430 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[Deo. 18, 1890. 



STILL-HUNTING, 



A WINTER IN MICHIGAN. -11. 



BY NESSMUK. 



FEOM Dashville to Coming, from Corning to Bath, 

 Bath to Buffalo, Buffalo to Detroit. Detroit to Grand 

 Haven; and, in a small "ornery" tavern at the latter 

 place we halted for rest and consultation. Ned — I blush 

 for him as I record it—was for taking the back track in- 

 continently; "the season was too wet, deer getting scarce, 

 no use going so far from home when there was just as 

 good hunting ground nearer; Michigan was marshy and 

 unhealthy anyhow, and we were used to hunting in a 

 healthy, 'mountainous region, etc., etc.'' To all this I 

 answered, "If the season was wet we could get about 

 more silently, if deer were being thinned out the more 

 reason why we should go far back to find them. As to 

 deer being just as plenty nearer home why didn't he 

 think of it before? And as to the health of the country- 

 did he feel himself getting bilious or homesick, or love- 

 sick or anything?" 



Moreover, at Grand Haven I came across old Gillett, 

 the wolf-trapper and still-hunter, whose word on forest 

 lore was law. To him I propounded my stereotyped 

 question, "Where could a good hunter be sure of one 

 fair shot a day hunting on wool moccasins and without a 

 dog?" His answer was short and to the point, "Any- 

 where within twenty miles of Muskrat Lake. He had 

 killed fifty deer in two weeks himself, besides attending 

 to his wolf traps; he could kill a dozen deer a week any- 

 where on the upper Muskegon and not half try." 



This silenced Ned and decided us to try the upper Mus- 

 kegon. At the bay Ave found a band of Chippewas and 

 one of them called Pete was recommended to us for a 

 guide. We offered to employ him, and he not only en- 

 tered our service willingly but brought two shaggy 

 diminutive ponies with him , which, turned out to be a 

 most judicious move and a lucky thing altogether. It 

 was really surprising to see the load these little rough, 

 clumsy looking animals would manage to travel under. 

 One of them, a pepper-and-salt hairy little fellow, scarcely 

 larger than a sheep, I can hardly call to mind without a 

 smile yet. His load consisted of two bags of pilot bread, 

 each holding a trifle over two bushels, a couple of kegs, 

 one holding two gallons of syrup, the other a like quan- 

 tity of old Jamaica rum, and a two-bushel bag con- 

 taining tea, coffee, sugar and a lot of trifling but indis- 

 pensable things appertaining to camp life. As he was 

 the leading or "bell" pony old Peter mounted him (or his 

 load rather) whenever he chose to ride, the general tout 

 ensemble being laughable beyond description. Even Ned, 

 who was not in a laughable mood by any means, could 

 not repress a smile as the ludicrous vision met his love- 

 sick eye, while the writer, who happened to be in spirits, 

 Bhouted jubilantly as the odd-looking cavalcade wound 

 tip the banks of the Muskegon in Indian file. Our order 

 of march was, first, the writer with a 101b. double-bar- 

 reled rifle; next, Indian Pete with the pepper-and-salt 

 pony, then the sorrel pony, laden with ammunition, 

 kettles, blankets, salt, axe, etc., etc., and lastly Ned, who 

 had no heart to shoot, but had meekly volunteered to 

 bring up the rear and look that nothing went amiss or 

 got lost through slipping off the ponies and being left be- 

 hind. We left the route entirely to Peter, and he, with 

 a sublime contempt for lumbermen and their roads, took 

 the old Indian trail, whence it happened that we scarcely 

 saw the face of a white man on the route, and knew lit- 

 tle more of the "lay of the land" at the end of our trip 

 than at its commencement. 



All along the trail I managed to keep on the lead for 

 the chances of a shot, and to say truth the chances were 

 well worth the taking. Almost every half mile we 

 flushed the ruffed grouse, bare, or the beautiful American 

 quail, while, after the first day, it was but little trouble 

 to get a shot at deer. I killed six of the latter with but 

 slight effort, during our five days" march on the trail, 

 and also a two-year-old bear, while Ned, who was usually 

 all eagerness for a shot at a deer, killed nothing at all, 

 nor did lie make an attempt to get a shot, but shambled 

 along behind the sorrel pony in a maudlin, babyish man- 

 ner that fairly made the toe of my moccasin itch. 



It must have been about 8 o'clock on the afternoon of 

 the fifth day, when we halted at a very good spring near 

 the right bank of the Muskegon, and Peter announced 

 our journey at an end. This was not according to con- 

 tract, for Peter had agreed to pilot us to the banks of 

 Muskrat Lake, which he now utterly refused to do, say- 

 ing, "Dis good place, plenty deer, plenty elk, plenty 

 bear, plenty fish; Muskrat Lake no good: too much 

 mash, too much mud, white man get lost," Perhaps he 

 was right, at all events a pleasanter place than he 

 selected for our camp it would be hard to find. It was 

 in a valley, the general course of which was south of 

 east, and through which ran a considerable stream, fed 

 by numerous springs; near one of these we had halted 

 and there, after a little prospecting, we concluded to 

 make a permanent camp. On either side of the stream 

 the land rose in handsome swells, covered by the grove- 

 like growth of timber, known throughout the west as 

 •oak openings," while along the banks of the stream the 

 timber was much heavier, much of it being black walnut 

 and elm — many of the latter trees being prostrate. 

 Against the trunk of one of these— a giant elm nearly 

 7ft. m diameter— we built our camp after the fashion 

 sometimes called a "coalman's shanty," and, as it makes 

 a good winter or summer camp, perhaps I may be 

 pardoned a brief description of the mode in which it is 

 made: 



Cut two strong crotched posts, the one 10. the other 

 4ft. in length; these with a stout pole 18ft. long consti- 

 tute the timbers, Set the posts firmly in the ground 13ft 

 apart and lay the pole in the crotches, letting the small 

 end, which should be sharpened for the purpose, into the 

 g . lm - Q fl f foot °, r more ' so that ifc cannot slip. Fell a 

 straight basswood, poplar or pine: cut into proper lengths 

 and rive these rato shakes; place the shakes on each side 

 of the pole, letting them diverge some 8 or 9ft. at the 



few* W M l 6D . d of the shaTlt y- the sha kes being 

 shorter and the shanty growing lower and narrower a! 

 you work back to the far end Set the shakes edge to 



edge as closely as possible and cover the whole with 

 earth to the depth of a foot, not forgetting to place a 

 layer of grass or dried leaves beneath the dirt to prevent 

 its sifting through the chinks. Place a foot log across 

 the broader end of the shanty and fasten it with pins 

 driven in the ground. This is essential, as without it the 

 shanty is pretty certain to take fire sooner or later. If 

 the shanty is only intended for autumn weather you will 

 hardly need a fire-place; but if to be occupied during a 

 part of the bitter northern winter make a snug fire-place 

 and a close chimney by all means. To do this, build the 

 chimney of sticks chinked with clay, let it be of the 

 width of the shanty at bottom, carried up at the same 

 angle, or nearly so, with an oblong opening at top Sin, 

 wide by 20in. deep, and fitted closely to the end of the 

 shanty by "chinkin' and daubin'." An aperture at the 

 side of the chimney 14x20in., to close with a close-fitting 

 shake, will be all sufficient for a door, and in such a 

 camp with a good camp-fire and plenty of browse, blankets 

 and furs, a man may defy the weather with the mercury 

 at 32° below zero, as I happen to know. 



It was late in the afternoon of the fourth day when the 

 shanty was finished and pronounced all right; Peter, who 

 —whether from curiosity, affection for us, or a hankering 

 for blackstrap— had remained with us during the four 

 days, gave a most emphatic grunt of approbation as the 

 newly-made fire roared, and the smoke went straight up 

 the chimney, giving out plenty of heat in the den-like 

 cabin, but no smoke. In justice to Peter, I ought to men- 

 tion that he furnished us most liberally with fish, ducks 

 and venison while we were engaged on the cabin , though 

 truth obliges me to state that he utterly refused to lend, a 

 hand at the work in any manner whatever. He could 

 hunt, but toting sticks, shakes, and clay for chinking— « 

 that was squaw work. 



After the shanty was finished, a nice pile of browse 

 stowed back of the footlog and a merry fire roaring in the 

 new fire-place, we all smoked the pipe of peace and con- 

 tentment, took a temperate nip of blackstrap, and turned 

 in. I have slept well in camps of all descriptions; in 

 camp-tents, in open camps, double-faced camps, browse 

 camps, and even on the ground beneath a low-spreading 

 cedar or hemlock; but I do not recollect having slept 

 more soundly or sweetly than on the first night in that 

 lonely cabin on the Muskegon. Not that Indian Peter 

 was a desirable bedfellow; on the contrary, I feel bound 

 to state that his habits were not cleanly, and that there 

 was a greasy suspicion of entomology about his scalplock 

 and old mackinaw blanket, most repugnant to a civilized 

 mind. However, he had on the whole acted fairly by 

 us, we concluded not to let any trifling matter break 

 friendship, but to extend to him the rites of hunter hos- 

 pitality so long as he might choose to stop with us. His 

 stay was not a long one: on the morning of the fifth day 

 he caught up his ponies, took the two cotton, two woolen 

 shirts, and two dollars in silver which we had agreed to 

 give him, and wended his way in silence on the upper 

 trail toward Muskrat Lake. Just as be was on the point 

 of leaving I made him a magnificent present of a pint 

 flask filled with blackstrap and a large plug of Cavendish. 

 His dark face broke into a smile at this, and he held out 

 his hand, saying with emphasis, "Good; me come agin — 

 see you more bimeby." Subsequent events led me to the 

 conclusion that the present was a most fortunate one. 



Ned and I were left to ourselves and our own resources; 

 our stores consisted of pilot bread, sugar, syrup, tea, cof- 

 fee, ammunition, tobacco and rum, with some quinine 

 by way of medicine. We had also about forty traps- 

 most of them small— of the "Newhouse" pattern. On 

 the whole the prospect pleased me, and I was in the best 

 of spirits. 



I have mentioned that our camp was built on a small 

 tributary of the Muskegon, which was not so small, how- 

 ever, as to preclude good sport with the rod within a 

 biscuit toss of the shanty, where I have taken bass which 

 must have weighed more than 61bs. and pickerel of twice 

 that weight. Half a mile below the shanty this stream 

 emptied into the main river, forming a sort of marshy 

 cove which was a very paradise for wildfowl and pick- 

 erel. I have seen but tew places which could equal it 

 for sport. Deer were extremely plenty, bear were toler- 

 ably so, and there was an occasional elk to be seen among 

 the openings, though the latter animal seemed rather to 

 affect the extensive swamps and marshes— places which 

 the hunter who is a stranger to the country had best keep 

 clear of. 



For two or three days after the camp was finished and 

 Peter had gone, Ned was in capital spirits and joined me 

 in hunting and prospecting with sportsmanlike zeal. 

 Then, as the last day of October came on dull, cold and 

 cloudy, with indications of snow, his spirits flagged, he 

 moped about without the heart to go a mile from camp, 

 and gave unmistakable signs of homesickness. Here 

 was a nice fix. If his heart failed him so early in the 

 season when we had everything comfortable about us, 

 with fish and game as plenty as we could ask or expect, 

 how would it be in the dead of winter with the snow sev- 

 eral feet deep and wood to cut. split and back to camp, 

 when the mercury was at zero? We had made rather 

 extensive preparations for an all-winter trip, had "de- 

 clared our intentions" rather audibly to all our acquaint- 

 ances and friends, had dwelt on the pleasures of hunter 

 life and communion with nature to a garrulous extent, 

 had promised to add important facts to the natural his- 

 tory of the country, and had (at least one of us had) 

 taken several quires of foolscap into camp on which to 

 record these facts and keep a general summary of our 

 Crusoe-like proceedings, for the benefit of any one who 

 chose to be bored with the reading thereof. 



All this and much more I pressed on Ned's considera- 

 tion in a rather extended lecture, and he took it all 

 meekly— did not offer a Avord in rebuttal until I chanced 

 to remark that "a man who would leave such a camp and 

 such hunting grounds for a giggling, apple-faced girl, 

 ought to trade his rifle for a set of knitting needles and 

 join a sewing society. This brought matters to a focus. 



I might abuse him to my heart's content, but I shouldn't 

 abuse a decent girl on his account; he was his own master; 

 when he wanted my advice he would ask it," etc., etc. 

 etc. In short, we quarreled. It was a foolish thing to 

 do, and we have ooth been heartily ashamed of it for 

 years; nevertheless, quarrel we did, and nearly came to 

 blows. I made some rather pointed observations on bass- 

 wood men generally and lovesick spooneys in particular, 

 which Ned took to heart; and he gave his option pretty 

 freely concerning "bush vagabonds, who were of no 

 account m society, and the height of whose ambition was 



hunting and fishing. For his part, he expected to do 

 something in the world besides hunt and fish." 



"Ah, really? Marry a farm and tannery, perhaps join 

 the church, and become a stump candidate for deacon," 

 1 retorted. 



Ned thought it quite passible. "There was a sort of 

 respectability about farms and tanneries, which was not 

 the case with hunting that ever he heard of." 



I advised him, if he was so out of sorts with hunting, 

 to go home by all means; also, I suggested the propriety 

 of taking herb tea and soaking his feet in warm water 

 regularly; with this, and the precaution of flannel night- 

 caps, I thought he might manage to pull through the 

 winter alive. I really intended, when I began, to give 

 the particulars of our quarrel verbatim et literatum as 

 nearly as I could remember, but it was so confoundedly 

 ridiculous that I am getting ashamed. 



Let it suffice, that after bandying sarcastic hits to the 

 best of our ability for some time, one of us gave the lie. 

 There was an instantaneous "recognition of belligerents," 

 a mutual grasping for reciprocal windpipes, a mutual 

 missing of the same and a seizing of coat and collars in- 

 stead, a violent shaking and hustling of some seconds' 

 duration— in which I, being much the lightest, got the 

 worst of it — and we stood still gazing defiantly in each 

 others faces, two of the biggest fools that ever shouldered 

 a rifle. 



I wish I could add that we shook hands and laughed 

 at our foolishness, as we ought to have done; but we did 

 not. I knew that Ned was dying for a sight of Hannah 

 Needham's pretty face, and that nothing else ailed him. 

 He knew that I was aware of this, and also that I de- 

 spised love-sickness beyond any other weakness or illness 

 that flesh is heir to; likewise he felt to resent my remarks 

 on his dulcinea, and I felt a trifle sore at the unmerciful 

 shaking I had got, so it happened that neither of us chose 

 to make any remarks of a conciliatory nature, but Ned 

 commenced packing his knapsack at once, while I watched 

 the operation in surly silence. 



There were two adjuncts to our camp, which I ought 

 to have mentioned before; these were a mongrel dog, 

 which Ned had seen proper to bring with him, and a 

 handy little dugout or log canoe, which Peter had mys- 

 teriously brought to light from some hidden recess on 

 the day'at'ter our arrival in camp. The dog had turned 

 a promising venture for still- hunting — as almost any dog 

 will when taken out every day and properly instructed — 

 while the canoe was indispensable for trapping, fishing, 

 or crossing the river. 



I had opposed the dog at first, but finding he was to be 

 an inmate of the camp had finally taken him in hand for 

 a course of instruction, and as he was not only eager and 

 plucky, but tractable, had ended by taking a fancy for 

 him. 



When Ned had got his hardtack, tobacco, blanket, 

 rifle, hatchet and a pint flask of rum all in marching 

 order he led the dog ostentatiously into the cabin, sprung 

 the snap of the chain into a ring on. the collar and then 

 marched stiffly toward me, holding a cent on his curved 

 forefinger with his thumb nail under the edge of it, say- 

 ing, "This is for the canoe— heads or tails?" I took at 

 once: and as the cent spun high in air said, "heads!" 

 Down it came and heads it was; the canoe was mine. 



"As to the dog," said I, "if he is worth anything to 

 you take him along, I can get on without him very 

 well." 



"He is worth nothing to me," said Ned, with a majestic 

 air, "if you don't want him, shoot him; I am done with 

 hunting." He slung his knapsack with great delibera- 

 tion, whistling all the while, then filled a pipe leisurely, 

 lit it with a friction match which he ignited by rubbing 

 on his trousers leg, shouldered his heavy single-barreled 

 Billinghurst, and turned his back on the camp. 



I watched him until his gray coat tails disappeared 

 down the trail and then went into the shanty, built a 



quarrel over again in my <_ _ 

 mind, and made out a wonderfully clear case for myself. 

 I took the shaking into consideration and waxed irate 

 exceedingly, but it would not do. The little monitor 

 which lurks in the bosom of every decent man espoused \ 

 Ned's cause, reminding me of many little items, such as j 

 bitter sneers, unkind remarks, and surly sarcasms, offered I 

 to an old and tried friend, for what?. Just because i 

 he had not the heart to enter into my schemes with spirit 

 and ardor ; because I mistrusted him of giving way to a 

 boyish lovesick whim, and wanting to go back. "What 

 then? Was he not his own master? Had he not proved 

 himself on many occasions a reliable friend, a plucky 

 hunter, and a true-hearted fellow? .And I had taken the 

 liberty of calling him in plain words a booby! a lovesick 3 

 spoon, and no hunter! 



The mental mercury in the psychological thermometer 

 sank rapidly from wrath to reflection, from reflection to ,j 

 reason, and from reason to repentance. The more I re- i 

 fleeted the more I grew ashamed of the foolish quarrel, | 

 and ere Ned had been gone two hours I would have given 

 much to have shaken hands with him, told him I was 

 sorry, and parted with him, if part we must, in a decent 

 manly way, as friends should do. I remember feeling an 

 almost irresistible impulse to follow him down the trail, 

 find him at his first camping place, and own up like a 

 man. As the sun was less than two hours high when he 

 started and there was a good moon, I could easily have 

 done this, but self-love, wounded vanity and pride all 

 conspired to keep me back, and I did not go. I wish I 

 had gone: it would have saved some heartburning on both 1 

 sides, and would have been more pleasant to reflect on in 

 after years. 



Left alone in camp I set myself actively to work hunt- 

 ing, fishing, studying the habits of the various animals 

 which came under my observation, and trying various 

 experiments with traps, outlines and snares. I succeeded 

 in taking game and fish by nearly every mode in use with 

 hunters. I caught not only ducks but wild geese in small 

 traps, as well as on outlines. (The latter mode was orueh 

 poaching, and I only tried it by way of experiment two' 

 or three times,) As the season grew cold I set the traps 

 for otter and foxes, but, although I was in possession of 

 the "hunters' 1 secret," my success in trapping was not re- 

 markable. Also my traps disappeared at the rate of half 

 a dozen per week, and, from the occasional print of a 

 moccasin along the bank of the river, I got to surmising; 

 that the abducted traps might be in some manner attri- 

 butable to the band of strolling Chippewas to which our, 

 guide Peter belonged— a belief in which I was afterward 



