Ana. 11, 1894.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
the Gardiner Hill and at Yancey'8. I don't know of any- 
road so equipped, so the Cooke City Air Line, when built, 
would be in a manner unique. It could get a good deal 
of advertising out of its mile-high elevators, and I advise 
the Cooke City men to build the road, by all means. 
People would come a long way to see it, and to ride up 
and down the elevators on the trains. The road in this 
way might be built, and this might be called a practical 
scheme. Of course nobody really thinks that a railroad 
could be built up the Valley of the Yellowstone, and no 
engineer has ever called that a practical route. Some 
roads are built along a bluff, and some roads are run on 
top of a bluff, and some roads are backed only by a bluff. 
The Cooke City Air Line is one of the latter sort. But I 
wish the gentlemen would consider my elevator scheme. 
It might give new life to their project, which I under- 
stand to be in rather a languishing condition. Some of 
these things occurred to us as we looked over toward the 
tremendous landscape which hedged the Yellowstone, a 
landscape mostly set on edge. 
Awful Going. 
The country we were now crossing was high and cold, 
nearly bare of timber near the trail, something like the 
Hayden Valley, but much more broken, I should say. It 
was not such very hard ski country, but the condition of 
the snow made the going simply awful. The snow was, 
in some places, crusted hard enough to bear us up on 
the skis, and in others so soft as to let us sink down below 
the surface. Then there were strips of country along the 
ridges quite bare, or so nearly so as to compel us to take 
off our skis and go across on foot — something which the 
ski runner declares tires him more than five times the 
distance of straight travel, because he does not like to 
stoop over and fix his straps, or to carry the slippery skis 
over his shoulder. Of course the condition of the snow 
depended much on the way the sun struck it, so that one 
side of a hill might be soft and the other with a hard 
crust. Again, the hour of the day had much to do with 
it. The snow was melting underneath and settling fast, 
but at mid-day this did not matter so much. In the 
afternoon, however, a crust began to form, and this crust 
was just strong enough to break through about every few 
yards. When it broke down the unfortunate ski man 
would find himself a couple of feet below the surface of 
the snow. Attempting to step out, he would break in 
again. Struggling still further, he perhaps would thrust 
the toe < f his ski far under the unbroken crust about him 
and have a fine time in getting it out again. Breaking 
up the crust by treading it between his feet, he might 
make a last try for liberty, only to slip back into the 
hole at the last instant. The continual straining and 
struggling we found very wearing. To make it all worse, 
Hunt was having trouble with his shoes, which were 
sticking badly. We stopped twice to wax up, building a 
fire and melting snow at one Jplace, and thus getting a 
drink of rather smoky water. 
In the Elk Country. 
We could now see plenty of evidence that we were get- 
ting into the elk country We could see trails and pa,w- 
ings in greatest abundance in every direction. The elk 
seemed to ba more numerous in the section about the 
Blacktail Creek. We saw one band of 48 elk, distant 
perhaps half a mile or more on the left of the trail. Being 
well pushed for time on account of the fearful shoeing, 
we did not leave the line of march to iook up any bands 
of elk, indeed, it was not at that time thought there were 
so many in the Blacktail country. 
The Run of the Yancey Hill. 
It was 6 o'clock in the evening, and time to be getting 
somewhere, when we at length found ourselves at the 
summit of the Yancey Hill. Billy was ahead here, and 
disappeared from view on a long, gentle, curving slide 
around and down the last hill that side of the deep gash 
through the mountains known as the Devil's Gut. 1 fol- 
lowed, with a serene sense of relief at the easy, gliding 
motion of a down grade and good snow. All at once the 
whole earth seemed to fall out from in front of me, and 
all I could see was blue air below. My serenity vanished, 
and I hurriedly got across the ski pole to put on brakes, 
but before I had time to do that fully, I was at the bottom 
of the chute, where Billy stood looking at my look of 
astonishment. This was the last sharp drop down into 
the Devil's Gut. We all got handsome croppers here, but 
the snow was soft and it didn't matter. 
"We're iu the Gut now," said Billy, "and just the same 
as at Yancey's. It's five miles, but every inch of it's 
down hill." 
With this latter statement we were later disposed to 
agree, but with the essential statement that we were as 
good as there, we had cause to differ. We had a frightful 
time getting down that hill, and were heartily glad when 
this part of the day's journey was over. 
I suppose the Yancey Hill is riskier to run than the 
Golden Gate Hill, because on the Yancey Hill some of the 
grades, though shorter, are very steep indeed. The descent 
is by means of a series of sharp pitches or steps, with now 
and then a long run nearly level between them. For five 
miles this goes on, the drop being tremendous down to 
"Pleasant Valley," as Uncle John Yancey calls the shel- 
tered bight of the mountains which he has made his 
home. I do not know the difference in elevations, but, 
roughly speaking, it seemed to us to be about five miles 
forward and one mile down. 
Given a good snow, and the run down either the Golden 
Gate or the Yancey Hill would be pleasant to a good ski 
man. But here the snow was in the worst possible condi- 
tion. It was covered, in these deep defiles, with a glassy 
crust, over which light snow had drifted in places. More- 
over the team of the dare-devil mail carrier Church — by 
what means let somebody else explain — had been down 
this hill and cub up the snow into rough hillocks along the 
trail. The crust would hardly hold one on foot. To run 
it on the skis looked like doing five miles of nutmeg grater 
glace. Still, we had to do it, and each man did it in his 
own way, plunging down as best he could and falling 
probab'y fifty times. The falls hurt us all, too, because 
the crust was hard enough to cut. , 
More than ouce I was astonished to see the ease with : 
which the skis took the inequalities of the surface. Dash- ] 
ing down the steep pitches over the rough tracks left by 
the horse team, I could feel the skis jumping and jarring 
beneath me, and could see a long stream of holes and 
hillocks go by and back of me, but the skis kept on jump- 
ing and jumping and going ahead and down, over country 
where one would expect them to be brought up standing 
any minute. *The good luck did not last forever, though, for 
in one of these rough stretches my toe got into or under 
something and I got a nasty fall, which did my game 
ankle no good, and made me mighty timid for a long 
while. Hunt was carrying Billy's camera part of the 
time, and I believe he went down the Yancey Hill as 
much on his back as on his feet. Anyhow, it was good 
rolling and sliding when a fellow couldn't stand up, so we 
all got down someway, Billy of course much better than 
Hunt or myself, who had not so long a schooling on the 
skis. On the last steep pitch just above Yancey's, Billy 
took to the woods, and sitting down on his skis slid down 
through a thicket of quaking asps. I walked or plowed 
down the steepest part of the run, coming on Hunt, who 
was lying on his back in the snow, resting after a tumble. 
From below there came a hearty peal of laughter at his 
mishap, and I knew that at last we were at the end of the 
march. We then all got upright on our skis, and ran 
down with a flourish to the two log cabins, in front of 
which stood the entire population of "Yancey's," consist- 
ing of Uncle John himself, proprietor in general ; Taswill 
Woody, the well-known mountain man and guide; Brown, 
the cook, and old Bill Jump, who has a cabin just back of 
Yancey's, and a stable for the mail carrier's horses. Nor 
should I forget Uncle John's two staghounds, Pinkie and 
Green, fine specimens, albeit of touch-and-go tempera- 
ment. Bill Jump has a dog also, which may or may not 
be a staghound. Pinkie and Green lick him so easy that 
he is afraid to call his soul his own, and so takes it out 
barking at strangers. 
The Population at Yancey's. 
The population now nearly doubled by our advent, 
adjourned indoors. We were at home again, and a very 
pleasant home we found the cosy cabin, with its blazing 
fire, its abundant hearty food and the general air of free 
and easy Western hospitality. There were some saddles 
and saddle-blankets on the floor, and the fellow who was 
willing to fight Pinkie or Green for a blanket could make 
himself hugely comfortable in the warm corners back of 
DEER HORNS GNAWED BY POPXUPINE. 
the fire. Here we went into executive session of story- 
telling, and few parts of our stay in the Park were pleas- 
anter than the days at Yancey's. 
Uncle John Yancey is one of the features of the Park, 
just as much as the geysers or the Canon. My impres- 
sion is that he was there before the Canon was finished. 
He is one of the few persons who are allowed leases in 
the Park, it being in his case thought well to have a place 
in that part of the Park where some sort o- accommoda- 
tions could be had by travelers. Here there is a little 
garden, a cow or two, and always a bed and a good plain 
table. Some of the very best trout fishing in the Park is 
near Yancey's, and the place is one of the prettiest and 
pleasant of all the possible stopping places. 
Uncle John is a Kentuckian by birth, long a citizen of 
the West and by far the leading attraction of Pleasant 
Valley, if only you strike him right. He has a whole- 
some contempt for tenderfeet who get too "peart," and a 
hearty respect for the mountain qualities of manhood. 
Some of the tourists irritate him very much. 
"They're sech fools," he said frankly, "some of 'em. 
Onct one rode up to the door here and ast me how fur it 
wuz to the Mammoth! Hot Springs. 
" 'It's twenty miles,' sez I. 
" 'The book sez it ain't,' sez he. 
" 'I don't give a dash what the book sez,' sez I. Then 
I went right on in and shet the door, an' left him out thar 
a-settin' on to his hoss." 
One time a citizen still more seriously offended Uncle 
John, who didn't like the way he acted around the house. 
"I wuz a great mind to kill that feller several times," 
said Uncle John calmly, in telling about it. "I reckon I 
would a-killed him on'y I didn't want him layin' around 
here until I could git word over to the Post an' have some 
one come over an' remove him. I felt very hostyle to 
that feller," 
Uncle John loves a good joke, and can tell one on him- 
self if needs be. He tells one about an experience of his 
which happened when he was younger. 
"I wuz livin' in Mizzoury then," said he, "an' I reckon 
wuz a kinder wild young feller. You see, I wuz goin' to 
town one day, an' I had to cross a river, an' they wuz on'y 
one boat there, which wuz owned by some folks who 
lived clos't by the river. The owner wuzn't to home, but 
his wife wuz. She wuz a great big woman, 'bout six feet 
high and big proportionate. She wuz a young woman, 
but savager any young woman ought nacherl to be. I 
ast her fer the boat, an' she said 'No!' ez if I wuz a insult- 
in' of her. That sort of riled me, an' I 'lowed I'd hev to 
take the boat anyhow. So I goes down an' I lays hold of 
the boat fer to push it off. The woman, she gathers a 
club, not sayin' a word, an' she comes fer me. She wuz 
big ez three of me, an' I.didn't know what to do, so 'lowin' 
I'd quiet her down a little whjl I wuz thinkin' it over, I 
hit her a whack hard ez I could over the head with a oar. 
She set down pretty hard an' kept quiet, an' I went on 
acrost the river. 
"When I come to find out, I learned the feller that wuz 
that woman's husband wuz a touchy sort of feller, an' I 
'lowed when I seed him I wuz apt to have trouble, an' I 
s'posed nothin' would do exceptin' I had to kill him or 
him kill dip, which wuzn't pleasant nohow. Well, one 
day I met him. We wuz both on horseback, an' I saw him 
ridin' on down the road towards me. I got all ready, 
'lowin' the shootin'd shore have to begin, but not thinkin' 
it wuz egzacktly perlite to hit a man's wife with a oar an' 
then begin shootin' over it befo' be did. Well, he rides 
on up towards me, an' we both stops, I a-bein' mighty 
careful like, a' the upshot of it all is, I out an' tell him the 
whole story, 'lowin' his .wife hadn't treated m j no ways 
right. The feller he listens to me all through, an' says he. 
'Stranger,' says he, 'I wish to God you'd done that sooner 
to that there woman. She's been a different wife to me 
since then.' 
"That kind of relieved me, you know. Yes, it shorely 
did relieve me." 
The Second Silent Man. 
I have mentioned John Folsom . winter keeper of the Canon 
Hotel, as the most silent man I ever knew. The second 
silent man is Taswill Woody. Duringthewholeof our stay 
at Yancey's Woody hardly spoke a word unless accosted. 
He spent hour after hour and day after day playing soli- 
taire. Woody is a man of large stature, over 60 years of 
age and quite gray. I think he has more natural dignity 
than any man I ever knew in any walk of life. He is a 
well known mountain guide and has been much out with 
Mr. Roosevelt and his friends. He says Mr. Roosevelt is 
the best big-game shot he ever knew. Woody was born 
in Missouri, and has long lived on the front. He was a 
'49er, has been to the Australian gold fields, and, in short, 
has seen all the wild life of the world and all the glories 
of our now faded West. Of his experiences as scout and 
Indian fighter it was extremely diffiult to get him to talk. 
Acting on Uncle John's advice, I tried to get Woody to 
tell me something of the fight on Bouvier (?) Creek (on 
the present Crow reservation), where he, Charlie Cox and 
Hubbell holed up in a willow thicket and stood off proba- 
bly 1,000 Sioux all day, killing eight or ten of them. I 
waited for a whole day, till Woody and I were alone, 
climbing up the mountain side to go over and see some 
elk. and then I said, carelessly: 
"How about^that.ffight you were in with the Indians, 
over east, here. Wasn't it a pretty close thing?" 
"What fight?" asked Woody, calmly. Then he re- 
lapsed into silence. The above was all the description I 
could get out of him about that fight. Later on, how- 
ever, making an evident effort to be communicative, he 
told me a few things about Indian fights in general. He 
claimed that the Indians were very poor rifle shots, and 
that the closer they were to you, the less apt they were to 
hit you At long range they were better shots. "They 
seem to get excited and trembly, close to you," said 
Woody. 'A lot of 'em shot at me and a Dutchman one 
• lay. They rose up not 50ft. away from us, and ought to 
have killed both of us. I stayed back with the Dutch- 
man, and we stood them off.' (I could not learn whether 
the Dutchman was hurt or whether Woody himself was 
hurt). The solitaire game always broke up the talk. 
In the Heart of the Elk Country. 
We learned that we were now in the heart of the win- 
ter range of the elk. From the cabin door we could see 
a little band of elk feeding on top of the bald ridge which 
rises at the upper end of "Pleasant Valley." Learning of 
our purpose, Woody quietly told us that he could take us 
to a point within two miles where we could see over 1,000 
elk at one sight. As I shall later show, he did it, too. , 
E. Hough. 
909 Security Building, Chicago. 
htnval 
WHAT BECOMES OF DEER ANTLERS. 
Geneseo, N. Y, July 21.— Editor Forest and Stream 
We have heard a good deal at one time and another as to 
what becomes of the deer horns after they are shed, and 
now I'm going to tell you what happened to part of one 
pair that never had been shed. 
My guide and I were making our way down a big 
beaver meadow in the Wahnaputac Lake region of Ontario 
one evening a few weeks ago, and were just thinking of 
putting up our little Protean tent and going into camp for 
the night, when the guide held up his hand with a 
"Hist!" Listening, I heard a strange, rasping sound, ap- 
parently a hundred yards or so to our left in the bush. 
Dropping our stuff on the ground, in we went to investi- 
gate; and as we advanced the crunching became louder 
and louder. It sounded exactly as though some fellow 
with heavy, hobnailed boots was shuffling over a cobble- 
stone pavement. The guide whispered; "Well,. I'll be 
strung up if ever I heard such a nsise as that before in 
the bush;" and for myself I began to think a good gun 
would be about the proper article to have along just then 
instead of an axe and a Kodak. 
After considerable sneaking and crawling we managed 
to get to the edge of a little clear place, from which the 
sounds came; and then we both laughed, for there was 
only an old fat porcupine chawing away at some white 
bones. He paid no attention whatever to us, but went 
right on at what he was about; and on looking closer we 
saw that he was eating one of the horns of a big buck, 
which evidently had been killed by the wolves in the 
winter. 
We watched the brute chew up almost all of one horn 
and begin on the other. 1 brought the skull and what 
was left of the antlers out with me, and think it is quite a 
curiosity. I send it by express to you, so that if you care 
to, you can make a cut of it. You will notice that the 
marks of the porcupine's teeth are almost as sharp and 
clean cut as though made with a chisel. Cabibou. 
Mongolian Pheasants in New York. 
Geneseo, N. Y., July 29.— We have lots of Mongolian 
pheasants here now, and I am making .some notes to send 
you as soon as I get time for it, C ? 
