12 
FOREST "AND ■ STREAM, 
f Jan, 4, 1886, 
"MADE A GREAT RECORD." 
Detroit, Dec. 23, — Editor Forest and Stream: In your 
issue of last week you had an item in regard to the 
slaughter of ducks. I inclose a clipping from the Detroit 
Neivs which also bears on that subject. The question is 
how many years will Mr. S. be able to find 4,102 ducks? 
It may be needless to state that Mr. Scotten is a rich man 
and of course only shoots for "sport," but where does the 
"market hunter" come in? F. F. F. 
This is the story: 4,102 wild ducks in thirty-five days is 
the record which Oren Scotten and six friends made dur- 
ing October aDd November in hunting on the St. Clair 
Flats and in Lake Erie. The six bpsidesMr. Scotten were 
William H. Dean, Sr., William H. Dean, Jr., of Rich- 
mond, Va.; Thomas E. Reeder, Patrick Marcott and Her- 
bert Pierce, of Detroit, and another gentleman from New 
York. The entire party did not shoot every day. Some- 
times only three would go out with the decoys. But a 
careful count was kept, and if anybody besides pot-hunt- 
ers made a better record this year they have not been 
heard from. 
Mr. Scotten was the host of the party and they lived on 
his houseboat, which he towed over a good portion of the 
lower lakes this year with his steam yacht. The house- 
boat was fitted with all the conveniences of a modern 
land house. The start for the first trip was made Oct. 
16, and a run was made to the north channel grounds in 
Lake St. Clair. For sixteen consecutive days they shot 
ducks and then returned to Detroit for two days, going 
back to the north channel for seven days more. Later a 
third trip for five days was made, and still later a trip of 
one week to Lake Erie, On the night before the big 
blow of three weeks ago Mr. Scotten got the houseboat 
back to her winter moorings at Detroit. 
Everybody who knows Mr. Scotten knows that when- 
ever he engages in anything he does so at a pace which 
would soon tire out men who do not possess his wonder- 
ful energy. That's the way he went into duck hunting. 
Every morning shortly after 3 o'clock he was up and 
dressed and getting ready for the day's shoot. Arising at 
that hour was the easiest part of the sport, he says. The 
really trying part was to lay stretched in a skiff half a 
mile or so from shore with the ice-cold water swashing 
over him until he was drenched to the skin. Mr. Scotten 
was drenched in that way frequently, but he did not 
allow the wetting to drive him in during daylight, while 
there was a chance to bring down another duok. 
The good points for duck hunting change with the 
wind, and for this reason duck hunters are always out in 
their skiffs by daylight to set their decoys. Mr. Scotten 
and his friends were usually out an hour or two earlier 
than the other hunters, and never missed getting their 
decoys set at the best points first. Some mornings they 
shot so early that when they brought a duck down they 
could not see it floating on the water on account of the 
darkness. 
Every morning they had the decoys set and were con- 
cealed in their skiffs behind the blinds before 5 o'clock. 
They continued shooting until 1 or 2 o'clock, and then re- 
turned to the houseboat for lunch. After lunch they 
were out again until 6 or 7. Then, after dinner, they 
would start for the grounds where the mallard ducks 
come in at night from the open lake to feed, and would 
shoot by moonlight for a few hours. It would often be 10 
o'clock when they returned to the houseboat, 
"What did you do with the 4.102 that you shot?" Mr. 
Scotten was asked. 
"Sent all that we did not eat to Detroit and gave them 
away to our neighbors. I sent one lot of six bushel bas- 
ketfuls to Daniel Scotten, and he gave them all to his 
neighbors. Not more than a dozen were eaten by my own 
family." 
The best record that Mr, Scotten made for a day with a 
punter was eighty- two. He is going to build a cottage on 
the north channel next summer and live on the duck 
hunting grounds hereafter all through the season. 
IN AROOSTOOK WILDS. 
During- the summer of '94 I received a letter from Mr. 
C, a gentleman in Ohio, saying he had read with much 
interest an account I had written for Forest and Stream 
scribis ig the region around Oxbow, Aroostook county, 
He had never hunted 
large game, but wanted very omcL to Bhoot a moose. We 
r ad a^ood deal otcori-H«pond<?nce, rt suiting in my get- 
tings riflo for hhn «$cr»iUurto mine aatl starting him late 
to November for my t fieri c I - t He did jaot get a 
Moose on that trip, but was sateSed a good 
place for such game. One d&j : o to a 
thick spruce swamp, getting within 100yds. of them, but 
as the snow was somewhat noisy and the trees loaded 
with it, they started the moose without getting sight of 
them. 
Mr. C.'s courage was good and he wrote me, saying, "I 
shall go again next year prepared to stay a long time if 
necessary." He went again early in October of the pres- 
ent season, and had John Keating, one of Peavey's men, 
as guide. They first went to Cat Lake, some ten miles 
from Oxbow. The weather at first was unfavorable, then 
they had a couple of good nights, but failed to get an an- 
swer to their calling. From there they moved their camp 
several miles down Ulmacolcus Stream to Dead Brook. 
Calling the first night at the latter place they had an an- 
swer almost at once, but the bull would not come. As it 
began to rain the guide advised waiting until morning. 
Calling again in the morning (which was the eighth day 
in the woods) they heard the moose, and about 7 o'clock 
the moose walked out to the brook about 150yds, away. 
Mr. C. shot at him and he jumped out of sight. Getting 
into the canoe they crossed the stream and took his track, 
finding blood and where he had twice lain down. After 
following about half an hour they came to a small open 
bog, and had hardly stepped on it when the guide caught 
Mr. C. by the arm, saying, "Shoot." The hunter looked 
and saw the horns of the moose moving close to the 
ground, but not seeing enough to shoot at waited a mo- 
ment, when the moose rose up 50yds, away and stood 
slightly quartering. Mr. C. put a bullet in him just back 
of the shoulder, dropping him at once. Mr. C. wrote me: 
"I could not describe my feelings during the time we 
were following him or at time I shot, and I will not at- 
tempt to. It was the first time I had ever seen a moose, 
and as he stood in full view on the open bog I realized 
what a sight it was." 
I was very glad to hear of Mr. C.'s success. I had ad- 
vised to try that region, and he had courage to travel 
a long distance" to reach it. He was prepared to spend a 
much longer time in the woods, and could no doubt have 
killed a couple of deer and perhaps a caribou; but he 
started for home, saying, "I came to try and shoot a 
moose, and would have stayed a long time trying to do 
so; having killed one I am satisfied." 
Again, he is one of the few of the many sportsmen who 
go after big game who will not bring out game unless of 
their own shooting. Last season when hunting with 
Peavey it was hard traveling, and Mr. C. not being used 
to such work, Peavey advised him to stay in camp while 
he (Peavey) cruised about trying to locate some moose, as 
the game had been hunted a good deal and it might take 
several days to find one. While cruising in this way 
Peavey started a large yard of moose a long distance from 
camp and killed one; also shot a bull caribou one day on 
his way to camp. When the time came for Mr. C. to go 
home, without having killed anything, Peavey said, 
"The moose and caribou I killed belong to you [both had 
good heads], and you must take the heads home with 
you." But, as Peavey wrote me, "I couldn't make him 
touch them," 
Aroostook county is, or rather has been, a good place 
for large game. The opening of the Bangor & Aroostook 
Railroad has made it too easy to reach, and according to 
the accounts of game brought over the road (and which is 
not much over one-half of what is actually killed) it will 
be remarkable if the supply holds out. C. M. Stark. 
Dumbarton, N. H. 
- — ^ — i — — . 
IN THE OLYMPICS. 
Seattle, Wash., Dec. 5. — In a northwesterly direction 
from Seattle can be seen the Olympic Mountains, running 
for miles in all directions and filling to a great extent the 
area bounded by the Pacific Ocean, the Straits of Juan de 
Fuca, Gray's Harbor and Hood Canal. As soon as the 
first snow flies in the fall each sharp peak takes on a white 
coat, and as they are viewed in a clear day the sight is as 
beautiful as the most critical mountain climber could ask 
for. I was born in the northern part of Vermont, where 
our pride was the range of Green Mountains that rose in 
the distance like a great wall, but I must confess that the 
Olympics are far more picturesque and grand. For six 
years I had admired these mountains from a distance, and 
when the opportunity came for a closer acquaintance I 
eagerly jumped at it, and now only regret that I did not 
have time to explore the heights where the elk and moun- 
tain or blue grouse are found. Yet I had the pleasure of 
following for some distance into the forest and along the 
mountain sides the trail made by the Government sur- 
veyors three or four years ago when they first pierced the 
wilderness, and viewing at close range cragged peaks, the 
immense fir forest that covers the mountains and the 
snake-like Skokomish River that could tell, if it had a 
tongue, of many deaths in its cold, swift waters. Stick- 
ing out from the side of one of the mountains was a huge 
rock on which deer and elk appear once in a while now. 
Only a few years ago it was a common thing to see a fine 
buck standing on the rock in bold relief, gazing up and 
down the valley of the Skokomish. One day we were 
seated on the bank of the river at what is called Camp 
-No. 4. when Stan Hopper, the most successful hunter of 
the Olympics, became reminiscent and told of a remark- 
able experience he had while trailing a large elk that he 
had seen on this rock. The snow was very deep, and it 
was only after a laborious climb that he reached the spot 
where the elk had appeared. The track led in a slanting 
direction up the mountain side, and he was plodding 
along when the idea came to him that a "pull at his old 
corncob" pipe would help him along on what he knew 
might be a long journey. He sat down in the snow 
and was just putting the matchto the tobacco when a 
feeling came over him that some object was looking at 
him from above. 
"Well, boys," said Hopper, as he took a look up the 
mountain, "I knew that game was near, but I was in a 
fix. Slowly I twisted my head around and there above 
me, their heads just visible over a shelf, were two deer. 
It is a hard thing to say why I calculated that the game 
would remain standing until I had lighted the pipe, I 
will not attempt to explain it. I simply kept one eye on 
the heads above me and finished the job I had started. 
Then the rifle jumped to my shoulder, the heads bobbed, 
and as the report of the rifle was heard I was in doubt as 
to having scored a hit. I started up a slide to see what I 
could find of my game, and as I did so a fine buck crossed 
below me on the jump. It was just like rolling off a log 
to nail him, and as he fell in a heap and rolled down the 
mountain side I said to myself that I had no objections to 
his going to the river's bank. Then I continued my trip 
to the rock shelf above, but could not see the two deer. 
Imagine my surprise, however, when they suddenly ap- 
peared coming around a rock along the narrow path over 
which they had disappeared. The surprise was evidently 
mutual, for they made frantic efforts to turn on the nar- 
row ledge, and when I dropped the one further from me 
it went rolling down the mountain side in the same direc- 
tion as the buck had taken. I was not over anxious for 
deer meat at this time, so I paid no more attention to the 
other deer and let it escape. The only way that I have 
been able to account for their taking a back track is that 
they ran into a pocket, and being unable to get up higher 
or continue their flight along the side of the mountain, 
retraced their steps in the hope of passing above me and 
continuing their journey to my left. Fortune favored me 
once more, for the elk moved slowly and I sighted it after 
a comparatively short tramp. A long shot it was, but I 
took the chance and had the satisfaction of seeing the 
monarch of the forest stagger, rush forward and plunge 
over a precipice to death. The old fellow finally stopped 
tumbling near the Skokomish River and within 40 rods 
of Maurice Hanson's cabin. He came out and helped me 
get the body over to his place and then we went up the 
river to find the deer. It did not prove much of a job, for 
they nearly reached the foot of the mountain and were 
within a few hundred feet of each other." 
Having finished his story, Hopper threw a pitch pine 
stick on the fire, and said he thought he would take a 
short spin up the mountain to see if there were any traces 
of elk. In about two hours he returned with the intelli- 
gence that there was no chance of having any sport. As 
we went back to Lake Cushman along the river we struck 
a fresh deer trail, but darkness was soon upon us and we 
had to give up, I asked Hopper how they kept people 
from chasing deer with dogs in that section, and he re- 
plied in a laconic manner, "Shoot the dogs." 
Portus Baxter. 
CHICAGO AND THE WEST. 
The Death of Felix Payne. 
Chicago, III., Dec. 21. — Readers of Forest and Stream 
who remember the story of the Mississippi bear hunt, 
published in these columns last winter, will recall that 
one of our party at Bobo station was Mr. Felix Payne. 
Mr. Payne was also of the party in the Delta bear hunt 
in Mississippi, from which I recently returned, and of 
which extended mention has not yet been made. I looked 
forward to the writing of that story with interest, for I 
contemplated again saying some of the things I felt in re- 
gard to Mr. Payne, who on this hunt, as always, was so 
kindly and courteous to all, and especially to the strangers 
who were at the camp. I thought again, as before, that 
I had never met anywhere in all my life a man of whom 
one could write more unreservedly as a perfect sportsman 
and a perfect gentleman in every respect which that term 
implies. Now it is too late to say for Felix Payne the 
things one would have been ashamed to say to his face, so 
flattering must they have been. The sad news is just re- 
ceived that Felix Payne is dead, and beyond the reach of 
that human praise which could be the only human com- 
ment on his pure and noble life. 
It seems that Mr. Payne was not in good health at the 
camp. He went home early in the hunt, being called 
away, he said, by the sickness of a relative. Alas! he too 
was taken sick, and in a short time he died of pneumonia. 
The burial occurred last Saturday. 
Mr. Payne was a single man, whose plantation was 
near Capt. Bobo's, at Bobo station, Miss. He was only of 
middle age, and no one thought he had any but a long and 
prosperous life ahead of him. He was known all through the 
Delta as a quite, steady citizen, well-to-do, unostentatious, 
kindly and upright. He was one of those gentle charac- 
ters from whom never a word of complaint or ill-nature 
is heard, yet against whom the most critical could never 
urge the least trait of weakness. He was as brave as a 
lion and kind as a woman, and a more lovable man never 
walked the earth, north or south or in any land. What his 
life-long friend and companion, Capt. Bobo, will feel over 
this is something one would rather not think about. 
They were as brothers, and neither would think of going 
on a hunt without the other. Bobo has lost his right arm, 
and more than half his heart goes with it, we may be sure. 
There is not a man who was with Mr. Payne on* the late 
hunt who will now think of the hunt without this sudden 
and solemn conclusion of it ever foremost in his mind. 
This is the Way to Do It. 
The Minnesota wardens deserve a long, long mark of 
credit. They have done one of those things which people 
are in the habit of saying can't be done. Everybody 
knows that illegal game comes out of Minnesota, Wiscon- 
sin and Michigan — tons of it. especially this season of the 
year; yet everybody says, "You can't catch them." But 
they did. This is what the dispatches say of the matter: 
"DULUTH, Dec. 20. — Seventy -five thousand dollars in 
fines is what the Arion Fish Company, of Tower, this 
State, will have to pay if the State can make good its case 
against that concern. This morning the game warden 
seized a car containing 3,000 ruffed grouse and a quantity 
of moose and deer meat which had been shipped to a New- 
York firm by the Arion Company. Two previous consign- 
ments bring the number of birds illegally shipped up to 
25,000, and the company will be prosecuted on each 
count." 
That is the way to do it. Stop the sale of game. Never 
mind the weak men and the weak papers. Listen to the 
strong papers. Listen to the dictates of plain common 
sense, Stop the sale of game, and if you incidentally have 
to stop a few commission houses and cold-storage outfits, 
don't waste any tears over that. 
Kekoskee Over Again. 
Mr. D, J. Hotchkiss, editor of the Fox Lake (Wis.) Rep- 
resentative, called at the Forest and Stream office here 
to-day. He says they are having Kekoskee over again up 
on Beaver Dam Lake in that country. That lake, about 
twelve miles long and a mile wide, is frozen entirely over, 
and many think it will freeze to the bottom. The farmers 
have cut holes in the ice and are harvesting bullheads by 
the ton, Mr. Hotchkiss says he saw thirty-six sledloads, 
with the wagon boxes full and heaped up, standing in one 
line there one day this week. The thaw has lowered the 
price of bullheads, and the output is lees this week; but a 
cold snap will send the price up again. Mr. Hotchkiss 
says the odor of the dead fish is very bad already, but ad- 
mits it is not from the dead fish, but from the offal left 
by those who have been cleaning the fish for taking away. 
I don't believe the populace need any encouragement to 
take away these imprisoned fish, and it is probably well 
enough that it is now too late to use dynamite in killing 
them. Mr. Hotchkiss asks the Fobest and Stream to 
send up a man and promises to show a wild and exciting 
spectacle at the fishing holes on Beaver Dam. 
The Fox River Voyages. 
Mr. Geo. Sandler asks Forest and Stream the follow- 
ing questions: 
"Chicago, Dac. 14.— Is Fox River from McHenry up 
north passable by small boats at all seasons, and what 
towns are lying along the river for good stopping places 
for parties that would undertake such trips!' At what 
season is Fox River at its best as to water level? Are there 
any good maps in the market showing said river with 
towns shown to advantage? At what points is good fish- 
ing, and if different kinds of fish, what are they?" 
The highest water in the Fox is of course in the early 
spring, but one should wait till June for the pleasantest 
time to make the Fox River run. He can get down all 
right with skiffs from Waukesha, but will have to fight a 
good many weeds by the middle of June. The usual start- 
ing point for floating trip3 on the Fox is Burlington, Wis. 
From there on down one is not far from all the towns 
along the Wisconsin Central line — Trevor, Silver Lake, 
Antioch, etc. — though the stream winds about much and 
one would hardly wish to visit any of the towns, but 
would need to camp in order to be independent, as a trip 
of some miles to a sleeping place is not desirable at night. 
If one did not wish to oamp, it would be better to stop at 
the farmhouses, and this could be done very well. The 
map firms carry county maps for Wisconsin, but I never 
found these mapB of much use. The best way is to go out 
and map the country for yourself, then you get it right. 
The Fox is one of the best fishing streams in this region, 
