494 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



LMay 26. 1892. 



BY THE COLORADO. 



"Weary days on the hot, dusty desert and more weary 

 nights when the winds from northern canyons filled our 

 beds with sand and chilled us to the marrow" — such the 

 monotonous and melancholy record of the scribe. But 

 now that was a thing of the past. Thousands of feet 

 below us was the river, glinting, wherever the slanting 

 sunlight streamed between the canyon walls, like a golden 

 Pactolus. And why is it not a Pactolus? 



On its farther side, where the unsealed Navajo Peak 

 raises in air its snowy crest as many thousand feet above 

 the mesa as the river lies beneath, the jealous redmen 

 guard the mines that they possessed long before the 

 Spanish Conquistador set foot upon this enchanted land. 

 Among the western canyons at our back, somewhere 

 among the cliff dwellings and the ever inaccessible caches 

 of a long-departed people, the Moqui (in their distant 

 home they still preserve the story) buried almost exhaust- 

 less treasure, and on those sand-bars that, like golden 

 tongues, cleave the rushing torrent, the bleaching bones 

 of many a fortune-hunter tell strange tales of riches 

 found only to be eternally lost. Even the breeze sings 

 but the one refrain: "Gold, gold, gold." 



Wonderful river! I have cast the fly in those far off 

 aspen-shaded valleys of the north, where the Green and 

 the Grand have their birth. I have sweltered and sick- 

 ened in the pestilential atmosphere of that low, dreary, 

 fever-breeding land where the mighty flood casts its 

 tawny freight into the Californian gulf. From a score 

 of vantage points I have watched its varying moods and 

 fancies, for its caprices are endless, and now, as I look 

 upon it in the flood tide of its glory, I can only exclaim: 

 ''Wonderful, wonderful river!" 



"We were not prospectors. Do not infer from this that 

 if we had found the golden image, or stack a pick into a 

 lode of native silver, or even had seen auriferous specks in 

 some dry canyon bed we would deliberately have .closed 

 our eyes to the wealth within our grasp and then gone 

 back to civilization to report our discovery. Oh, no! But 

 archeeology, geology, botany and zoology had greater 

 attractions for us than all the prospective treasure in the 

 valley, and we much preferred manipulating the camera 

 to handling the batea. However, ruined Moqui houses 

 and the vegetable pharmacopoeia of this ultima thule 

 will not interest the readers of Forest and Stream, so a 

 short dissertation upon the game of this region is the only 

 memento of the expedition that properly belongs in these 

 columns. 



We carried a rifle and a 12-gauge gun. The rifle was not 

 discharged upon the trip, and the gun was used only to 

 secure such specimens of the avifauna as we wished to 

 preserve. Likewise a gallon of alcohol became merely a 

 temporary dwelling place for lizards and similar creat- 

 ures, the collection of which made our guides consider 

 us a party of "cranks." Turning from the river in a 

 westerly direction, we climbed slowly up Navajo Valley 

 to its head, and then a two hours struggle to the level of 

 the mesa, brought us to the ruins of an ancient city, 

 where most of our work was to be done. Our camp was, 

 so we judge, just across the Arizona line. Eastward, in 

 sinuous folds, was the Glen Canyon of the Colorado; far to 

 the southeast the mountains of New Mexico cut the sky; 

 almost within touch on the south the Buckskin range 

 raised its head, and westward peak, on peak stretched 

 away to the headwaters of the Rio Virgin. Only on the 

 north the great, gray, grassless, treeless, rolling Esca- 

 lante desert lay far below our level and extended almost to 

 the feet of the sentinel Henry mountains. 



Our camp was pitched on the edge of a little crystal 

 lake, where mallards, redheads, blue winged teal, hell- 

 divers and mudhens swam throughout the livelong day. 

 They seemed entirely unaccustomed to the presence of 

 man and exhibited little fear. This was true of all the 

 birds we saw. It was the nesting season. Finches and 

 warblers would almost let us stroke them as they sat 

 upon their eggs, and the more gaily colored males would 

 sing as cheerily to us as they had been wont to carol to 

 the rocks and trees, I believe that we were too high in 

 air and in too cold a climate for the Crotalns, the pest of 

 the rocky desert; so the feathered songsters had but 

 enemies of their own kind with which to contend, the 

 sharp-shin and two varieties of the red-tailed hawk. 

 In the upper blue the noble bird of freedom described 

 majestic circles, and in a spirit of wanton mimicry the 

 turkey buzzard made lesser concentric spirals at a re- 

 spectful distance from his liege lord. We saw neither 

 grouse nor sage fowl, but we were in the domain of the 

 Arizona quail. The only bird on the mesa, that is a 

 lover of civilizition, was the ubiquitous JEgialitis. What 

 business it had about that upland lake will always be a 

 mystery. 



The narrow lagoon extended for perhaps a quarter of a 

 mile from our camp. After drinking the sulphur, mag- 

 nesia and saline waters of the desert a drink of this aqua 

 ■pura was more than a luxury. I believe that the larger 

 quadrupeds have a special likiug for this pool. To its 

 farther edge the deer came every morning to drink and 

 in the mud the mountain sheep left deep tracks. We did 

 not see any of the big-horns at the water, but we observed 

 several small bands among the rocky cliffs to the south. 

 Owing to its inaccessible position the mesa is a natural 

 game preserve and the mountain lion is the only destroyer 

 that the Ovidce and Cerviclce dread. I must modify that 

 last statement, for occasionally the Navajoes hunt £ here, 

 though they properly belong east of the river. The Utes 

 are too superstitious to hunt on this bench. It will be a 

 matter for regret if the stockmen that now winter on the 

 desert succeed in making a trail up to the grassy plateau 

 and use it for a spring and autumn range, the total 

 extinction of the game will then be but a matter of a short 

 time. 



I noticed in the ancient writing ou the rocks, the work 

 either of the Moqui or of the earlier Navajoes, many 

 pictures both of the mountain goat and of the bison; from 

 which I infer that each of these animals at one time had 

 a habitat here. 



Piscatorially this regiou is not much to brag of. Most 

 of the streams have such a fall into the Colorado that it 

 is impossible for fish to ascend them. The Escalante 

 however has nothing but rapids in its course. It Ls a. 

 muddy stream and no trout can be caught in it: but Us 

 tributaries, Birch, Pine and Boulder creeks are clear, 

 cold broDks, aad in them small mountain Sahvlinus is to 



be found. I suppose that when these fish descend to the 

 main river (if they do), they close their eyes, compress 

 their gills and dart through the intervening sixty miles 

 of mud with the rapidity of a cannon ball. I am told 

 that there are plenty of large trout or salmon in the 

 Colorado at this point, but it is a Sabbath day's journey, 

 straight up and down, to the water, and I have no reel 

 that will carry sufficient line for such a cast. Hence I 

 cannot speak definitely upon the subject. After the ruins 

 are explored I will send Forest and Stream as complete 

 a list as I can compile of the game fauna of this wonder- 

 ful region. Shoshone. 

 Gi/en Canyon, Arizona, May 2. 



"PODGERS'S" COMMENTARIES. 



The last issue of Forest and Stream contained, as 

 usual, many good things of interest to its readers. The 

 article by Judge Greene on his fishing trip to the Eloko- 

 mon made one feel like taking a Northern Pacific train at 

 once and never draw rein until striking that stream. We 

 feel like suing the Judge for damages for thus exciting 

 our fishing instincts at long range. Distance is nothing, 

 however, to a dyed-in-the-wool fisherman. Do not the 

 Englishmen travel to Norway for salmon and feel amply 

 compensated with a catch of three or four, and not 

 always even that small number? Speaking of salmon, I 

 would like to have the Judge meet me next October on 

 the banks of the Navara River in California, and let me 

 show him salmon fishing to make him weep with joy. 

 I will guarantee that his arms shall ache at night with 

 the strain on his muscles from the lively work a dozen 

 from 12 to 20 -pounders will give. 



I agree with the Judge as to salmon taking the fly in 

 the waters of the Pacific coast. I was told they would 

 not myself, before I had fished in the Navara, and more- 

 over, that no salmon could be taken with a hook with 

 any kind of bait, and I claim to be the individual who 

 first proved the falsity of the statement and the first to 

 take a salmon on the hook on the coast. I took five the 

 first day I fished in the river above mentioned. 



A friend who had a sawmill at the mouth of the river 

 pooh-poohed the idea of my being able to catch a salmon 

 out of that stream with a fly or in any other way, except 

 by hauling a seine, and volunteered to eat ra w the first 

 fi3h I caught: and standing on the bank jeered me when 

 I made a couple of casts unsuccessfully; but when I 

 struck a 12-pounder at the third cast, and landed him 

 under his nose, he swore he never would have believed 

 his own father if he had been told that yarn if he had 

 not seen it with his own eyes. When I called on him to 

 commence business on the raw fish, as per promise, he 

 shirked, but offered as a compromise a bottle of Cliquot 

 when we had Mr. Salmon on the dinner table, boiled. 

 Many is the one I have caught there since with fly, and 

 yet people in San Francisco so near by still persist in say- 

 ing Pacific Coast salmon will not take the fly. They 

 might truly say, perhaps, won't take their flies. I don ; t 

 wish to insinuate that there are fishermen and fishermen 

 who think they can fish— but never mind, we will leave 

 it to the salmon to say. 



By the way, speaking of salmou reminds one of dogs. 

 Don't see the connection? I don't say there is any, but I 

 see that Judge Greene disclaims any knowledge of Mike's 

 pedigree, and is constrained to acknowledge that Mike 

 came to him unheralded and without credentials, so I 

 am no wiser as to whether he is of my old stock: but, as 

 the Judge suspects from his name that he must be of 

 Irish blood, it is to be presumed that Mike is not a Gordon 

 after all, but a red Irish. Tf I mistake not, there are no 

 Gordons from Ireland, unless taken there from England, 

 the Gordon being originally, solely and entirely English, 

 But as we can't prove that Mike belongs to the Gordon 

 400, wo will give him the benefit of the doubt and say that 

 he must have descended from one of the numerous Irish 

 kings. I hope some day to make his acquaintance, and 

 shall be. proud of the opportunity. 



I agree with what Mr. L&w Wilmot says about Indians 

 as marksmen. "The noble red" has been invested with 

 a great many virtues in books, going back to the Cooper 

 novels, but there are none of that sort left now, and the 

 last of the Mohicans must have been really the last one 

 that could shoot. No doubt there are, or were, plenty of 

 them that could put a bullet through a man from ambush 

 at short range, but when it comes to a moving object or 

 animal, they are like the oyster of the church fair soup — 

 "not in it." I have seen them on the frontier in days 

 gone by shooting against our soldiers at target (and on 

 several occasions at the soldiers themselves), and when I 

 say Une'e Sam's orphans could beat them, you can im- 

 agine what manner of shots they were. The "noble red" 

 is a fraud anyway. He may have hi3 "pints" (of whisky?), 

 but they are not of the bright and shining order, and his 

 natural antipathy to water is "agin" him, and the tear- 

 ful appeal to use Pear's soap moves not his soul. He 

 shoots badly and he smells badly, and except possibly in 

 war times as a scout, or perhaps under the present exper- 

 iment of making a horse soldier of him, he may pan out 

 a useful article; but you can't get any bet out of me on it. 



They are going for the Yellowstone National Park 

 again, I see, and all the protests of the organs of the 

 sportsmen and the public at large availeth not. Sena- 

 tor Vest deserves the thanks of the sportsmen for his 

 earnest efforts to preserve the Park from the vandals; 

 but, as he says, the power of the lobby prevails against 

 all attempts" at honest legislation, and they can say, in 

 the words of the late lamented Tweed, "What are you 

 going to do about it?" 



The question of fishing on Sundays or what the Penal 

 Code intended on that question seems to be a puzzling 

 one. The law evidently was aimed at noisy, boisterous 

 and peace-disturbing sports. A horse race and games 

 may be considered noisy and objectionable of a Sunday, 

 but what noise or disturbance can be charged against a 

 fisherman? He may give a shout when he has a bite, 

 after sitting in the utmost quietude for hours awaiting 

 it, in the old accepted belief that you must not talk when 

 fishing, for the fish are supposed to have their ears open 

 to hear a man boasting what a big one he is going to 

 catch, and putting their tails to their noses to say, "will 

 you?" and swim away. 



A fisherman is proverbially the quietest of men, and 

 no one ever hears of his being boisterous or a peace dis- 



turber, and how he can be excluded from his Sunday 

 amusement on any plea that it comes under the list of 

 noisy amusements is one of the wonders of legislative 

 enactments and wisdom. But pending the solution of 

 the muddle as to whether the law does or does not apply 

 to Sunday fishing, I see the rods and their owners scat- 

 tering off into the city suburbs and Long Island Sunday 

 mornings about as usual, probably going down to the sea 

 shore to get a boat and go out on the water where they 

 cannot be disturbed and think the subject over. Whether 

 the law was or was not intended in the Pickwickian 

 sense evidently is a question which we will leave to 

 wiser heads while we procure a little bait over night and 

 slip off Sunday morning down to Canarsie or Fire Island 

 and leave the legal lights to fight it out on the Kilkenny 

 cat principle. Podgers. 



THE RANCHITO HUNT. 



Editor Forest and Stream: 



Delaware county, Pa., is one of the loveliest sections of 

 hill and dale, fine farms, and forests of chestnut and maple 

 in the State, and its proximity to Philadelphia has given 

 many gentlemen the privilege of fox hunting to perfection. 

 As a consequence, there are four excellent fox-huntiug clubs 

 within a circle of ten miles, of which Media is the center, 

 and the packs of bounds which belong to them are called 

 hunts, with fanciful or local names to designate them. 

 These are the Radnor Hunt, kept at the village of Radnor' 

 the Li ma Hunt, at Lima village; the Rose Tree Hunt, at 

 Rose Tree Tavern; and the Ranchito Hunt, at Media. 



The Rose Tree and Radnor riders include some of the best 

 citizens of Philadelphia, many of whom reside during the 

 summer in elegant villas in the vicinity of the kennels, and 

 the Lima and Ranchito membership is made up of a few 

 city men aud the villagers and farmers who live in the 

 country districts. The farmers are as ardent fox hunters as 

 the city men, and their particination in the sport lets down 

 the bars and opens their fine fields to the reckless and wild 

 horsemen. When the horn sounds and the many cadenced 

 voices of the hounds send sweet music up the' ravine or 

 through the chestnut groves, and horsemen in many-colored 

 coats are seen upon the road or riding in a troop across the 

 hills, it is more than human blood can stand to labor for 

 profit, and the threshing i= deserted, the forge fire is left 

 without fuel, the store is left to the boy, and everybody 

 saddles his best hunter and joins the hunt for the day. 



The Radnor is rather exclusive and particular in its mem- 

 bership and methods, but the other three are open to honest 

 men of all positions in life who have good horses and know 

 how to ride them. As a consequence, a fox hunt by these 

 fellows is a wild, reckless race of daredevils, who are only 

 intent on being in at the death, and who would outhunt and 

 outride the most famous hunters of Old England. It has 

 beeu the courteous custom of the hunters to invite city 

 friends, who ride ambling cobs upon the smooth roads of 

 Fair mount Park, to participate in their outings, and many 

 a thoughtless, incautious man has accepted with pleasure 

 and gone home in flannels and bandages. The writer was 

 ambitious to show his horsemanship with the Rose Tree 

 Hunt on New Year's, when he accepted a pressing invitation 

 to get the brush, with the result of being twice unsaddled, 

 once thrown upon his back in the snow, and spending sev- 

 eral days in strict seclusion with legs and back resting upon 

 pillows to pay for thirty miles' riding. But by strategy and 

 cross riding he was among the first at the death, and should 

 have had the brush as the greenhorn of the day. 



So far in the contest about Delaware county, American 

 hounds have beaten the imported English hounds out of 

 .sight, which leaves hunters to believe that hunting in our 

 irregular country is more difficult than in England. 



The Ranchito Hunt has some of the cleanest, finest bred, 

 stoutest and keenest hounds in the United States. Mr. W. 

 E. Rowland and Mr. Samuel Pinkerton, of Media, have 

 given much time and care to their breeding and develop- 

 ment, and the Ranchito members all superbly mounted, 

 have all they can possibly do to ride to them and get in at 

 the death. Foxes are farmer's enemies, and as they are 

 much hunted in Delaware coixnty, there has been a natural 

 selection and survival of the fittest and fleetest of the wily 

 family, so that the foxes to which the hounds in that sect- 

 tion give tongue are as tricky and able as the historical one, 

 Iteinehc dcr Fnclis iu German literature. 



The Ranchito meet arranged a hunt, held Dec. 19, 1891, 

 which is said to have been one of the most enjoyable, suc- 

 cessful and severe of any for years. By successful, it. is not, 

 intended to imply that a number of foxes were killed aud 

 brushes taken, that is of minor importance. It is the action 

 of the hounds, the horses and the men, the character of the 

 weather, the beauty and extent of the country traversed, 

 that makes a hunt successful. 



Sam Pinkerton, the master of the hounds, was instructed 

 to meet the hunters at 7:30 A. M., at Castle Rock, a beauti- 

 ful declivity, filled with enormous boulders, stupendous 

 rocks cliffs, and piles and natural walls, where the foxes 

 loved to dwell. The horses had been early fed and watered, 

 and the riders mounted at 6:30 A. M., and hied away to the 

 meet where Sam Pinkerton held nineteen as fine hounds as 

 ever scented a fox, together by his cheerful cry, and Messrs. 

 Hawkins, Crosby, Eddy, Kelly, Wm. Pinkerton, W. E. Row- 

 land and others soon arrived. The horses were as eager for 

 the ride as their owners, and danced, cavorted and stepped 

 around briskly. A short parley was held, the hounds un- 

 leashed, and away sped the well-groomed hunters around 

 historic Castle Rock, through the dense thickets of Shimer 

 and Howard, then down to the brink and through the cold 

 waters of Crum Creek, stirrup deep, up to the bank with 

 steaming flanks, erect heads and flashing eyes, on to Brook's 

 Woods, where the hounds were cast and old reliable Skip 

 gave out a note that thrilled through the riders' anatomies 

 like an electric shock aud opened a day of glorious sport. 

 The pack of thoroughbred hounds hastened after their leader 

 and all gave tongue in different tunes of music most thrill- 

 ing and delicious to the ear. 



It would have gladdened the heart of a Britisher and ap- 

 palled a riding master to have seen Sam Pinkerton upon 

 his noble Mercedes, lead the hunt across fields, over ditches, 

 above stone walls and stiff rail fences, followed by John 

 Hawkins on his thoroughbred racer Billy Bond, Wm. Pink- 

 ton upon the faultless Rusher; Rowland, astride of his ex- 

 quisite Outlaw; Eddy, on Chief; Crosby, with Milkmaid, 

 and Kelly and all the others, racing to the music that rose 

 and fell as the beautiful hounds sped through a valley, 

 climbed a hill or dashed do wu a chestnut slope. What a 

 day for a fox hunt! The air was cool and crisp; it seemed 

 as if the individual molecules of the atmosphere each caught 

 a scintilla of fire from the sun and flashed and sparkled like 

 a shower of cut diamonds; the broad bold sunlitrht warmed 

 up the valleys, penetrated the copses, and baffled by the 

 denser woods, cast tender shades of gray and brown upon 

 the withering and fallen leaves that carpeted the dim aisles 

 of Pan; silvery cumuli clouds chased each other across the 

 empyrean blue of the heavens like spirit hunters: the ground 

 was Arm and crunched beneath the nimble feet of the flying 

 steeds with a pleasant sound; the wind had retired to its 

 caves, but the rushing of the horses fanned the warm riders 

 with grateful zephyrs, and all nature seemed to welcome 

 these hardy sportsmen to her domain. 



After two hours' hard riding close upon the trail, and 

 often in the midst of the hounds over the Darby Creek hills, 

 the fox was seen to emerge from the woods, with the hounds 

 not 20yds. behind him; then Crosby, Eddy, Wm. Pinkerton 



