204 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Sept. 8, 1894 
THE MOOSE CALL. 
During these sultry dog days, while sweltering in the 
heat of the city, deprived of our usual outing by the 
stringency of the money market as applied to our own 
individual business, how many times does the mind 
revert to scenes of past pleasures — to cool, shady dells, 
grand, somber forests, roaring cascades where the royal 
salmon makes his splendid leap, and calm lakes sur- 
rounded by the everlasting hills, upon whose pellucid 
waters our artificial flies have trailed and fluttered many 
a time in the pursuit of the gamy black bass. 
Above all, how pleasant it is to remember the great 
Canadian forests in early fall and winter, with their 
bracing atmosphere laden with the resinous odors of 
spruce, pine and hemlock. One can almost hear the 
crackle of the glowing camp-fire and the many voices of 
companions who made the days pass pleasantly as they 
spuQ yarns of field and flood, or sung the songs so dear 
to the heart of the sportsman. 
Such an experience can never die while life remains to 
the enthusiastic participant. His face lights up as he 
speaks of the camp and its many associations, some 
humorous, others of an adventurous nature and all 
breathing the true spirit of vigorous, healthy woods life, 
pass in review before him as though it were but yester- 
day they occurred. 
Can it be possible that so many years have elapsed 
since we captured that grand-daddy trout in the deep 
hole just where the cold waters of the brook merged with 
the river? Why, the electric thrill seems to chase up 
and down our good right arm to this day as we see the 
wonderful leaps he made, with the golden sunlight flash- 
ing lrom his spotted sides, and only yielding himself a 
captive, ransom or no ransom, whpn incapable of another 
tug. How tenderly we handle the wreck of a scarlet-ibis 
fly which has been laid away, honorably discharged, 
after bringing to net a small-mouth black bass of B^lbs. 
Again we chuckle with humor at the recollection of our 
Co mm odore hanging tooth and nail to the rustic bridge 
with 10ft. of water below, the wind having carried his 
light boat from under him. It was nip and tuck for two 
minutes whether he could drag the canoe back by means 
of the desperate hold he had secured by means of the toe 
of his boot, and the balance of the camp lined the 
shore cheering alternately man and boat, casting 
wagers as to the chances of a cold bath, and making the 
woods echo with their applause when Cincinnati brawn 
finally conquered the obstinacy of a Canuck birchbark, 
wind-driven canoe, allowing the exhausted fisherman to 
drop into its embrace. Those were royal days when we 
were sporting for sport. Game was f airly plen ty, and 
none of us were butchers. We always had enough and to 
spare for the camp, and at one time after the season for 
venison opened, there hung outside of our shanty, deer, 
grouse, squirrels, the head of a moose our collector had 
preserved, besides several splendid strings of fish, in- 
cluding speckled trout, black bass and an enormous mas- 
kinonge, known as the tiger of northern waters on ac- 
count of his piratical build and the rapacity of his assault. 
There were six of us in the party, three of whom were 
guides. Of the sportsmen, our able Commodore led by 
long odds, his service in the field having been worldwide; 
for, being a man of extensive means, and with a desire to 
see the sports of the world, be had indulged his pet hobby 
and ridden it to the full. Besides, there was the Doctor, 
who was known as an authority on many matters con- 
cerning life in the woods, and whose genial nature made 
his companionship invaluable. As for myself, I had been 
through a little service in various lines, having whipped 
meny streams from Muskoka's lakes to Okeechobee in 
fair Florida, besides seeing considerable of the coast duck- 
ing grounds. 
The story of such a camp in the wilderness is always 
interesting to the sporting public. Cincinnati has prob- 
ably more lovers of fishing and gunning in proportion to 
her population than any city in the world, which is all 
the more singular because she is so unfortunately situated 
that to obtain any genuine satisfactory results disciples of 
the rod or gun are compelled to make long pilgrimages to 
i oreign fields in Indiana, Kentucky, Illinois, Michigan and 
even Canada woods. 
The only satisfaction we derive from such a status lies 
in the reflection that a victory is better appreciated after 
it has been cleverly won. If we could take a five-pound 
bass with every cast, the sport would lose its edge and 
finally grow monotonous. 
Although I had fished in Canada waters on more than 
me previous occasion, this was my first genuine outing 
among the grand trees that go to make up what in Cana- 
dian parlance is known as the "bush." They seldom 
speak of woods or forest or timber over the line — the word 
"bush" covers everything. Under these circumstances I 
expected to learn many new wrinkles pertaining to the 
craft, nor was I disappointed in this respect. Our guides 
were faithful fellows, two of them French-Canadians and 
unique characters, the third a full-blooded Indian, whom 
constant association with the whites had thoroughly civi- 
lized, though Sabattis still clung to many of the idioms of 
his ancestors. 
I was thrown much in his company, Antoine and 
Pierre falling to my companions. To this fact more 
than any extraordinary skill on my part, I am ready to 
ascribe much of the good fortune that attended my for- 
aging for game, so that even the doughty Commodore 
laughingly yielded me the palm as the high joint of the 
camp. 
Sabattis was as full of enthusiasm over the sport as 
though it were a novelty for him, and I could readily 
understand how my instinctive love for nature and the 
woods and streams must have been handed down to me 
generation after generation, from some such remote an- 
cestors, who, living in this primitive state of our abor- 
igines when Columbus found the new world, had to de- 
pend on their skill in mastering the game of the forest in 
order to live. 
During the hours I spent with my Indian guide he in- 
itiated me into many of the secrets of woodcraft which 
I have never forgotten. I learned to love the forest more 
than ever, the deeper I dipped into her mysteries and 
learned her various moods. 
Crouching at his side, I have seen him call in mallards 
and canvasbacks with only a lone home-made decoy 
floating on the water — while his wonderful mimicry 
galled the aggressive partridge cock who drummed and 
strutted upon a neighboring log, until I burst into a 
laugh at his positive frenzy, finally dropping the de- 
luded bird as he sped away with cannon ball velocity. 
He showed me the spring hole wbere the big trout still 
hovered, though the heat of summer had gone — led. me 
to the runway along which he was sure a deer would pass 
when startled from its lair beyond, and so positive was his 
reckoning that I brought down the first buck of the open 
season — he took me many miles up a stream to where a 
colony of beaver bad built a dam and constructed their 
settlement, where I learned all there was to know about 
the sagacity of this timid creature, and the methods em- 
ployed by Indian hunters to capture him. 
There came a time at length when all other events were 
eclipsed in my mind — when the climax of my outing was 
reached. Sabattis had discovered the tracks of a giant 
moose in the woods, and even the usually taciturn and 
cool Indian showed signs of excitement when comment- 
ing on the great size of the animal responsible for those 
imprints. So it was at once settled that we were at least 
to make an attempt to get the king of the Canadian 
forest, whose great horns would make a noble appearance 
in any dining-room, and form the subject of many a story 
after the table was cleared. 
The moose was in the neighborhood. During one night 
the guide awoke me from a sound sleep and bade me 
listen to a faraway sound stealing across the lovely lake 
on whose border our camp was situated. Ordinarily I 
might not have noticed the faint sound, or if so have 
taken it for the call of some species of owl or some one 
chopping wood, but when Sabattis solemnly assured me 
it proceeded from a bull moose, every nerve in my body 
tiDgled with anticipation. 
We awaited favorable conditions, for everything de- 
pended upon that. All were interested in the venture, 
and the Commodore, who had shot his moose some years 
before, gave me more solemn instructions than I could 
remember in a month. 
At last, while seated by the fire one cool night, enjoying 
its cheery blaze, Sabattis touched my arm, and beckoning, 
said, "Come." 
I knew what that meant — the conditions of breeze and 
moon were alike favorable. Our hour had arrived. In 
three minutes I had put on an extra coat — for it would 
be cold work out for hours on that broad sheet of water- 
picked up my Winchester, and stepped over to the birch 
bark canoe in the bow of which I was to make myself as 
comfortable as the circumstances would allow. 
The boys all wished us luck and saw us off. Sabattis, 
master of the paddle, dipped his spruce blade deep into 
the water, and we glided out upon the moonlit lake with- 
out a sound save the faint gurgle of water at the bow. 
I had seen Sabattis fashion his moose horn out of birch 
bark, rolled very much after the style of a cornucopia, but 
never for a moment imagined what a distracting, awe- 
inspiring sound could emanate from that ridiculous in- 
strument of ear torture, until the time came for him to 
breathe into it. 
We were out near the middle of the lake. The fair 
moon looked down on the water, over which came a faint 
zephyr from the western shore, stirring up the smallest of 
miniature waves. Sabattis declared the conditions could 
not be improved, and yet, with the wariness of a veteran 
who knows success depends on other things than an ideal 
conditions of the weather, bade me not be too sanguine. 
Then he raised the birch bark horn to his lips, and over 
the lake pealed the weirdest, most awe-inspiring sound I 
had ever heard. The mountains, with their forest-clad 
sides, threw the echo back, and it seemed to rebound from 
side to side for quite a space of time. Words of pen could 
never describe it other than to say it was a conglomera- 
tion of grunts and bellows of a* peculiarly distracting 
nature. 
Luckily I had been forewarned, and hence was not 
driven to distraction by the uncanny call. I remember 
thinking of the old fable concerning the lion and the don- 
key hunting together, the latter being sent into the cave 
to scare out the goats by his braying, while his companion 
slew them as they emerged. When all had been killed 
the proud donkey asked the lion's opinion of his share in 
the work, to which the other replied, with a vein of 
irony, that he would have been as badly frightened as the 
goats had he not known it was only the braying of an ass. 
When the echoes of Sabattis's call had died away, we 
sat there and listened eagerly. No reply coming, we 
moved further up the lake, and again the weird sound was 
sent rolling up against the wooded heights. 
Thus an hour passed by with no result. I was ready 
"to despair, but not so the guide, whose life had been 
spent in subduing such feelings as anxiety and. impa- 
tience, learning such lessons from the pertinacity of the 
gray wolf that pursues its quarry hour by hour with a 
grim determination that baffles defeat. 
It was just an hour after midnight, when far away we 
heard the answering call of a bull. At that minute I had 
been shuddering with the cold, but as the sound reached 
my ears my whole body seemed suffused with summer 
heat, my head came erect, and I held my very breath 
while Sabattis paddled toward the shore. 
Presently he gave another call, and almost immedi- 
ately an answer came. It was much nearer than before. 
Joy ! the moose bull seeking a mate, was making his way 
toward the shore of the lake. The guide knew well how 
to tone his call so as to lure him on. He was an adept, a 
master hand at the business. 
We glided on with hardly a ripple, now within easy 
range of the moonlit shore. We could hear the bull 
crushing through the brush. Gently Sabattis toned his 
magic call — never have I known his equal in the line of 
imitation. The moose was just beyond the fringe of 
bushes. 
"Steady," whispered Sabattis. 
The canoe had advanced under his noiseless maneuver- 
ing until we were within pistol shot of the shore, I 
watched the fringe of bushes. Bursting out from among 
the trees came the big moose. Into the water to his 
knees among the lily-pads he advanced. There he stood 
looking at the strange object on the lake, fearful, yet 
courageous. In ten seconds he would have taken the 
alarm and fled, but I did not mean to give him half of 
that time. 
I confess there was something in his grand appearance 
that awed me, and deep down in my heart I hated to fire; 
but the sportsman blood was too strong, and as my cheek 
rested against the stock of my Winchester I took a quick 
but accurate aim and pulled the trigger. Immediately 
there was a great splashing. "He is down!" shouted 
Sabattis, sending the canoe shoreward with lightning 
speed, while I threw another cartridge into the chamber, 
ready to complete my work if necessary. 
It was not 5 ee'cd — the game was mine, and on the fol- 
lowing day the head of the giant bull decorated our 
camp. That was my first and last moose. Though years 
have passed, I never find myself upon a moonlit sheet of 
water without having vivid and pleasurable recollections 
of SabattiB, his canoe and the weird cry that emanated 
from his birch bark moose call. 
St. George Rathborne. 
CINCINNATI, O. 
IN COLORADO HILLS. 
Denver, Colo. — Editor Forest and Stream: Our party 
was composed of four middle-aged men of some little 
experience in the hills. The object— hunting and pros- 
pecting. The outfit consisted of two horses, heavy spring 
wagon, tent, shovel, pick, cooking utensils, bedding and 
clothing, two rifles, one shotgun, and other duffle too 
numerous to mention, the whole making our load too 
heavy for either horses or wagon. 
We started west from Denver over the prairie, twelve 
miles into the foot hills, which rise so abruptly that one 
wonders how he will be able to surmount them and 
reach the snow-clad peaks beyond. 
By noon we had reached the mouth of a small canon 
running west into the hills. Here is a dwelling and 
store combined. The proprietor said he had kept a post- 
office there for many years for nothing, but had quit it; 
but he expatiated on the beauty of the scenery and health- 
fulness of the place and in proof of this said he had 
raised a family of seventeen children without having had 
a doctor in his house. We deemed the proof conclusive and 
lapsed into meditation as to the luxuriance of everything 
that is indigenous to Colorado. The product was certain- 
ly better than the coyotes it displaced. He is a hale and 
hearty, grizzled and gray yeoman of the Rockies. 
Through most of the afternoon we climbed up the 
canon, camping at night near a small ledge of rose quartz. 
The next morning we descended Floyd's Hill to Clear 
Creek, a few miles below Idaho Springs. We assisted the 
horses and wagon brake, in holding the wagon, by tying 
our one-hundred foot rope to the rear axle and three of 
us holding back with might and main. The effect on our 
limbs was such that we could scarcely walk for a day or 
two. After passing the springs a little way we found the 
road obliterated by the debris of a cloud Durst. Twenty 
men were repairing the road or relocating it. We were 
the first to pass. The next morning we found the first 
results of over-loading, in loose boxes in the wagon hubs. 
We wrapped canvas around them, and drove them in 
again as tightly as an axe could do it. The road is very 
rough and steep for a wagon. In an hour we had broken 
the tongue brace. Bailing wire and patience repaired the 
break. We then commenced climbing Berthound Pass. 
Such grand and beautiful scenery. My impotent pen 
would make its attempted description sacrilege. With 
three walking, one driving, we toiled up that seemingly 
interminable hill, until at last the top is reached, where 
the ruins of an old hostlery and stage station speak of 
former rest and conviviality; for, judging from the num- 
ber of beer and other bottles, Bacchus must have 
' 'roosted" on this part of the backbone of the continent. 
In going down the northern side we had to reinforce the 
brake with the rope as before, but as we could scarcely 
walk down hill on account of our former experience, we 
cut some pine boughs, made a brush heap of them, tied 
the rope to them, I jumped astride, and away we went. 
Directly the lightning flashed, thunder pealed, and the 
rain came down in torrents, but we could not stop. 
What a glorious coast I was having with the horses on a 
trot — when a stump — the front end of the brush pile 
struck it, the rear went wildly in the air, and your now 
humbled servant, after making a jumping-jack of him- 
self in the air, went rolling over the bank. Two men 
caught the rope, the wagon" was cramped to the upper 
side of the road and stopped, when with tearful eyes 
solicitous inquiries were made as to my fallen condition. 
(The tears were caused by excessive laughter.) I was not 
hurt, but was willing to share my coasting with the boys. 
The rain had an end, the hill a bottom and night a be- 
ginning, a wet camping ground, plenty of wood, roaring 
camp-fire, good supper, sweet sleep, hearty breakfast, an 
early start, an hour's drive and we entered Middle Park. 
We had been in South Park, which is an immense hay 
field, and expected to find Middle Park similar, but in- 
stead the surface is covered with sage brush and short 
grass. The soil is good, and with irrigation, for which 
there is plenty of water, it too would make a great hay 
country. The altitude is not so great as that of South 
Park. 
We laid our course to Grand Lake, at the head of Grand 
River, and extreme upper end of the Park. Grand Lake 
is the most beautiful and picturesque body of water it has 
ever been my fortune to see. We are told it 13 two and 
one-half miles long by one and one-half miles wide, and 
has been measured to 700ft. and no bottom found. The 
mountains tower above it on three sides, and on the 
south, from the top of the mountain to the bottom of the 
lake, is no break in its steep side. We rowed across, and 
found that while the waters were as clear as crystal near 
the shore, the depth made it appear inky black at its cen- 
ter. Trout reported to weigh 71bs. sport in Grand Lake. We 
did no fishing, having caught all we needed in the river 
below. 
We retraced our steps as far as the mouth of Willow 
Creek, up which rich placer ground had been reported, 
We did not find the right road, but started up the creek 
following a dim wagon track. We came to a small ranch, 
whose proprietor insisted that we could not get through, 
but we were determined to try. We had to hold the 
wagon for three miles to keep it from upsetting; and at . 
one place had to let it down the hill with the aid of a 
rope and snubbing post. At another point we tied the 
rope over the top of the wagon away up the hill, made it 
fast, then drove about two rods, then shored up the wagon 
and carried the rope forward and made fast again. 
We finally reached the gold camp and found a "town 
company" surveying a town site. There is gold there, 
sure enough! Perhaps $1 to the acre, I think that is a 
high estimate. Not being "tenderfeet," we did not buy a 
town lot. We hunted deer one day and grizzlies one day 
and fished many days, finding here our largest trout — the 
best one measuring 18in. and weighing 3ilbs. 
The deer were very wild. We got only two shots and 
no meat, but we did have a good laugh. W. and I had 
been on a long tramp and were nearing camp, coming 
down a grassy ravine. Striking a bunch of willows, we 
separated, going on either side to scare up some grouse, 
