420 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Nov. 17, 1884. 
ANOTHER MOOSE. 
Somebody has said that "History repeats itself." It so 
happens that exactly one year ago to-night I sat at this 
same desk and endeavored to answer your question of 
how I got "my first moose," the story appeared in your 
issue of Nov. 4, 1893. Well, as they say in the circus, 
"Here we are again." You may recall that the killing 
of that moose occurred at about seven o'clock on Tuesday 
evening, Sept. 19, last year. The game I shall tell you of 
to-night I called down, and shot at on the same day of 
the week, the same hour in the evening, and on nearly 
the same day of the month tbis year, and it seems to me 
that in this case, history has made a very creditable 
effort to sustain prophecy. 
Moreover, this year's moose is very nearly the counter- 
part of that of last year, the antlers being almost exact 
duplicates as to spread and size, and the weights of the 
two moose were, I should judge, very nearly the same. 
Another summer has come and gone, another vacation 
season has passed. How differently men have spent it. 
I speak, of course, of the business or professional man — 
not the man of leisure — but of him who toils with muscle, 
wit, or brain, for forty or fifty weeks in the year, and 
counts himself fortunate to find leisure for a few weeks 
or even days. To such a man the word vacation has a 
"Our Cozy Little Tent." 
deep and gladsome meaning. To him it means for a 
brief saason, emancipation, freedom from care, cessation 
of toil, rest for the brain. 
I have often been struck with the diversity of tastes 
existing among business men as to the manner of spend- 
ing their vacations, and with the fact that so few of them 
adopt the woods, camp and trail. 
Of course it is a case of "every man to his taste." 
There is undoubted pleasure in the ocean voyage, recre- 
ation and delight at the seaside resort, and in the mountain 
retreat. 
The tour of the pedestrian, the cycler or the rider 
all have fascinations and delights peculiarly their own. 
But to me, it seems that nothing in the way of an ' 'outing" 
can for a moment compare with the hunting of "big 
game." Here, in fact, we have almost all the recreations 
rolled into one — the journey by rail or boat, staging, 
or coaching if you please, tramping — or shall I say pedes- 
trianism? — boating and canoeing, fishing and shooting, 
for where big game abounds there may you look for the 
wily trout and the toothsome partridge. For the pho- 
tographer, painter, botanist or scientist, where can be 
found a better field than that afforded by the vast wilder- 
ness of forests, lakes and mountains of our own State of 
Maine or our neighbor's Canadian wild woods? Here we 
have vast pleasure grounds really very accessible, all things 
considered, whither the artist, scientist, sportsman or 
mere lover of nature may easily repair when his short 
season of leisure is at hand. And yet, as I have said, how 
few comparatively of our business men avail themselves 
of these magnificent forests for the purpose of recreation 
or hunting? 
Feeling thus, I need hardly tell you that when the time 
for my vacation came, my mind was made up as to where 
and how to spend it. 
Did you ever go into camp for the purpose of hunting 
or fishing? If so, you will know how a man feels when 
he realizes that the day for his departure from the city 
for a taste of life in the forests is near at hand. How his 
hunting "toggery" is pulled out of nooks and closets and 
repairs made or new pieces added; the fishing tackle is 
taken down and rubbed up; rifle and shotgun br ught 
forth, inspected, cleaned and oiled. How impossible for 
him it is at this time when walking the street, to pass a 
window where these things are so temptingly exposed 
for sale without stopping to look at them To a man 
about to start on a hunting and fishing trip the humblest 
of "sporting goods" windows have an almost irresistible 
attraction, and he is resolute indeed who can pass on 
without entering the store to inquire about some new 
trinket that has caught his eye. A great many things 
are to be thought of at such a time. There are the camp 
supplies to be bought. It is not an easy thing to know 
just what to provide for a given number of men for a 
given time — just what to buy, how much to buy and 
what not to buy. But there is one thing that should 
always be steadily borne in mind, which is that in moose, 
caribou or deer hunting every pound of whatever nature 
(and this of course includes tents and canoes) will have 
to be carried more or less. I know of no good hunting 
grounds where this is not the case. Hence luxuries 
should be rigorously excluded and necessities reduced to 
the minimum. What are necessities? I should say 
in a general way flour (which should be "self-raising"), and 
of this you may confidently provide one pound per day 
per man, bacon, pork, potatoes, sugar, tea and coffee. 
Canned beans are palatable, nutritious and convenient, 
but heavy to carry. Dried beans are preferable if you know 
how to prepare them in camp. Where big game abounds 
partridge and trout are pretty sure to become a prominent 
part of the daily menu, and with the provisions I have 
named a most excellent meal can always be prepared. 
Butter, of course, must be classed under the head of 
"luxuries," but I am free to confess that it is the one 
luxury I cannot exclude. Of course we must not forget 
the condiments, but they are inconsiderable as to weight. 
Then there are the guides to be engaged, and arrange- 
ments made as to time and place of meeting them. All 
these things, and many more are occupying the mind of 
the prospective hunter long before the day of departure 
arrives, but all is a pleasure, and, indeed, I sometimes 
doubt just where the greatest pleasure of a vacation of 
this nature really lies; whether it is in the anticipation, 
the realization or the retrospection. Of a fairly success- 
ful trip I am inclined to the last, for anticipation may be 
alloyed with much doubt, and realization is certainly 
shared with considerable physical effort, and it may be 
with some keen disappointments, but when all is over, 
obstacles overcome, the end sought attained, or even par- 
tially attained, you are home again, life's thread again 
taken up, and you look back upon the trip as a whole, the 
whole becomes a pleasure, and a pleasure, too, with very 
little alloy. 
I left New York this year on Saturday evening, Sept. 15, 
for Montreal, my destination being Deux Rivieres, Ont., 
a station on the Canadian Pacific Railway, some 300 miles 
west of that city, where I arrived early on Monday morn- 
ing, the 17th. I had written Mr. Richardson, who keeps 
a small hotel in the place, to have a buckboard in readi- 
ness to take me in to Hurdmann's 
lumber depot, sixteen miles north 
from there, where I was to join a 
friend who had preceded me, and 
where all supplies had been sent, 
and where I was to meet my guide. 
Consequently I went in "light," as 
we say, having only my rifle, trout 
rods and photographic outfit to 
carry, and the journey was made 
in about six hours. "Six hours 
for sixteen miles" you say? Yes. 
Wait till you see that road, and 
you will not doubt my statement. 
The road is very rough, and it 
matters not how light you may be, 
it is impossible to go at a faster 
gait than a walk. 
At Hurdmann's I met my friend 
and two guides and an extra man 
we had engaged for cook and gen- 
eral utility man. Geo. Crawford, 
a famous guide in those parts, 
guided my friend, and Peter Le 
Claire was assigned to me. He is 
another most excellent man, half 
Indian, and a hunter of the very 
best class, indeed, I think I have 
never met a man in whom the hunting instincts were 
stronger or more unerring. His is the eye of the hawk, 
the ear of the hare, the quickness of the cat, and the 
endurance of the camel. Israel Tailleur was our cook 
and extra man. A good-natured fellow is Israel. As 
sure as he opens his mouth he says something, and as 
sure as he says something he laughs. I really believe 
that man was born with a broad smile upon his infant 
face, which he has never been able to overcome. I some- 
how conceived the idea when I first saw him, that Irs 
name was Hiram, and in spite of 
all I could do "Hiram" he re- 
mained to me during the entire 
trip. These three men are all from 
Mattewa, Ontario, and were furn- 
ished us by Mr. Rankin, the agent 
of the Hudson's Bay Company at 
that place. 
An early start was made from 
Hurdmann's on Tuesday morning, 
and, after a hard day's work by 
canoe and portage we reached our 
camp on Hamilton Lake, some 
twelve or fourteen miles further 
north, just at nightfall. This lake, 
which is about four or five miles 
long, and from one to two miles 
wide, is one of the most beautiful 
bodies of water I ever saw. It 
contains a number of small islands, 
all of them rocky, but covered 
with a picturesque growth of birch, 
maple, tamarack and fir, and is 
surrounded on all sides with moun- 
tains, or perhaps I should say high 
ridge3, covered with a similar 
growth from their summits down 
to the irregular rocky shores. In 
late September, when the early 
frost has tinted the hillsides and 
islands, the lake presents a gorge- 
ous picture of almost indescribable 
beauty. We had hunted moose 
upon this same lake last season, 
and although unsuccessful at this 
particular place, had seen many 
signs of the animal on and near it. 
Especially was this the case in what we call the Thorough- 
fare, a tortuous stream a mile and a half long connecting 
it on the south with Rascicot Lake, but we were greatly 
disappointed this year by the almost total absence of signs 
either about the lake or in the Thoroughfare. However, 
we considered it the most likely place for moose, and 
Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday evenings were spent 
there in calling. But the week ended with no results, 
and with all signs of a Btorm approaching, signs which 
were fulfilled, for Saturday, Sunday andMonday,werespent 
for the most part in our cozy little tent. Stormy, blustery 
weather is the moose caller's especial aversion. Othello 
like, "his occupation's gone," and, for one whose time is 
limited, and who is intent on moose and moose only, 
such days are apt to drag. An occasional tramp through 
the wet bush for partridge, or an hour or two of casting 
or trolling for trout, alternating with some "yellow back" 
literature and a great deal of tobacco, made up the sum 
total of those three gloomy days. 
Tuesday dawned, still storming, but it proved to be the 
lucky day, Toward noon cloud and sunshine had a 
struggle, and by 1 o'clock sunshine had the best of it, and 
Old Sol once more gladdened us with his genial face. 
The wind, which had been blowing a gale, gradually sub- 
sided, and the evening was clear, cold and still. Moose 
calling that night was of course strictly in order. My 
friend and Crawford chose the thoroughfare, while Peter 
and I started for the lower end of the lake. 
A moose caller's outfit should consist of a canoe, a rifle, 
a jack lamp and a moose horn. The canoe should be 
light, but not cranky; that is to say, it should be as steady 
as possible to have it, in order that you may sit easily and 
comfortably, and have the free use of your body and 
arms. Remember, you are now going upon an expedition 
of silence and strategy, and the loss of a moose might 
easily be the result of a slight tip of the canoe, causing 
foot or rifle or paddle to make just a little noise. If the 
canoe is cranky, put in some ballast. The rifle, well, 
there are many good ones, but for moose it must be of 
large caliber, with plenty of powder behind the bullet. 
Mine is a .45-90 Winchester, full magazine, and as it has 
never failed me, of course 1 pin my faith to it. The jack 
will probably be a Ferguson if you buy it in these parts, 
for I find no other on sale. The horn is made of birch 
bark, and is usually about 15 or 20in. long. Such was my 
outfit as Peter and I left camp at about 5 o'clock on that 
Tuesday afternoon. What occurred I will try and tell 
you in the plainest possible way. 
As we paddled away from camp, around the first point, 
and turned our canoe northward, I was struck with the 
perfection of the evening. Scarcely a ripple stirred the 
bosom of the placid lake. The wooded ridges on either 
side of us were clearly outlined against a cloudless sky; 
the tall and shapely spruce tops stood like rows of steeples, 
motionless and sharp. The merry crackling of our camp- 
fire died away behind us, and all was silence save the gur- 
gle of the water at the bow of our canoe. Two or three 
miles of paddling lay between us and our intended calling 
place at the lower end of the lake. "Beautiful evening, 
eh, Peter?" I said as I plied the paddle from the bow end 
of the canoe. "Yes, it is," replied Peter from the other 
other end, and he lost a stroke or two while he quietly 
knocked the ashes from his pipe, and tucked it in his 
pocket. I presume it had struck him that it was just as 
well to have no unnecessary incense floating around when 
going after moose, which idea, if he had it, I most thor- 
oughly indorse. Then dead silence for at least a mile. 
"Likely night for calling," I remarked. 
"Fine," said Peter. 
"And oh, Peter, I have intended to say this to you be- 
fore, but I will say it now: in case I ever get a shot from 
the canoe, no matter where or when, always remember 
to swing the canoe around so that I can shoot to my left, 
if it is a possible thing to do so." 
"Oh, I understand that," replied Peter, "good deal 
easier to shoot that side." 
"That's the idea; and I thought you might not think of 
it when the time came." 
I think this was every word that passed between us 
until the extreme lower end of the lake was reached. 
Some time before reaching this point I had stopped 
paddling and quietly handed the paddle back to Peter so 
that he could place it behind me without noise. Then I 
took up my rifle, noiselessly opened the breech to see that 
the cartridge was in its place, cocked- it without letting it 
click and laid it across my lap. At this time the canoe 
was just moving a little and Peter was propelling it 
with the paddle without taking it from the water, 
so that not even the sound of a drop of water 
disturbed the almost absolute silence. I motioned to 
"Such was my Outfit." 
Peter with my hand to stop, took up my moose horn and 
made the first call. I wish I could describe the stillness 
that followed the echo of the call, but that is impossible. 
You must imagine yourself away from civilization, in a 
spot where no human sound is heard. Then picture a 
clear, cold, absolutely still night, above you the blue star- 
lit sky — every one of the myriads of stars seeming un- 
usually bright in the immense dome above; beneath, the 
bosom of a silent glassy lake; on every side the gloomy 
shores, and back of them the dense and silent forest. If 
you can imagine this, if you can imagine the total 
absence of anything human, you can possibly realize the 
hoarse call of the moose horn, abruptly breaking this in- 
tense stillness, you can hear the reverberating echoes roll- 
ing across the lakes and resounding from the hillsides, 
until they die away in the distance. 
Imagining this, you will understand that, should there be 
an answer ever so faint or ever so far away, your strain- 
ing ear would be keenly attuned to catch the slightest 
sound. After an interval of about ten minutes I called 
again. How the echoes rolled away among the hills! I 
listened with bated breath. Hark! What was that? An 
