Dec. 21, 1895.] 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



walked thirty miles on good roads. Fay, with his heavy 

 pack, kept on ahead, his trail leaving a succession of holes 

 2ft. deep in the soft snow. Brandis's shoes got wet and 

 soft, and let him down deep at every step. The last mile, 

 over an old logging trail, was almost too much for all of 

 us, Norris stopping several times for rest. At last we 

 desperately plunged through the heavy snow into a little 

 open spot and came upon the habitation which was to give 

 us shelter for the night, an old abandoned camp once 

 used by the loggers, and now left bare except for a couple 

 of bunks half filled with hay and boughs. ThiB place our 

 trappers used as one of their night camps, and they called 

 it the "Porcupine Camp." J 



By the time we got up to the camp Fay was already in 

 and had cut a pile of wood for the night's supply. The 

 trapper who runs a line in winter has small time for rest. 

 He must be a beast of burden on the trail all day, and at 

 night must work for a place to eat and sleep. He does 

 not come into a warm room at the end of his day's work, 

 but must get his own fuel and cook his own supper. I 

 know of no calling asking more difficult or continuous 

 exertion of a man. 



Our little log house was cold and cheerless when we 

 went in, but we soon had a fire and before long a tin pail 

 of beans and a cup of tea made us forget most of our 

 miseries. Then we dried our socks and also dried out, as 

 slowly as we could, the webbing of the snowshoes, which 

 was soft and stretched on all our shoes. Our trappers 

 said they had rarely had worse shoeing. After that Fay 

 skinned out his two marten, "casing" the skin and strip- 

 ping out the tail bone fearlessly between his thumb nail 

 and finger. Both he and Brandis accepted the luck of the 

 day philosophically, and no one grumbled over the food 

 ;>r the beds, we may be sure, although it was necessary to 

 put on all one's extra clothing to piece out the blankets 

 we had been able to carry. 



"This is a good camp, and you're all right here," said 

 Fay, "but you wait till to-morrow night. The trail is 

 longer and harder, and you'll have to sleep without any 

 roof." 



This, however, did not frighten us, for we all had 

 reached that happy stage of philosophy which does not 

 fret much about to-morrow so long as the beans and tea 

 hold out to-day. 



Deep In the Wilderness. 

 Our journey for the next day was to be admittedly at 

 least fifteen miles (I think it was at least twenty); so we 

 got an early start. The temperature had dropped and the 

 snow had settled, so that the shoeing was not so bad. 

 The country, however, was worse, being for much of the 

 way a succession of sharp hog-backs, with about four 

 miles of a nearly impenetrable cedar swamp, where we 

 stumbled over logs and roots, and crawled under low 

 brush and had a generally awful time of it with the 

 shoes and packs. This swamp was worse than twice the 

 distance of forest trail, and we were heartily glad to get 

 through it. It was a grand place for fur, but it happened 

 we caught nothing in it. Indeed, up to noon we found 

 nothing except one marten. This marten was alive, and 

 as Fay came up it made a jump and broke away from 

 the trap. Fay struck at it with the axe and luckily hit 

 it, or it would have escaped. Usually the small animals 

 are frozen to death when found. We found one marten 

 curled up in a little round ball about the trap as if asleep. 

 It was frozen solid, and was carried so into camp. I 

 could never get over the cruel features of trapping, and 

 cannot say I like the idea of it on general principles. But 

 the trapper cannot think of that, of course. 



Lunch and an Otter. 



Fay had a side trail of about two miles and back to a 

 spring hole where he had set a trap for an otter. He left 

 his pack at the point where he left the main trail. "I 

 ought to get an otter," he said, "but I expected to show 

 you a fisher before this, and we haven't got any, so may 

 be we won't have any otter. You'd better not go along, 

 for you may have the walk for nothing." The rest of us 

 accordingly stayed on the main trail, hunted up a warm 

 hollow, smashed down a dead cedar tree, and tramping 

 down a place in the snow, went into camp for the pur- 

 pose of making tea. 



We had finished our lunch, and had a vessel of tea wait- 

 ing for Fay when that vigorous youngster appeared, 

 rocking along at a good clip over the snow. Under his 

 arm he carried a long, black, round and slippery-looking 

 object, which he cast down in the snow near us. 



"There's your otter," said he. "Gimme some tea." 



So here he was, a very beautiful, wild-looking creature, 

 with round, flat head, short legs, and sinewy, graceful 

 body. In coat he was dark and prime, worth between 

 $7 and $10, Fay thought, at the current prices. 



An otter weighs, I should think, between 15 and 201bs. , 

 being about as heavy as lead for its size. I expected, 

 therefore, to see Fay Btop and skin the otter, so as to avoid 

 carrying so much weight. He said, however, that it was 

 too cold to do a good job at skinning, and so slung the 

 beast on top of his pack and carried it eight miles into camp. 

 We all had a hard day of it that day, and we were all 

 tired, even Fay, when we reached camp, just before 

 dusk. 



Wigwam Camp No. 3. 



This camp was the one called by our trappers the "Wig- 

 wam Camp No. 8," being one of temporary shelter used by 

 them when running the trail. I imagine that if one 

 should show this structure to a man in the city at the close 

 of a hard day's work, with the thermometer getting down 

 toward zero, and tell him that he had to spend the night 

 there, he would faint away at the prospect. As we came 

 jp our house seemed to be merely a conical pile of snow. 

 Examination proved the cone to be hollow and without 

 any top. As I puBhed aside the slabs which served as a 

 door to this hollow cone, I found the inside filled with 

 snow. The temperature was precisely that of a good 

 refrigerator. The wind was now blowing very cold, and 

 I confess the prospect of a night for four men in such close 

 quarters seemed at first a bit cheerless. It was a part of 

 the play, however, so we set to work shoveling snow and 

 cutting firewood. 



This "wigwam" camp was unlike any I have ever seen 

 in the woods. Fay and Frank made it one day in the 

 fall when they were setting their line of traps, and they 

 thought it a pretty good house. There was a circular 

 lodge with an open top, made by setting together small 

 trees, logs, slabs and bark. In the center of this was the 

 place for the fire. At one side of the lodge was a little 

 hole in the wall, going back into a little log lean-to about 



4ft. square^with'its front, r about 4ft. high, opening on the 

 fire, and its roof running back to about 3ft. in the rear. 

 This little lean-to was built by driving stakes into the 

 ground (before the frost came) and laying up logs for 

 sides and roof. Then the whole had bark thrown over it 

 and a covering of dirt. The walls of the wigwam took 

 in this little cove, which was only large enough for one 

 man to lie in comfortably. Of course he would have 

 to keep the fire going all night, but by this means he could 

 doze through the night after a fashion. Fay usually ran 

 this trail alone, and the "house" was built for him alone. 

 It was looked upon as a very ambitious structure. 



Here I really felt badly for imposing on our trapping 

 friends. Our joining them meant extra work, and here 

 it meant extra discomfort. The two generous fellows in- 

 sisted that Norris and I should occupy the lean-to, while 

 they bunked back under the shelter of the lodge roof. 

 Norris and I made a very uncomfortable night of it in 

 our cramped quarters, and slept but little (though I went 

 to sleep long enough to burn the toe out of my heavy 

 German sock). Whenever I awoke out of the troubled 

 and shivering doze which made the nearest approach to 

 rest, I could see Brandis sitting on the boughs across the 

 wigwam, his head just inside of the steady drip, drip of 

 the melting snow which leaked down from the edge of 

 tho roof, his hat pulled over his eyes, his arms on his 

 knees, and his pipe going in slow, deliberate puffs. He 

 may have smoked in his sleep, sitting up, but I am sure 

 he smoked all night. Fay, poor boy, was very tired, and 

 slept at least part of the time. Before he lay down under 

 the lodge poles he skinned his otter, hanging him up by a 

 hay fire, and working by firelight. The skin was cased, 

 the tail being deftly slipped out by clamping a bent stick 

 each side of the bone. 



It came on bitterly cold that night, and the wind rose, 

 so that it was very hard to keep warm enough, even in 



JOE BLAIR — TRAPPER AND GUIDE, 



the lean-to, which evinced many cold cracks as soon as 

 the fire went down. We all turned out smoky, grimy 

 and not very brilliant in the morning after our indiffer- 

 ent night of it, but a cup of tea put a better look on 

 things. We found our snowshoes and socks dry enough, 

 and by the time the sun was an hour high we were on 

 the trail again. 



Along the Presque Isle. 



Our camp was upon the banks of the Presque Isle River, 

 and our trail for a few miles lay directly along the river, 

 where we had to look for air holes and rapids. Near the 

 camp was a bit of open water, but we found no sign of 

 otter at that time. 



We were now headed back for the main camp on Turtle 

 Lake, a distance of over twenty miles. About six miles 

 of the trail waB over lakes (we crossed four lakes, I be- 

 lieve), and when we got to this open country we made 

 fast time. On the lakes the wind struck us, and this 

 made all the difference in the world. It was so much 

 colder that we were willing to travel at top speed to get 

 across. In the woods the snow was fluffy and not first- 

 class for shoeing. On Harris Lake we missed striking 

 the blazed trail on the opposite side, as the snow had 

 drifted over the old snowshoe trail. The lake shore all 

 looked alike in its regular edge of black pines. Here a 

 tenderfoot would have been lost. Indeed we all enjoyed, 

 for about thirty minutes, the sensation of being lost in 

 the wilderness, for we missed the trail about a quarter of 

 a mile. At length we found it, however, and so forged 

 on again. We made tea at noon in a warm valley, and 

 by 4 o'clock were at the edge of Turtle Lake. A detour 

 of a quarter of a mile took me to where I had left my 

 shis two days before. This was the same as being in 

 camp for me, as I now slid along on top of the snow in- 

 stead of sinking into it, and made the couple of miles' in 

 comfort. "I must make me a pair of thern things for 

 traveling on the lakes," said Brandis. 



We reveled that night in the luxuries of the main 

 camp: abundant food, good beds and plenty of warmth. 

 But before bed-time came much had to be done. There 

 was wood to be cut, bread to be baked, and a lot of other 

 "chores." After supper Fay carefully fleshed his otter 

 skin, putting it over a round beam kept for that 

 purpose, and rubbing it carefully with the back of a 

 drawing knife. The part of the skin over the shoulders 

 is especially hard to flesh out, the membranes and fat 

 clinging to the hide in the most obstinate manner. Care 

 must be taken not to leave any flesh on, yet not to scrape 

 the hide too thin, so that the hairs will pull through. No 



skin is so difficult as that of the otter to care for properly. 

 It took Fay, skillful as he was, over an hour of hard work 

 before he was satisfied the skin was all right. The last 

 thing done was to mount the skin on a "spreader." The 

 "spreader" or "stretcher" is made of two tapering strips 

 of inch board, beveled to an edge outside and curved at 

 the smaller end. A thinner strip, wedge shaped, travels 

 between these two in a groove. The skin is turned inside 

 out and the lips tacked with small nails to the ends of the 

 boards pushed down into the head. The wedge is then 

 driven in, and the skin is stretched tightly. It must not 

 be stretched too tightly, or the fur will show too thin. 

 The skin is nailed to the board at the other end also, and 

 the tail is split out and carefully nailed out flat all along 

 its edge. No salt or anything whatever is put on the skin, 

 and it is not allowed near a fire, as that would start grease 

 into the hair. It is simply allowed to dry in the air. All 

 fur is treated this way. Marten skins are stretched the 

 same way. An otter board is about 5ft. long, and the 

 skin when stretched is much longer and wider than when 

 on the animal. 



The Luck of the Day. 

 Our last day on the wilderness trail was not one of the 

 lucky ones, and even Fay lo3t his temper over the fate 

 that seemed to haunt the line. We caught one owl, one 

 squirrel, three birds, two weasels, several rabbits and one 

 rabbit's foot, with only one marten to vary the monotony 

 of the hard luck. I suppose our total catch on the round 

 trip was worth $20 or $25. The two Bucks, father and 

 son, and Brandis, who was in partnership with them, 

 would probably clear up $500 for their winter's work. The 

 best of the catch was over when we were there. The 

 snow was getting so bad that the trappers thought they 

 would soon take up most of the traps. Marten fur gets 

 "rusty" so late as April, but it did not pay to run the line 

 far into March. 



Fast Travel Home. 



Brandis had a twenty-mile line over to the Black River 

 region, and it was now time for him to run this line. We 

 therefore left him alone at the main camp, it being 

 thought best for the rest of us to return to the railroad. I 

 said good-bye to Brandis with regret. He is much of a 

 character and a fine fellow to be out with. I do not know 

 of any better muscallonge or better deer country than 

 these two, Fay Buck and Frank Brandis, can show, and I 

 do not think two better or more competent guides exist 

 anywhere. Certainly they were very kind and careful 

 with us, and I do not forget them for it. 



Fay Buck, Norris and I started from the Turtle Lake 

 camp for Manitowish on a bright winter day, and traveled 

 steadily, with pretty fair shoeing. We ate lunch at the 

 logging camp near Circle Lily Lake. From there in to 

 Manitowish the sled road was now perfectly broken out, 

 so we slung our shoes over our backs and walked in afoot. 

 We wanted to catch the 3 P. M. train up to Mercer, which 

 would save us three miles of walking, so we struck a good 

 gait, and made the last five miles in just an hour and fif- 

 teen minutes, which in view of our packs was fast travel- 

 ing. I have rarely met a better walker or packer than 

 Fay Buck. 



*At Mercer I stopped with the Bucks over a day, Norris 

 going on home to Chicago. I visited an abandoned 

 wickiup which a fishing party of Winnebago Indians from 

 the Flambeau Reservation had recently abandoned. These 

 Winnebagoes are fond of ice fishing (spearing), and the 

 jaw bones of many muscallonge showed they had been 

 successful here. A great heap of deer hair showed they 

 had been tanning deer hides. There were deer feet and 

 legs about, and pieces of partridge skins, and worn-out 

 moccasins. In the wickiup I found rolls of cordage made 

 of elm bark. Here also I found an Indian curio with 

 which_ for a long time I puzzled callers at the For- 

 est and Stream office — an odd sort of rough racquet, 

 made by splitting a stick into three limbs and braiding 

 across these with splints. I found no one who could tell 

 me what this was. Some thought it a dish to keep meat 

 warm upon at the fireside. At length Joe Blair, an old 

 trapper on Lake St. Germaine, told me that my enigmati- 

 cal implement was a tobacco-drier, used by the Indians in 

 curing their strips of kinnikinick over the fire. In my 

 Indian wickiup I saw the architectural origin of the 

 "wigwam" camp of our trapper friends. It had the cir- 

 cular form, but had no lean-to or sleeping apartment. 

 The Indian family slept around the circle, back under the 

 sloping sides, the fire being in the center and the roof open 

 in the middle, as our wigwam was. A piece of a rag and 

 a thick, bushy balsam bough had served for a door to this 

 winter house. I made out the party to have been two 

 men, three women and three children. The poles of their 

 house were unromantically fastened with hay wire, that 

 great convenience of the pine country. Hay wire is to 

 the pine woods dweller what rawhide is to a Mexican. 

 There is no hay except store hay in the lumber regions. 

 Nothing can be raised there and probably the region never 

 will be farmed. It is the Wilderness, the home of the 

 trapper and of the Indian, albeit the latter does use wire 

 instead of thongs. 



I was obliged to leave Mr. Buck and his stories, Mrs. 

 Buck and her sausage, and Fay Buck and his furs after 

 awhile, and was reluctant to do it, one may be sure. I 

 am going to see them all again some time. It seemed to 

 me that Forest and Stream needed yet a little rougher 

 and wilder trapping trip, and a little further look into the 

 ways of the Northern trappers. These things I thought 

 might perhaps be found along the Manitowish and Wis- 

 consin River waters, where I had word of another trapper 

 or two. I accordingly dropped down along the North- 

 western Railway to Woodruff, Wis., out of which town 

 the second part of the trip was made. E. Hough. 



909 Security Building, Chicago. 



Mr. Burnham's Moose. 



Mr. J. B. Burnham, of the Forest and Stream, went 

 up into Maine for a moose the other day and got it. This 

 he does not deny, but he wishes it understood that he did 

 not write nor cause to be printed the special dispatch 

 dated in this office and printed last week announcing the 

 moose capture. The note was written by the trap editor, 

 its printing was encompassed by the kennel editor, and 

 the only person concerned who knew nothing of it what- 

 ever was Mr. Burnham himself. While it is pleasant 

 enough to wake up of a morning and find one's self famous, 

 Mr. Burnham claims the privilege of telling about his 

 own moose in his own way, and in his own chosen time; 

 and when that time comes the reader of these pages will 

 have a moose story worth the following. 



