410 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[Dec. 11, 1890. 



^parkni&n tourist 

 STILL-HUNTING. 



A WINTER IN MICH IGAN.-l . 



BY NESSMUK. 



SOME 280 miles west of New York city stands the vil- 

 lage of Corning, at which point the Corning & 

 Blossburg Railroad intersects with the Erie Railway. 

 Suppose, reader, if you be a dweller in Gotham and have 

 a hankering for fresh woods mold and a natural carpet of 

 gold and crimson — if you have a taste for the rifle and 

 can man the breech end of one effectually — suppose, I 

 say, you leave your ledger for a week and come to the 

 forest with me; it is likely you may not only find pleas- 

 ure, but ultimately profit thereby. 



An all-night ride shall take us from Jersey City to 

 Corning, and here we lay off just long enough for a 

 royal breakfast. "We leave Corning on the Blossburg 

 cars and have an exceedingly pleasant ride of twenty- 

 five miles, the country rapidly getting more mountainous 

 and woodsy; also, it begins to wear a look decidedly sug- 

 gestive of venison. 



The last twenty-five miles has brought us to Berry's 

 Bridge, and here we bid adieu to railroads, taking the 

 "covered conveniency" called a stage, and making the next 

 seventeen miles over a very decent plank road, to Wells- 

 boro. Here we may as well decide on taking it easy. 

 For the last twelve miles our road has followed a winding 

 valley inclosed on either side by steep hills, and the face 

 of the country has rapidly grown wilder, until, as we 

 approach within three miles of Wellsboro, you may look 

 off your course to the right, and see, stretching away to 

 the westward for miles, the sharp, pine-crested ridges 

 which inclose the valley of Marsh Creek, or, as the chart 

 has it, "Third Fork." We are now in a game region. 

 There is not a ridge or point in sight on which a man may 

 not find fresh deer sign, but we will not desert the slow- 

 going conveniency yet. Three miles further and we are 

 in Wellsboro, a clean, quiet country village of wide streets 

 and many shade trees. Here, as the stage goes no further, 

 we may as well clamber out, have a wholesome dinner, 

 and a cigar, after which we will make speedy preparation 

 for the woods. 



As for me, my knapsack is always at hand with a mis- 

 cellaneous assortment of small stores ready packed, and 

 yours — you have none? Let me tell you how to make and 

 pack one in fifteen minutes. All country stores have 

 grain bags for sale; buy one, and holding it perpendicu- 

 larly, drop a small apple or potato into the lower corner 

 of the bag directly under the stout strings which are 

 fastened above; now bring the upper and lower corners 

 of the bag together, tying the strings firmly around the 

 latter, and you have just as good a knapsack as a hunter 

 need carry, with this recommendation, that it may be 

 gotten up on five minutes notice, including the time spent 

 in purchase, and we have need to hurry. Already it is 

 past one, and the Cedar Run "mud-jerker" starts at two 

 with the mail and as many passengers as choose to risk 

 the dug roads between here and Jersey shore. 



As it will save us several miles of tedious walking we 

 will chance the "mud jerker" and thedugroads; and now 

 for the packing, and first of all the small stores. First, 

 4oz. best green tea, 8oz. best sweet cavendish, three or 

 four short-stemmed clays, lib. butter, a broad tin cup 

 holding three half -pints, some salt, a compass, a small 

 towel and a bit of hard soap, match-safe, tomahawk and 

 a light, well-made knife, 61bs. breadstuff s of 3ome kind- 

 rye is best in the woods, but anything in the bread line 

 will answer— your ammunition, blanket, and an extra 

 flannel shirt, a flour sack which you may buy for a dime, 

 with a yard of cotton flannel completes the outfit, and 

 should enable you to keep the woods for a month. En- 

 velop the butter in a wet cloth, press it firmly into the 

 tin cup, wrap the cotton flannel around it, and drop it 

 with the other small stores into the bottom of the knap- 

 sack. The lower part of your blanket should be double 

 and sewed up like a bag as high as your armpits, leaving 

 the upper portion free to be wrapped about your head and 

 shoulders as convenience or the weather may dictate. If 

 it be made thus, put your bread in the flour sack and the 



twelve to eighteen miles in length. To the southeast lies 

 a succession of mountainous ridges, shaggily whiskered 

 to their very brows, on each and all of which deer are 

 yet somewhat abundant. To the eastward is a narrow 

 valley, and down this flows the Blockhouse Run, another 

 good trout stream; between Blockhouse Run and Second 

 Fork is a high ridge, around the point of which the 

 former sweeps, while the eye may trace the course of 

 the latter for miles up and off to the northeast. Of all 

 the many points and spurs in sight from where stand 

 there is none more steep and rugged than the one be- 

 tween Second Fork and Blockhouse Run; it terminates 

 abruptly half a mile to the eastward, and directly up that 

 spur, straight by the jagged, pine-crowned rocks near 

 the top, lies our route; from the highest point of it we 

 will follow the crest of the ridge some four miles to the 

 northeast, then leaving Second Fork to our left turn 

 down the hill a short distance into a basin, where rises a 

 small stream, which empties into Blockhouse Run, and 

 in the head of that basin — at the "utmost spring" of the 

 aforesaid stream — stands the shanty, where for a couple 

 of weeks, more or less, we may hunt and ruralize to our 

 hearts' content. 



We will not go there to-night, however, partly because 

 it is capital hunting on the ridge and we wish to "go 

 slow" — partly because we couldn't get there if we tried. 

 Neither will we stay over night at the one-horse tavern 

 on the flat, though to do him justice. Friend Crawford 

 gives a capital spread for a country inn. It happens, 

 however, that we did not come here to sit in conventional 

 chairs at civilized tables, nor to sleep in a bed, or under 

 shingles, or for any tame or civilized purpose whatever; 

 had we cared for such vanities, we had not left the flesh- 

 pots of Gotham and the fatness thereof. But across the 

 cleared flat and up the point, by the huge rocks with their 

 feathery tufts of stunted pines, up, still up, and at last 

 we are at the summit. And now, as you are full of short 

 breaths, sit down for a five-minutes' rest while you take 

 a more extended survey of the country. To the east, the 

 west, the south, far as the eye dan command the view, 

 forest and mountain; not a clearing nor a vestige of civili- 

 zation in sight, save on the flat below. Could you get a 

 view for fifty miles to the west and southwest, you would 

 see only mountains and forests, while in other directions 

 the clearings, though somewhat nearer, are mostly from 

 ten to twenty miles distant. Take the hint, and should 

 you chance to wound a deer, do not follow too fast and 

 too far. 



And now, as the edge of a mild October sun seems to 

 touch the hazy, smoky ridge to the west of us, we will 

 don our knapsacks again, but only for a trifling walk of 

 some fifty rods, which brings us to the "Rock Shanty," 

 where we are to camp for the night. You might pass 

 the huge rock which bears the above name scores of 

 times without suspecting the "shanty" part of it; even if 

 you noticed the jutting shelf at the southeast end you 

 would hardly think it might afford comfortable shelter 

 for three or four men; it will do so, however, though, 

 from its vicinity to the clearing, it is seldom used as a 

 camp, save by some hunter who prefers the bracing out- 

 door air and the crisp balmy fragrance of hemlock 

 browse, to a close room with the smell of feathers and 

 cabinet ware. 



At the Rock Shanty we have the three indispensable 

 requisites for a comfortable camp, viz. : wood, water and 

 browse. The latter is at hand among the bushy young 

 hemlocks, there is a clear, cold spring in a tiny basin 

 some 20yds. east of the rock, while several uprooted hem- 

 locks of huge dimensions will furnish an abundance of 

 thick, resinous bark, than which there is nothing better 

 for a camp-fire. An hour's busy work with the camp 

 axe and tomahawk gives us an abundance of feathers, 

 and a rousing fire built with green beech sticks, chinked 

 in thickly with dry bark. While the fire is giving out 

 its bright, crackling blaze, let us get out and overhaul 

 the knapsacks; first, take the bread from the flour sacks 

 arid envelope it in a newspaper, then take the butter out 

 of the cups, lay the former on the rock away from the 

 heat and fill the latter at the spring, setting them to boil 

 while we get out the tea and slice some bread. When 

 the water boils very hard (not before) take the cups from 

 the fire, let them stand a minute to cool, then add the 

 tea, and putting them back again, let the tea boil fiercely 

 for one minute, take quickly away from the fire and 

 smoke and your tea is made as well as the best French 

 cook could do it. 



sack in the bag part of the blanket, wrap the latter snugly Much of the discomfort experienced by tyros in camo- 

 together and put it in the knapsack; now don the latter ' ing out comes of not knowing "how to do it " rather 



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by putting your head and right arm through in such a 

 manner as to bring the mouth of the bag in front, with 

 the weight mostly bearing on the left shoulder. Not a bad 

 impromptu knapsack, you will admit, and it weighs with 

 its contents less than 121bs., which, with the addition of 



than of necessity; there is, as a rule, no need of drinking 

 tea that tastes like a mild, infusion of creosote, nor of 

 catching cold through sleeping with your back to the 

 damp earth, nor of tiring yourself out the first day, nor 



its contents less than 121bs., which, with the addition of of making yourself miserable and sick in any way or 

 a 101b. rifle, is as much as an ordinary man cares to tote manner whatever. One suffers enough in the clearings 



But "Hi" is waiting for us, so placing our camp impedi- 

 menta in the mail wagon we jump aboard, Hi touches up 



the ready team and we are heading for camp at a rattling 

 pace. The pace only holds for some five miles, however, 

 when it becomes, for the horses, a weary, muddy drag. 

 We are on Wilson's Creek, going due south down a nar- 

 row valley with a high mountain ridge on either Bide. 

 The ridge on our right separates Wilson's Creek from 

 Stony Fork, while the steep mountainous ridge on our 

 left divides Wilson's Creek from Second Fork or Beaver 

 Creek. 



As we pass the last vestige of a clearing and enter the 

 narrow hemlock- shaded valley it becomes evident that 

 walking is easier than riding, and we take to our feet 

 accordingly, leaving Hi to navigate the mud-jerker to 

 the best of his ability. We are willing to pay our fare 

 and then foot it, but we will carry no rails to pry out 

 with. 



Five miles of southing takes us out of the woods, and 

 we bend to the last, pass around the end of the high 

 ridge, which has loomed on our left for the last seven 

 mdes, and Hi stops in front of a wood-colored building 

 to change the mail. We can ride no further; our route 

 from here lies in a northwest direction, and while the 

 mail is changing let us take the lay of the land. We 

 have made ten miles of southing, one of easting and are 

 now standing on the rustic bridge which spang Second 

 Fork. To the southeast lies a mountain ridge, which ter- 

 minates in an abrupt spur a mile below where we stand. 

 Just where Second Fork sweeps its base Wilson's Creek 

 empties, and on the lower side of the spur Stony Fork 

 comes in— all three beautiful trout streams of from 



igh in the clearings 



—especially in villages and cities— let us at least enjoy 

 freedom in the forest for the few weeks or months it 

 may be permitted us to sojourn therein. Wherefore, 

 having finished our simple meal, let us put the flour 

 sacks to use by filling them with fine picked browse and 

 making pillows of them; not a bad idea you will admit 

 after trying it one night, also, you will find that it pays 

 to spend an hour in picking an extra quantity of browse 

 and arranging the camp so that you are morally sure of 

 a healthful comfortable night's rest. It does one no 

 harm to get well fatigued through the. day, but to enjoy 

 the sport one must fairly recuperate his exhausted ener- 

 gies by a good rest at night and rise from his bed of 

 browse in the morning fresh and lively. 



And now that we are snugly settled for the night, with 

 the pipes drawing to perfection and the fire burning so 

 cheerily that even I, who delights to poke a camp-fire, 

 am content to let it burn in peace, how shall we pass the 

 hour or two that intervenes between supper and bed 

 time? Shall we spin yarns? Content, though to say truth 

 I have spun them so often that I begin to tire of them 

 myself. Suppose I discourse of a trip that Neil Miller 

 and I once took to the Muskegon in search of sport and 

 adventure— not that anything wonderful in the way of 

 adventure or sport ever came of it, but somehow my 

 mind reverts to that trip more frequently than to any one 

 of the many I have made; also it was "the turning point 

 in life" for one of the parties and came tolerably near 

 being the turning point out of life for the other. We 

 have a spare hour oh our hands, let me perforate your 

 patience with a drowsy yarn. 



Ned Miller and myself were hunting chums and sworn 



friends for years. We are friends yet, though Ned hunts 

 but seldom, having "of his own domestic cares" to a 

 pretty considerable extent (i. e., a wife and seven chil- 

 dren. It is nine years this blessed autumn since Ned and 

 I climbed the point and stopped at the Rock shanty on 

 our way to the head of Bear Run. All through the long 

 hot summer we had looked forward to the time when 

 the first autumn frosts should have made hunting pleas- 

 ant as well as practicable and legitimate. Of fen on a 

 hot summer's eve had we met to discuss the merits of 

 various localities, finally agreeing on the vast forest 

 region lying in the southeast portion of Tioga county as 

 affording; the best promise for still-hunting; and just at 

 snndown of a glorious October day we unshmg our knap- 

 sacks at this very Rock Shanty. Hardly had we got a 

 fire started, when we were joined by Sam Hoover, a man 

 whose life was passed almost entirely in the woods, and 

 who was usually conceded to know more of the deer's 

 habits than any hunter in the country. He had been 

 prospecting the swamps about the head of Bear Run and 

 thence to Little Pine Creek, with the intention of hunt- 

 ing and trapping through the fall and winter, but had 

 ' 'found the sign so sca'ce that he was goin' to peg out for 

 the West. Anybody could have his chances in them 

 woods 'at wanted 'em. He knowed a place in Gratiot 

 county, Michigan, whar ther' was bar, an' no mistake. 

 He was jest goin' to tote his plunder out thar, and the 

 devil might hunt Tioge county for him. He had hunted 

 a week an' only got one shot— a runnin' shot at that." 



This put a new face on our pet project. If old Sam 

 couldn't kill a deer in a week's hunt we might as well 

 subside on the venison question, and after several con- 

 ference pipes we decided to take the back track in the 

 morning, go home, take three or four days in which to get 

 a good ready, take our guns, traps, camp equipage and 

 selves to Buffalo, thence to Canada or Michigan as the 

 spirit might move us, and spend the entire fall and winter 

 months in the depths of the forest. That would be some- 

 thing like hunting we both said and thought. In the 

 morning we ate what we wished of our provisions, gave 

 old Sam the rest (he seemed mighty tickled at the gift, 

 somehow), and pulled out for home, where we got 

 laughed at "consumedly," but we kept our own counsel 

 and quietly made our little arrangements for a rather 

 protracted absence. 



Now, it frequently happened that it became necessary 

 to confer with Ned concerning said arrangements, and I 

 always had to go over to his mother's for the purpose of 

 finding him. It further usually happened that Ned wasn't 

 at home, but was to be found half a mile further on at 

 the widow Needham's. The widow was a decidedly good 

 looking, well-preserved woman of thirty-six, and her 

 daughter Hannah was a rustic beauty of the first water. 

 Round and shapely about the waist, plump in the bows, a 

 clear, rosy complexion and good teeth, with a dark, 

 wicked looking eye, she was well calculated to upset the 

 mental equilibrium of soft-hearted fellows, such as Ned 

 was at that time. Moreover, she had an appetite, and 

 wasn't ashamed to eat — a good sign of common sense in a 

 young woman, as you may have had occasion to observe. 

 She had a pleasant knack of getting good dinners, too, 

 and was not ashamed of that, either. On the whole, few 

 families got along more pleasantly or comfortably than 

 the widow Needham's, consisting of herself, daughter, 

 and a hired man, one Jonas Sprague from "C'netticut," 

 as he always pronounced it. There was no good reason 

 why the widow and her lively daughter should not get 

 on comfortably and enjoy life to the utmost. They were 

 industrious, healthy, had the good will of the whole 

 country side, and were "well-to-do." Also, they were 

 both indisputably good-looking, and never quarreled. 

 At church you would have taken them for sisters rather 

 than mother and daughter, and premising that matri- 

 mony is a predestined and necessary evil (which admits 

 of a doubt) a man might have been excused for falling in 

 love with either, or both. 



Deacon Needham, peace to his manes, had made his 

 advent into this wicked world somewhere in Connecti- 

 cut, had there learned to tan and curry hides and skins, 

 had worked faithfully at it until the age of thirty, at 

 which time he was the possessor of fifteen hundred dol- 

 lars and a deaconcy in "the Fuust P'esbyteeian Chuuch," 

 as the Connecticut Yankees (who can't sound an r in the 

 middle of a word, though they think they can) usually 

 pronounce it. About this time the deacon's mind became 

 sorely exercised on the high and increasing price of 

 bark— a subject that lay near his heart— and he thought 

 long and deeply on it. The result of his cogitations was, 

 that although bark would not bear transportation, hides 

 and leather would. So the deacon turned his worldly 

 possessions into hard cash, bestrode the ewe-necked old 

 mare that had been the motive power of the bark mill 

 for ten years, and taking his papers from the church, 

 wended his way westward. Land, particularly hemlock 

 land, was cheap on all the upper streams of the Susque- 

 hanna at that day, and the deacon bought 300 acres, 

 erected a tannery, sent for his man Jonas, who was then 

 a youngster of sixteen, put out a sign offering "Cash for 

 Hides and Skins," and settled quietly into a thrifty, pay- 

 ing business. 



Nearly twenty years of the deacon's life had been passed 

 away in improving his land, enlarging his business, and 

 attending to his social duties like a good citizen and a 

 Christian, when his man Jonas, now advanced to old 

 bachelorhood, received a letter from a niece in the land, 

 of wooden nutmegs requesting information as to the 

 chances for a school teacher, or, the letter added, a good 

 housekeeper. She could keep house, teach school, sew or 

 weave. Inclosed was a recommendation from the minis- 

 ter setting forth the good qualities and piety of Hannah 

 Sprague, and declaring her "capable of managing a 

 school, a dairy, or a well ordered household." A pretty 

 strong recommendation for a damsel of seventeen sum- 

 mers, and as it turned out a well-deserved one. Jonas 

 conferred with the deacon and showed him the letter. 

 Now the deacon had, like a true Yankee that he was, 

 built a large shingle palace as soon as the state of his 

 finances would warrant it; for more than twelve years he 

 had "kept house," and one of his chief troubles had been 

 the difficulty of obtaining and retaining the proper sort 

 of person as housekeeper. It seemed to him that the 

 handmaid could not do better than to come on at once 

 and take charge of his household matters, in which case 

 the deacon could promise her good home, and he even 

 hinted something about being a father to her, should she 

 prove equal to the minister's recommend. Jonas wrote 

 back accordingly, and in due course of time arrived at 



