Dec. 22, 1894.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
531 
To shoot a bull moose, even in this favored region, and 
with Braithwaite as your guide, is a job of some magni- 
tude. A deal of time is required to get there and get out 
again. A deal of calling is going to be done at the wrong 
time and the wrong place. There will be rainy days and 
windy days. There will be the moose that is too young 
to come to the horn and the moose that is too old to come 
to the horn. There will be the cow moose tr> which you 
and your horn are a matter of supreme indifference, and 
which you are not allowed to shoot anyway. Then again, 
there is no animal in all the wide world that displays such 
a positive genius for turning up at the identical spot 
where he is not wanted as a bull moose. Lastly, when he 
is shot he will lug off an amazing lot of lead. It will take 
three bullets to stop him in October where one will do it 
in March. 
We boarded the accommodation at Fredericton, Mr. 
Fred. Irland, of Washington, and myself, and at Cross 
Creek were joined by Braithwaite, the guide, and Jack 
Best, the cook. We lost no time in pledging the health 
of the Little Sou'west Dead Meat Co. (Limited). At 
Boiestown we left the train and had our luggage and our- 
selves hauled about eight miles over to Pleasant Ridge. 
It was then late in the afternoon, and as for some good 
reason of his own, our host had failed to notify the "port- 
asher" of our coming, it was impossible to make a start 
before morning, whereupon we quoted a few familiar 
scraps of Hebrew and tumbled into bed. 
Bright and early in the morning came our "portasher" 
with his team. Henry called him Laziboo. He was an 
old and apparently feeble man, but was reckoned the 
best "portasher" in the settlement. For half a century 
at least Laziboo had been battling with the roots, rocks, 
blowdowns and quagmires of the "portash." Day or 
night, rain or shine, he would drive her through some- 
how, even if he had to swear her through. 
"Come hyar, M:idgp, you dod-rot, flammergasted ole 
galvanized bear." This was one of Laziboo's very mildest. 
At 7 o'clock Laziboo swore the harness on the horses 
and we started for the woods. After a haul of two miles 
we reached the last clearing, and Laziboo exchanged his 
hayrack wagon for a sled with wooden shoes.* Fred 
named it the bull moose express. 
. 
"WOULD THAT I COULD' DESCRIBE THAT CALL. 1 
I will not consume the valuable space of Forest and 
Stream n or the credulity of its readers in trying to de- 
scribe what a "portash" road through the Canadian lum- 
ber woods in the fall of the year is really like. At times 
the bull moose express appeared to be heading for the 
sky; at times it was diving for the lower regions. It 
would slide upon one runner for a spell, and then it 
would lurch over and come down with a crash and bang 
that could be heard a mile away. Over stumps and roots 
and rocks it would grind and groan, and then it would 
sail serenely on an even keel through a sea of inky muck. 
And all the while Laziboo plodding behind with his gad 
and swearing her through till all was blue. 
Now and then a blowdown had to be cut out of the road, 
and to see the white chips flying in volleys from the axes 
of Henry and Jack was a sight to be remembered. Fred 
and I walked ahead of the team as a rule, much to the 
detriment of Tetrao umbellus. We saw no large flocks— 
in fact this was our experience on the entire trip — but 
those we saw were very tame and we always had enough 
to flavor the pan. 
Only fifteen miles were made that day as the load was 
a heavy one. Our tent was pitched at the Indian Village, 
so-called from the black stumps that stand there like 
ghosts in the moonlight. A cold, drenching rain greeted 
us at daybreak but we pushed steadily on, crossing two 
branches of the Dungarvon and also a caribou barren 
which bade fair at every step to swallow up the horses. 
Over two hours were taken to traverse the last two miles 
of the journey, owing to the bog- holes around which a 
road had to be swamped and the numerous fallen trees 
which had to be chopped out. The weather soon cleared 
off perfectly, and while the team was slowly working its 
way up the hill, Fred and I caught some excellent trout 
at the big Dungarvon Dam. They took our fish-bait 
readily, but would not touch the fly. A little before dark 
we reached an old lumber shanty called Pond's Camp, the 
terminal station of the bull-moose express. Honest old 
Laziboo left us in the morning for the outer world, agree- 
ing to return in four weeks' time to help us out. 
Everything had now to be carried forward on the 
backs of the men. The loads they carried neatly packed 
in a blanket and strapped across their shoulders would 
have staggered a sumpter mule. Often as we journeyed 
north it became necessary for Henry and Jack to go back 
over the trail and bring up a load, while Fred and I 
Jiafod around the camp or fished for trout in the lakeB. 
We did not care to use our shotguns on the ducks and 
partridges" we saw, as we were in a country where the 
bigns of big game were numerous. 
Two miles from the terminal station aforesaid was T a 
pond hole, where the fresh tracks of a moose were seen. 
Braithwaite made a horn of birch bark and gave him a 
call. Would that I could describe that call — its low, 
sweet, musical opening note; its rise and swell into aloud, 
" WHISKY JACK." 
deep roll of melody that filled the valleys and surged like 
a tidal wave up the mountain side. I marveled not that 
many a man had grown gray and died in despair at being 
unable to compass it. Nor can I describe the weird, un- 
natural stillness that followed, when every murmur of the 
wanton wind, or ripple of the distant brook, or bo m of 
the passing swamp-fly — yea, when the very beating of 
our hearts seemed like an answer to the summons. From 
the sublime to the absurd is but a moment's pause. At the 
second call an owl npar at hand responded with his mourn- 
ful cry, whereupon Braithwaite burst out lauerhing and 
shouldered his pack for the onward march. B>nry said 
that last year when he was calling at the pond hole he was 
answered by a bear which came up through the brush 
almost within range of his rifle. He set a steel trap for 
him and next morning had the pleasure of knocking him 
in the head. 
A three-mile tramp brought us to one of Henry's tem- 
porary camps, made of birch bark, near Burton Lake. 
We toiled onward, however, four miles further to Louis 
Lake, a lovely sheet of water, clear as crystal and glisten- 
ing like a gem in its autumn setting. The lake, which is 
nearly two miles long and about half as wide, is right on 
the top of the mountain. A three-legged fox gazed at us 
as we approached the lake, and then scampered off in the 
brush. He had evidently at some former period been the 
victim of misplaced confidence in one of Henry's traps. 
At Louis Lake was a permanent camp large enough to 
hold our party with comfort. It was a veritable museum, 
in which the relics of former hunting parties had accu- 
mulated, as well as the multitudinous bric-a-brac peculiar 
to the trapper's calling. Henry is fond of good reading, 
and we noticed several ancient files of Forest and Stream 
in his library. We were not long in finding out that Louis 
Lake afforded superb trout fishing. Right at the landing 
in front of the camp Fred stood next morning, while Jack 
was "biling the kittle," and yanked out beautiful lake 
trout, averaging a pound in weight, faster than I could 
AT THE BARK CAMP. 
take tbem from the hook and kill them. There seemed 
to be no end to the supply; no limit to their appetite. 
Pork, fish or fly, it was all the same to them; and when 
we stopped fishing they crowded up to the landing and 
eyed us reproachfully. After that it made no difference 
when we fished — they were always there waiting patiently 
for us. Fred even caught them with a scrap of tissue 
paper on the naked hook. Henry told us of a lake not far 
away where the trout were 51bs. in weight, and of other 
lakes to the west where tuladi or landlocked salmon could 
be found weighing 30lbs. 
Within a short distance of the camp were Half-Moon 
Lake and Two Lakes, where Henry called several times 
without result. He showed us the spot on the shore of 
Two Lakes where last year a big moose swam across in 
answer to his call, and stood so close to the hunter that he 
shook the water from his mane over hun before Henry 
fired. Not over a hundred yards from this spot, Mr. 
Rogers, a New York sportsman who had spent seven sea- 
sons in Maine and elsewhere without bagging his moose, 
killed a fine old bull in the fall of 1892. 
Our next station on the northward march was Renous 
Deadwater, where Henry had another bark camp. On 
two occasions while there we heard the crashing leaps of 
caribou in the brush near us but failed to catch sight of 
them. One afternoon at dusk we saw a small cow moose 
traveling head down across the barren, but as it is illegal 
to shoot the female we allowed her to pass unscathed. 
We then pushed on for Little Sou- West Miramichi Lake. 
The trail for the greater part of the way led across cari- 
bou plains over which we walked as on a carpet of velvet 
pile. We passed a water hole where Mr. McAndrews, 
another New York sportsman, bagged his moose last fall. 
It was early in the afternoon when we reached the 
southern shore of the lake. It is a most imposing stretch 
of water, four miles long and a mile wide, and dotted 
with many beautiful islets. At the landing was an old 
bark canoe, in which, after necessary repairs, we embarked 
upon the broad bosom of the lake, and poled to the camp 
three miles away. We routed myriads of black duck and 
were sorely tempted to unlimber the shotgun. 
The camp was snugly situated in a sheltered cove and 
here I think Fred will agree with me that two' of the 
happiest weeks of our lives were spent. We snared par- 
tridges, spruce and birch, with a wire on the end of a 
pole; we caught 21b. trout in the lake and 41b. trout over 
at the forks of the Little Sou- West stream; we photo- 
graphed Whiskey Jack (the Canada jay) as he disputed 
with us the possession of our table; we explored beaver 
dams and houses in the streams near at hand; we caught 
a big black bear in a trap and took his picture, (which 
alas! proved to be a rank failure); we gathered wild cran- 
berries on the shore of the lake, and we consumed more 
pork and beans tban I would dare to mention. And at 
eventide when the sun had gone and the wind was 
hushed and the smoke of the camp-fire rose straight to 
the sky, we would sometimes go down to the shore of the 
lake and think of the absent ones over the hills and under 
the stars. 
Nearly every day when the weather was reasonable, we 
"WAIT TILL HE COMBS OUT." 
explored the surrounding lakes and plains for moose and 
caribou. Fred and Henry and I one morning embarked 
in the canoe intending to go to the barrens for earibou, 
when on the opposite of the lake half a mile away we saw 
a moose calmly walking along the bank. We paddled 
desperately to get within range of him, but the rushes in 
the shallow water delayed us, and before we could effect 
a landing he disappeared forever. We went ashore and 
looked at his tracks, and consoled ourselves with the 
thought that he wasn't a very big moose anyway. We 
then pursued our original plan, paddling to the foot of 
the lake, and thence on foot to Jack's Lake. The country 
through which we passed was chiefly a dry caribou bar- 
ren on which the reindeer moss (Cladonia rangiferina) 
was abundant. We found a number of horns which the 
animals had shed, bleached by the weather as white as 
snow. Both dark and white caribou are to be found in 
this region and they mingle freely in droves. The latter 
are the larger variety, and their beautiful white "shirt- 
fronts" give them a very dignified appearance. For some 
reason which I have never heard explained not more than 
one-half of the cows breed in a single year. About one 
female in ten has horns but they do not compare with 
those of the male for size and beauty, and owing to their 
slight formation are apt to be broken by contact with 
trees and other objects. The bulls fight furiously in the 
fall of the year and often receive serious wounds. By the 
first of December nearly all the old bulls have shed their 
horns. Young bulls usually carry theirs until February, 
while the cows do not often lose theirs till March. In the 
mating season the neck of the bull caribou swells up to a 
great size, and he is then, like the bull moose, possessed 
of great vitality. His meat has at this time a strong, 
musky flavor, and is only to be relished by gentlemen of 
a severely practical turn of mind. 
Caribou are getting more numerous in the Miramichi 
region every year. On Christmas Day last year seven 
herds were in sight at once on the ice of Little Sou'west 
Lake. A party of local sportsmen who were out with 
Arthur Pringle on Nor'west waters this fall saw forty- 
three caribou in one drove, and over one hundred animals 
in the space of two days. After snow falls it is very easy 
to track and hunt them down. 
The moment we reached Jack's Lake we saw on the 
opposite shore and walking rapidly around the turn, a 
cow caribou and calf. Henry hustled us at a killing pace 
through the hardrhacks down the bank to meet her when 
she got around the turn, but we bad hardly run a rod when 
