparatus is essential for the best results, and 

 the sportsman should have plenty of time at his disposal; 

 but under favorable circumstances it is possible for a man 

 familiar with his game to take wonderful pictures with a 

 very ordinary camera. 



As in hunting, so with this sport: success, after all, is 

 largely a matter of luck. J. B. Bubnham. 



The Forest and Stream is put to press each week on Tuesday. 

 Correspondence, intended for publication should reach its at the 

 latest by Monday, and as much earlier as practicable. 



BACK NUMBERS OVERHAULED. 



The day was finished, dishes were washed, and the 

 usual after supper pipe was weaving fantastic curls of 

 hazy blue against the light of the camp-fire. 



Ed and I sat silently enjoying ourselves as was usual 

 with us after a good day with rod and gun, speaking but 

 little, and that little mostly in Chinook, which we both 

 speak, and which Ed in particular is partial to. He is a 

 "queer duck" anyhow, this old partner of mine, queer in 

 his speech, queer in bis thoughts, and— well, just queer 

 any way you take him. He is tall, lank in build, knotty 

 and shrivelled as an oak stump, and just as tough, too. 

 He doesn't know what fear means, and is as tireless as a 

 machine man would be. Unless he happens to get into a 

 retrospective mood he is seldom talkative, is ordinarily 

 silent and rather Indianlike in his ways and movements, 

 prefers to make a motion in place of a word whenever he 

 can (and those lean arms and hands of his can speak 

 volumes, too), has a way of taking in all there is in sight 

 with a quick, restless glance, and above all is a thorough 

 sportsman and a homespun naturalist. A better man and 

 a better partner for camp or tramp is not yet born; that's 

 Ed. and Ed's my partner. 



Fifteen years have come and gone and our friendship 

 has only been made stronger by many, many outings 

 together, where we have tested each other by that test 

 which will prove a man either a "good man to tie to" or 

 quickly drop him from your calculations when a "trip" is 

 under consideration. We all know one such man, but 

 few of us are lucky enough to know two. 



Ed and I have climbed peaks, tramped alkali deserts, 

 canoed down boiling, roaring mountain streams and 

 voyaged calmer waters; pulled a Winchester down on 

 big game, and "surrounded" the festive cotton-tail and 

 squirrel in company, and incidentally watched the wild- 

 est of "Klookwallie" dances, where hideously painted, 

 masked and "decorated" savages, clad in little more 

 than their complexions and decorations, danced them- 

 selves into a frenzy around a fire whose fitful light only 

 lent a creepiness to the whole business. 



It occasionally happens, when the surroundings are 

 right and the Tah-mah-na-wis stirs him, that Ed gets a 

 talkative streak and we hold a retrospective kind of a 

 pow-wow over our pipes. 



This evening I saw he was in the mood, so I waited 

 patiently to see what was coming, for Ed is a good story 

 teller when he warms up and is always interesting. He 

 started with "Say, Comanch, I wonder if a feller's head 

 ain't kinder like one o' these new snap-shot cameras 

 where you put in a roll o' stuff and shoot at everything 

 you see tull it's all used up? Seems like it. Now fer rin- 

 stance, I set here 'n' smoke 'n' look at the fire 'n' don't see 

 it, just see lots of other things, places where you 'n' me 

 have been all over twenty States, times we've had and 

 things we've been mixed up with, one way 'n' 'nother for 

 a long while back. Don't it look like turnin' a crank 'n' 

 rollin' a lot o' pictures along sost you can see 'em all over 

 again when you get to thinkin'?" 



"Well, since you put it in that way, Ed, it does look 

 about right, but I suppose we've got the drop on the 

 camera because we don't have to stop and develop and 

 print our negatives." 



"Nope, I reckon not. Just kind of takes a picture, de- 

 velops it, and prints it right out in the natural colors 'n' 

 everything, sort o' automatic like, I reckon. Anyway it 

 gits' em and that's all that's necessary. I was just a thinkin' 

 o' that little fishin' trip we had up in Washington, time 

 we got that big feller under the log jam, mind? Don't 

 believe I'll ever forget that little crick 'n' the way the sun 

 shone on them big pins 'n' cedars, one on top the other, 

 far as you could see. Say, d'you know, Comanch, I like 

 to kind of study out where one color lets up 'n' 'nother 

 one begins, when I'm out this way; fact is, that's more'n 

 half of bein' out doors anyhow, that 'n' the sounds you 

 hear. R'member that old wildcat ' that came up 'n' 

 yowled 'n' pestered us so long that night we camped out 

 on Kara Crick, up in the Black Hills? 'N' you ain't for- 

 got the grunt that old bear give that night we was all so 

 skeard down in the Wasatch Range in Utah, I'll bet. 



"But say, Comanch, haw! haw! haw! [puff, puff, puff, 

 as he raked a live coal out of the fire and patted it down 

 on a new "fill" with a long, bony forefinger and leaned 

 back smiling]; by gum, I've laughed more times 'n' 

 harder about the time you rolled down that crick bank 

 back in Nebraska, when you found it was skunk instead 

 o' mink. Course we was kids 'n' tenderfeet then, 'n' 

 didn't know they's a heap o' difference 'tween skunk 

 tracks 'n' mink tracks, but it didn't take you a day's 

 travel to roll down that bank after you found old Mr. 

 Skunk 'n' his family all at home, now you bet. Gosh, I 

 can see you yet! Haw! haw! haw! 



"That was the day we see the coyotes ketch Mr. Jack 

 Rabbit, too, r'member? They done that pretty slick, didn't 

 they? How do you reckon they sensed it that a rabbit 

 run in a circle 'n' come back to where he started from? 

 That fattest one knew enough to lay still tull his pardner 

 run the jack around to him anyhow, 'n' didn't they do 

 the finish up brown? We couldn't ha' beat 'em our- 

 selves. 



"That was a cultas trip we made to the Platte in '81, 

 too. Huntin' a whole week stiddy for one measly old 

 honker is pretty tough, but; — I d'know, I guess we didn't 

 lose much anyhow. Had a week out doors and c'nsid- 

 er'ble trampin' and cold, frosty mornin's mixed, even if 

 we didn't get some geese. 



"What I like to remember best, though, is when we was 

 boys 'n' goin' to school, not that the school cut much fig- 

 ger, but the long summer days we used to have when we 

 went fishin' 'n' swimmin' 'n' puddled around the river, 

 spyin' out birds' nests 'n' watchin' 'em tull the little ones 

 could fly. R'member how the sunshine would dance on 

 the water 'n' the trees throwed shadders a mile long, 'n' 

 got shorter 'n' shorter as we paddled toward 'em? 'N' 

 mus'rats paddled along in the dusk 'n' made a lot o' 

 wrinkles in the water? 



' 'I used to like to hear the nickers 'n' blackbirds V ori- 

 oles, 'n' things that was always whisperin' 'n' talking' 

 things over 'mongst themselves up in the trees when we 

 slid by in the canoe, too. 



"There's a heap o' company in wild critters after you 

 learn their language, 'n' we learnt it pretty early. The 

 snakes 'n' bugs come in for their share of study 'n' pokin' 

 up, too, them days. Mud turtles seem about the only 

 thing that looks the same to me now as they did them 

 days when we was boys along the river. The days seem 

 shorter 'n' hotter, 'n' the sun don't seem to shine half so 

 bright either as it did then to me; do they to you?" 



''No, I don't think it does either, partner, and we never 

 have that careless, free feeling that we enjoyed then, for 

 responsibilities have come up, and our care-free Ufe has 

 gone with the sunshine of those days when life was one 

 ©ontinual holiday, with no restraint but school to bother 

 us." 



"Ah-e-e; klosh tumtum," said Ed, dropping into the 

 Chinook dialect again; a sign I knew to mean the pow- 

 wow was over, for Ed, true to the Indian part of his 

 nature, had noticed that the blaze had given place to a 

 bed of coals, and that stops the Indian story teller's tongue 

 and sends the papooses into the tepee until another time. 

 Ed knocked the ashes from his pipe bowl, remarked that 

 he "smelled a south wind for to-morrow" and rolled up 

 in his blankets, overlooking the "mountain feathers" in 

 favor of just plain, hard ground. In two minutes he was 

 fast asleep, a sound, quiet sleep without any snore attach- 

 ment too, yet the rustle of a leaf or the soft footfall of a 

 prowling coyote will wake him as quickly and effectively 

 as a cannon shot would. But as I remarked, "Ed is a 

 queer duck, anyhow." El Comancho. 



THE OUTING OF S1X.-III. 



Vermilion Ranch. An Alcove In the Pink Cliffs. 



When we crossed Asay Creek on the morning of 

 June 20 and commenced the ascent of the Great Divide, 

 there arose in front of us the first of a series of rock forms 

 with which we were soon to become familiar. Its name 

 describes it perfectly — "The Castle" — and as it rose from 

 the pine forest, crowning a low ridge, it seemed like a 

 time-battered ruin of the middle ages. Near this castle 

 was Hoyt's ranch and we easily followed the tracks in 

 the dust made in the gray of the morning by Perry and 

 Ted. Nor were these the only tracks we saw, for we 

 were approaching a land of big bucks, and once we saw 

 the plain footprint of a "kitty." We traveled slowly, 

 wasting a great deal of ammunition with little to show 

 for it, but it was necessary for the team to rest frequently. 

 Botanioally, the morning was memorable for its onotheras 

 and phloxes. 



At 1 1 o'clock we reached Hoyt's and found that our ' 

 comrades, failing to get a deer, had indulged in the lux- 

 ury of a shave. Thereupon the rest of the outfit followed 

 suit. There was a reason for this. We expected to camp 

 for the night at Seegmiller's ranch and there were two 1 

 young ladies there who, during the past year, had been 

 fellow-students with Andrew, Perry a,nd Ted. Leaving 

 Hoyt's at 2 o'clock Tim put on an extra team, which took 

 us to the summit in quick time. 



Of course we had to stop on the ridge to take in the 

 grand view. The heavy timber obstructed the outlook in 

 many directions, but toward the north and east, far as 

 the eye could reach, was the white wall of the East Fork, 

 and to the south and west ran the pink wall and the 

 tawny cliffs of the cretaceous, and the white of the juas- 

 sic and, like a narrow ribbon, against the gray of the 

 desert, the rich maroon of the Trias, and beyond that, 

 where earth mingled with the southern sky, the hazy 

 purple of the Buckskins, 100 miles away. Then downhill 

 we went, along our zig-zag journey into the great basin 

 of the Colorado; out of the land of high plateaus and into 

 the district of tables and terraces, of buttes and mesas, of 

 cliffs and cafions. The aspens gave place to the oaks and 

 we found a realm of geological and botanical antitheses. 



To quote from Capt. Dutton's report: 



"The region is for the most part a desert of the barren- 

 est kind. At levels below 7,000ft. the heat is intense and 

 the air is dry in the extreme. The vegetation is very 

 scanty, and even the ubiquitous sage is sparse and stunted. 

 Here and there the cedar is seen, the hardiest of arbor- 

 escent plants, but it is dwarfed and sickly and seeks the 

 shadiest nooks. At higher levels the vegetation becomes 

 more abundant and varied. Above 8,000ft. the plateaus 

 are forest-clad and the ground is carpeted with rank grass 

 and an exuberant growth of beautiful summer flowers. 

 The summers there are cool and moist, the winters severe 

 and attended with heavy snowfall." 



Crossing the headwaters of the Rio Virgin, we skirted 

 for many miles the base of the highest of the great ter- 

 races, between the forest and the desert. Then without 

 any appreciable fall in elevation we came to a cultivated 

 plain, perhaps half a mile across. On the further side 

 were the pink cliffs, and this was the valley of Upper 

 Kanab Creek. Before us was a ranch with a very large 

 barn and a diminutive house. Thinking that this might 

 be our stopping place we sent Collie (the most susceptible 

 member of the party) forward to reconnoiter and get 

 directions. As he failed to materialize as soon as we ex- 

 pected, we went in search of him and found him perched 

 upon the gate and singing "Sweet Marie" in true Texas 

 style. He informed us that he had fallen in love. He 

 went to the door and knocked. A damsel "with bay hair, 

 an open countenance and one eye gray and one brown" 

 presently appeared. Of her he asked, "Does Mr. Seeg- 

 miller live here?" She, vouchsafing no reply, shut the 

 door, but upon his rendering the first stanza of "Sweet 

 Marie" in his pathetic manner the door was again opened 

 and he was informed that Mr. Seegmiller lived two miles 

 up the creek. Thereupon the vision disappeared, and 

 Collie had gone on with the song in hopes that the curtain 

 would once mere rise upon the bay-haired beauty. 



The ranches of Upper Kanab were much more attrac- 

 tive than those that we had seen on the Upper Sevier. 

 There was a wealth of hay and grain on the bottomlands 

 and rich feed on the hillsides. The houses were large 

 and comfortable. Barns were barns and not Bheds, and 

 the cattle and horses were all well-bred and not the ( 

 ordinary Utah range stock. The valley narrowed into a 

 gateway. One road was steep to the top of the portal, • 

 then — where the pink cliffs made a mighty re-entrant 

 angle into the heart of the Markagunt plateau, lay in all 

 its beauty Vermilion Ranch. There was the emerald of ' 

 the grain, the deeper verdure of orchard and of native 

 grass, the purple of the half -blossomed lucerne; the,n a 

 background of deciduous timber, the leaves a silvery 

 white in the slanting light of the afternoon, and after 

 all, around the whole valley, the delicate tinting and fan- 

 tastic forms of the eocene cliffs varying, in the rays of 

 the setting sun, from salmon pink to rosy red and 

 crowned with a black row of giant pineB that marked 

 the rim of the Great Basin. 



It had been my good fortune on my trip to Long Valley 

 the previous week to meet Mr. Seegmiller (familiarly 

 known as "Uncle Dan") and our camping on his ranch 

 showed our hearty appreciation of his tmost courteous 



