Nov. 4, 1893.J 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



381 



^dn(^ §Hg md 



MY FIRST MOOSE. 



Seven or eight years ago, late in the month of August, 

 I called at the office of a friend in the Mills Building, and 

 found him writing to his guide up in Maine. Our con-ver- 

 sation naturally turned upon liunting, and my friend told 

 me that in about two weeks he would be off to the Maine 

 woods for his annual fishing and hunting trip, and he ex- 

 tended to me a cordial invitation to join him. 



Now, from early boyhood, I may say from babyhood, 

 there has always been something about a fishing rod or 

 tackle, wherever seen, that chained my attention, and as 

 to a pistol, gun or rifle — well, the mere sight of these has 

 always stirred to life a something within me that I can- 

 not quite describe, but certainly a feeling quite different 

 from that aroused by the sight of other familiar imple- 

 ments. I think my very earliest recollection of and love 

 for a gun (I could not have been more than eight or nine 

 years old at the time) was a long single barrel 10-gauge 

 gun, which had been altered from a flintlock to a "per- 

 cussion cap," and which we used to keep "loaded for 

 hawks" upon the farm where my boyhood days were 

 spent. 1 recall the day I crept along a fence, armed with 

 this weapon, which Was far too heavy for me to poise at 

 my shoillder, poking it through the rails and firing at a 

 cfow which was industriously un-planting our newly 

 planted com. The result is vivid in my mind to-day. 

 The gun almost kicked my head off. I went one way, 

 the gim another, and the crow another. It hurt me, but 

 not the cfow. Well, from that day to a few weeks ago, 

 when I again found myself prostrate— this time in a 

 black muck ditch after firing 

 my .45-90 Winchester at the 

 grandest game on this conti- 

 nent — I have loved a gun. 



And so the invitation of my 

 friend to join him on his trip 

 immediately stirred to life 

 that old love, and having ob- 

 tained a two-weeks' leave of 

 absence, a fortnight later saw 

 me on my way to the Maine 

 woods, to try my hand at "big 

 game." I must not here tres- 

 pass upon your space to tell 

 you of that first trip, for this 

 paper is simply to answer your 

 question of how I got "my first 

 moose." It is sufficient for 

 me to say that a new world, 

 and a new sphere of pleasure 

 was opened to me by what I 

 then saw and learned. 



Our destination was Dan- 

 forth's Camp on Parmachene 

 Lake. I shall never forget 

 my arrival at that quaint little 

 town of Phillips, after a ride 

 over the odd little 3ft. gauge 

 Sandy River Railroad from 

 Farmington. Something in 

 the very air of the place teUs 



iron that here is the dividing 

 Ine between the artificial 

 customs of society and the 

 broad, honest, untrammeled 

 life of nature's domain. You 

 feel that behind you is left 

 progress, with its books and 

 newspapers, its telegraph, its 

 steam whistles and its hurry, 

 bustle and toil, and that just 

 beyond is nature, with her 

 lakes and streams, her moim- 

 tains and forests and dense 

 solitude. 



The picture we looked upon 

 the next morning as we drove 

 from Phillips to Rangeley 

 Lake, was something entirely 



beyond my powers of description. The early autumn 

 frost had just begun to tint the wooded hUls, the maple 

 and bu'ch vieing with each other as to gorgeousness of 

 apparel. The air was crisp and clear, an indefinable 

 woody odor pervaded the atmosphere. Often a strutting 

 partridge would appear in the roadway, eyeing critically 

 the invaders of his domain, and then whir away into the 

 thicket. On such a morning the weak feel strong and 

 the depressed feel buoyant. Here I was introduced to 

 the guide and his ways, to the birch-bark canoe, the 

 lakes, with their musical but often unpronouncable Indian 

 names, to the "carries," and to life in camp. With what 

 wonder I beheld the skill of the guides in the use of the 

 paddle, with what superb grace they cause the canoes to 

 glide like things of Ufe through the clear waters 

 of the lakes, and with wliat wonder and amazement I 

 saw them direct their frail craft through the "quick" 

 water and "rocky rips" of the rivers, for skill and muscle, 

 too, here come into full play, where a single false stroke 

 of paddle or pole means an upset into the rushing waters, 

 and possible serious consequences. How my imagination 

 took flight when I beheld in Danforth's Camp the deer, 

 caribou and moose heads with which his place was 

 adorned. Each told its tale of the skiU, endurance and 

 patience of the hunter. Each said to me, "You can do 

 it, too." 



Can I ever forget that first experience up at Rump 

 Pond, when I went out at night to "jack" deer? The 

 evening twilight falling upon the camp as we care- 

 fully made all snug in the canoe. The jack lamp on its 

 stick in the bow lighted, but closed, and not a ray of 

 light shed from it, but ready to open silently and 

 flash its bright beams upon the deer. I in the bow, 

 the guide in the stern. My rifle across my knees 

 and everything in readiness for a quick shot. How 

 noiselessly we glide up the stream! What deathly still- 

 ness! How we Usten for a sound in the bushes. A musk- 

 r at leaps from a log just ahead, and with a splash dives 

 into his hole in the bank. How loud it sounded! We 

 glide into Rump Pond and silently, stealthily start along 

 its shores. How awfully still ! You breathe and hear 

 the folds of your coat rub each other. You never heard 

 fhe sound before. You never before knew stillness coizld 



be so stfll. Not a word nor a whisper, passes between you 

 and your guide. The canoe moves, but you are hardly 

 aware of it. The skill of the guide with the paddle is 

 consummate. Not even a drop of water falls from it. A 

 reed rubs along the side of the canoe. How loud it is! 

 You never dreamed that a single reed could scrape so 

 loud. It tells you, though, that the canoe moves. A 

 beaver starts from shore, and with great flaps of his tail 

 upon the water, swims away. You are sure he will scare 

 the deer you are listening for. 



And so the minutes and the hours pass. Not a word 

 has been spoken, not a sound made by yourself or guide, 

 your feet are numb, a mist has risen from the surface of 

 the water, cold chills begin to creep down your back and 

 you feel that you are covered with "goose flesh," but you 

 never move. Your ears have strained for a sound until 

 you begin to imagine them. A twig snaps. What is it? 

 A bush swishes — no "goose flesh" now! A dead stick 

 cracks, no numb feet now. You know it is an animal. 

 Will he hear us? Your heart begins to thump so loud 

 you think the deer, or whatever it is, must hear it. Will 

 he come into the water? Yes, you hear a step in the 

 water, you hear the swash of two or three steps. Now is 

 the time! The canoe has swung around, bow pointing 

 toward the noise. Now open the "jack!" Noiselessly the 

 string is touched and the padded hd falls. A path of 

 light shines dimly through the mist and reaches the 

 bushes on the bank. But it takes a practiced eye to dis- 

 cern the deer. He is there though, you only see two 

 balls of fire about six inches apart. They do not move. 

 Now if you have a good nerve, a steady hand and a true 

 eye, and hold your rifle so that the sight rests about ten 

 inches under and on a fine directly in the center of those 

 two balls of fire, and press the trigger, you ought to bag 

 your game; but I shall never forget that I tried it on that 



'WE AGAIN STARTED NORTH." 



first trip and failed. But that first trip, as I have said, 

 taught me new delights, and my natural instincts for rod 

 and gun were quickened, and each successive year has 

 found me, during my short vacations, somewhere in that 

 vast wilderness of forests. 



It is a good many years since I missed that crow with 

 the old single barrel 10-gauge, and it is seven or eight 

 years since I missed that deer on Rump Pond, but since 

 the Rump Pond failure I have always had one object in 

 view, and that has been to get a bull moose. Various 

 parts of Maine have been tried during this time, and 

 many a good day's sport has fallen to my lot. With my 

 6oz, "Leonard" I have had some rare hours of fun with 

 the trout. Armed with my .5x7 camera, I have "spoiled 

 much glass," but secured some very good pictures of camp 

 life, and htmting and fishing scenes, I have also to show 

 some nice deer heads from among the Pistol Lakes. But 

 still the one object uppermost, has been to get that bull 

 moose. "Walt" — my camp companion, friend and chum, 

 Mr. W. L. P. — but whom we will call "Walt" for 

 short — called down a fine bull moose three years ago, 

 on Spider Stream, Churchill Lake, but lost him through a 

 defective rifle. This is the nearest we ever came to 

 bagging our moose until this season. 



A year ago we were advised to try the country north- 

 west of Ottawa in Canada, and accordingly we opened 

 a correspondence with ]\Ir. Rankin, the agent of the Hud- 

 son's Bay Co. , at Mattawa, a point on the Canadian Pa- 

 cific Railway, about 200 miles west of Ottawa, It has 

 been our practice heretofore to buy all our supplies and 

 camp outfit in New York, and ship them to the railroad 

 station nearest to our intended him ting grormd, but fear- 

 ing trouble and delay with the customs authorities of 

 Canada we concluded to ask Mr, Rankin to furnish every- 

 thing — canoes, tents, camp utensils, etc., and we sent him 

 a detailed list of the supplies needed, aU of which, let me 

 say, en x>asscmt, he filled to our utmost satisfaction. The 

 guides, three in number, one for each of us, and a cook 

 and "general utility man" were also furnished by him, 

 and, together with the supplies, were at Devix Rivieres, a 

 station fourteen miles below Mattawa, where we met them. 



George Crawford, a half Indian of Mattawa, was our 

 chief guide, and it is but justice to him for me to say, 



that a better all-round man, in my opinion, never es- 

 poused his profession. Fortunate, indeed, is the sports- 

 man who secures his invaluable services. Our other guide 

 was a young Indian, also of Mattawa, named Seymour, 

 though where he received his patronymic was a fruitful 

 source of conjecture both to Walt and myself, and as he 

 spoke very little English, and as one must occasionally 

 exchangejan idea or two with one's guide, our conjecture 

 as to the origin of his name was very soon coupled with 

 regret for our "rustiness" in regard to his vernacular. 

 He was a hunter, however, and, as he is young yet, let 

 us hope he will improve some of his spare hours in an 

 endeavor to master our "mother tongue." 



Joe LeClaire was the name of the man Mr. Rankin fur- 

 nished us as Glief. Joe proved to be an excellent man, 

 handy with the paddle, whether it was applied at the 

 stern of a canoe or in the batter pan, and the extraordin- 

 ary quantity of his flap jacks and most excellent bread 

 (baked in his little pan in the hot ashes of the camp-fire) 

 consumed by Walt and myseK, is the best testimonial I 

 can give him as to his proficiency in the culinary art. 



Deux Rivieres is a small village on the south bank of 

 the Ottawa River in Ontario, the river being the dividing 

 line between the Provinces of Ontario and Quebec. There 

 is a small hotel in the place, kept by Joseph Richardson, 

 and here on Sept. 11 we left our trunks, doffed our store 

 clothes, and donned our woods attire, which by the way 

 always should be, everything, all wool. Heavy, hob-nail, 

 natural tanned leather shoes, and a rubber coat are also 

 indispensable. A large mackintosh bag affords the most 

 convenient mode for carrying a change of underwear, 

 and the score or so of "necessities" one must have in 

 camp. Such a bag will keep everything dry, and it is "a 

 place for evcrythingiand everything in its place," 

 Prom Richardson we procured two teams to take our 

 camp outfit, canoes, etc., into 

 Hurdmann's lumber camp, 

 sixteen miles north from 

 Deux Rivieres, at which point 

 we were to put the boats into 

 the water. There is no bridge 

 across the Ottawa River at 

 Deux Rivieres, and no regular 

 ferry, but what they have 

 there is certainly very pictur- 

 esque — a scow, large enough 

 to transfer across the two 

 teams and our belongings. 

 The current is very swift and 

 the river is full of floating logs. 

 The mode of propulsion is to 

 row with two mighty .oars, A 

 third oar pivoted upon the 

 stern is used as a rudder, and 

 at this our landlord, Richard- 

 son, took his place, the rest 

 of us manned the side oars, 

 and the voyage commenced. 

 All went well until midstream 

 was reached, then came that 

 mighty current and those 

 wayward logs. We got across, 

 but how I shall never be able 

 to tell. At one time I thought 

 we were in a fair way to strike 

 the opposite shore about down 

 at Ottawa, And Richardson's 

 language as he shouted his 

 orders to us, well, I simply 

 decline to record it here, and 

 let us hope, for his sake, that 

 it is recorded nowhere else, 

 Walt secured a very good pic- 

 ture of the boat with it<» load 

 and crew. 



From Deux Rivieres to Hurd- 

 mann's, as I have said, is six- 

 teen miles, and I further say 

 without hesitation or fear of 

 contradiction from any truth- 

 ful man that they are the 

 worst sixteen miles of road 

 on the habitable globe. It 

 was my intention, and I be- 

 heve it was Walt's also (though he has never admitted 

 it to me) to ride in one or other of the wagons, but 

 when it comes to driving over stones and logs and 

 things two or three feet high, of going up hill at an 

 angle of 45°, and of seeing horses squat and slide down 

 from shelving rocks, to see one wheel up on a stone and 

 the other down to the hub in the mire, one changes his 

 mind about riding, and walks, and walk we did the 

 whole long seemingly unending sixteen miles. 



We reached Hardman's at about 6 o'clock, a little foot- 

 sore, perhaps, but a good night's rest repaired all physical 

 damages. Unfortunately one of our canoes had been 

 broken on the way in; is it any wonder? and part of the 

 next day was consumed in mending it. At 3 o'clock, 

 however, on Tuesday afternoon we put our boats in the 

 water and started for the woods, leaving, at last, all signs 

 of civilization behind us. It being already late in the 

 day we made camp for the night at the foot of the first 

 lake we came to, which is Russel Lake, about four miles 

 from Hurdmann's. At this point an incident occurred 

 which liad the effect of greatly encouraging us. It was 

 nothing less than that a moose had actually passed within 

 a rod of our tent during the night. There were his tracks, 

 unmistakable and plain, when we arose in the morning. 

 By sunrise we were at breakfast, and by 8 o'clock our 

 tents were packed, canoes loaded, and we again started 

 north, our destination being Hamilton Lake, some twenty 

 miles in that direction. To reach this point several 

 carries are necessaay, as the way Ues through a number 

 of disconnected lakes of varying sizes, and which are 

 mostly nameless upon any maps that we were able to 

 procure. The weather, which had been almost perfect, 

 now became stormy, and continued so, almost constantly 

 during the two weeks we were there, I think we had not 

 two consecutive days of fair weather during the whole of 

 the time. Occasional nights suitable for moose calling 

 did, however, come, and these, you may be sure, were 

 utilized to their utmost. On such nights we always 

 separated, one of us going off to some promising place in 

 one direction from camp, the other in the opposite direc- 

 tion or at least to such distance that danger of interfer- 

 ence would be avoided. We always tried to arrive at the 

 place selepted to "call" at or before sundown, for I h?i,y© 



