262 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Oct. i, 1898. 
Down a Slide. 
One morning the daylight came dim and gray, there 
were no rainbow tints in the sky, and the giant cliffs had 
disappeared in the clouds which dragged their tattered 
skirts among the tree tops and settled there in little 
round drops of water. 
Drip, drip, drip— everywhere the quiet noise of water 
falling, not like the rain, but with a soft, monotonous 
sound that seemed to lull one into a dreamy, no-account 
state. Billy grunted when he looked out of the door 
of the cedar bark shack, and he softly but forcibly 
"cussed" the weather after he got the coffee pot sim- 
mering and wiped a few big raindrops out of the back of 
his neck — that little strip of bare skin where the hat 
rim and the shirt collar part company, and both con- 
sider neutral ground. 
Bluie yawned and reckoned "there wasn't any use of 
turning out — couldn't prospect anyhow." I got up. 
smelled the weather, and ^then lit my pipe to help me 
figure out a way to kill time. 
Now a nasty, rainy day in the mountains is no pleas- 
ure party at any time, and a dull day in camp is the 
worst thing that can happen, so I figured out a plan 
while the bacon sizzled, and when Billy hollered "Time 
to feed," I had it all settled. 
"I'm going up on the cliffs after a deer or bear or 
anything for meat — you fellows in it?" 
"Ugh! Must be stuck on gettin' wet," was Billy's 
comment. 
"I'll be busy sleeping," said Bluie. "Don't want to 
get soaked anyhow." 
"Pshaw, you fellows are a couple of old women to 
stay in camp. Come on, let's go up and see what we can 
do." 
"Nope. Not any," said Bluie, and he stayed in camp 
all day. 
Billy looked at the weather, stowed away some break- 
fast and looked at the weather again. Everything was a 
solid gray up along the mountain side, and we could 
hardly see across the canon. 
"Mighty good day to get lost," ventured Billy. 
"Got our compasses, haven't we?" 
"Yes, but the blamed things pointed east by nor* 
yesterday, too. Reckon there's too much mineral in 
these hills to bet on compasses," was Billy's sage com- 
ment. 
"Well, anyhow, we can't get lost, for all we have to do 
is to go down hill and we will come to the river, then 
we can get into camp easy enough." 
"Guess I'll go along," said Billy, "but I won't promise 
to stay. If I don't like it I'm coming back to camp." 
We shouldered our rifles and started. 
"You fellows are chumps," said Bluie (and I guess 
maybe he was right, come to think about it). 
We climbed up on the elk trail and crossed a little 
spur to the gulch where Mountain Home Creek came 
tumbling and sputtering down over the rocks, making 
more noise than a big river, until it got tired, and soaked 
itself out of sight in the broken rocks of an old slide. 
Steadily we climbed through the mists and fog, peering 
among the ghostly looking shadows for game, past the 
lichened cliffs, winding about among the huge boulders 
that had fallen thundering down in times past, over the 
soft moss beds and through the tangle of ferns that were 
only knee high now, but would be a jungle when berries 
were ripe. 
When the loom of the cliffs came across our path we 
sat down and waited for breath. Grouse hooted from 
the shadow pines all about us, but we could see nothing 
30ft. above the ground. Far away noises from the 
gulches above us told of snow banks that gave up to the 
melting rain from the tree tops, and came thundering 
down into the gulches, bringing rocks, trees and debris 
with them. 
"Better not go up there," said Billy. 
"Reckon I'll go on even if I ride back down on a 
glacier," I remarked. 
We climbed up along the benches ttyen and saw where 
deer and bears had been half an hour ahead of us, but 
saw nothing to shoot at; indeed we could hardly expect 
to with the cloud mantle wrapped around the moun- 
tains. 
I had just got a restless notion in my head to climb, 
climb, climb, and as I was as wet as I could get al- 
ready, I did not mind the drip from the trees. Billy 
got disgusted and started down to camp just as I struck 
a particularly fresh trail. I followed it up until it led 
among the snowbanks that chilled the air and made the 
fog denser than ever. 
I sat down to rest and then it came into my mind 
that this was a foolish errand and a dangerous one — 
better go back to camp. 
Boom, crash, biz-z-z-boom ! The snowbank I had 
just crossed was smashing a track through the trees 
away down the mountain side. 
Guess camp is a good place about now. I began to 
travel along the side hill, one eye open for down 
bound snowbanks, and the other for a feasible route to 
go down myself. As I climbed over a little spur of 
rock, I saw a smooth, wide path, like a nicely paved 
street tipped up until it stood at an angle of about 45 
degrees. It was smooth and looked as though it might 
be good traveling, so I went down to investigate. 
Recently a snowslide or glacier had taken that path 
down the mountain and left a beautiful trail. I figured 
that that was about my place to go down hill, and 
jumped out on the smooth looking place. 
In ten seconds I had my rifle butt shoved down 
against the earth for a brake, and was making about 
a thousand miles an hour toward the canon, where the 
river roared along by the camp. I had company, too, 
for rocks and dirt were loosened in my mad flight, and 
raced by me down the aisle that opened away dimly into 
the fog ahead. 
In a few minutes I stopped, up to. rriy knees in loose 
fragments of rock, and doubled up as small as I could 
until the trouble all went by (in big, hard chunks) ; then I 
looked at myself and at the slide I had just traveled over 
p-it disappeared in the gray fog up the mountain side, 
but I knew all about it, and had no desire to climb up 
that nice, smooth looking road at all. My rifle stock 
looked as if it might have danced with a family of buzz- 
saws, the nails w r ere torn out of my heavy shoes, my legs 
were bruised where the rocks had overtaken me on the 
way down and used me for a cushion to ricochet against. 
I was muHdy, wet, tired and disgusted. I struck a 
traveling gait for camp that took me over logs, rocks and 
everything else with about the same degree of grace 
that a bear uses when he is in a hurry, and when I 
got to the larch bottom at the head of the creek Billy 
was sitting on a log. "Come down in a hurry, didn't 
yeh?" he asked^ 
"Did you hear me do the snowshoe-toboggan-steeple- 
chase act up there just now?" I questioned. 
"Was it you making all that noise? Thought it was 
a bear starting a rough house or something," said Billy. 
"Nope. I was in that. Let's hit the trail, there are 
several nervous snowbanks up there, and they may take 
a playful side jump and land just about here." 
"Say, you must have made a big slide. I left you 
over an hour ago," said Billy. 
"Well, I don't know how big a slide it was, but I 
was away above where you left me when I started, and 
that wasn't over fifteen minutes ago. Figure it out to 
suit yourself." 
When we got into camp Bluie drawled, "Get any- 
thing?" El Comancho. 
An Old Man o' the Mountains. 
Speeding down from Keating Summit in the Alle- 
ghanies, a domicile so startling and unique caught our 
eye that we stopped to investigate. In the porch were 
several well mounted specimens of elk heads, Rocky 
Mountain sheep, deer, etc., while more could be seen in 
the sitting room through the open door. On one 
side of the house, somewhat in the rear, was a great 
vault or tomb of masonry, and still beyond this a dog 
house, to which a full-grown coyote, or prairie wolf, 
was chained. In a paddock to the right of the house 
several deer were quietly feeding. 
"The home of Col. P.," said my friend. "A gentleman 
whose acquaintance is well worth the making. Let 
me introduce you." 
A tall figure, slightly stooped with age, but with clear 
gray eyes and ruddy complexion, bearing his eighty- 
five years well, you must admit. 
"Come in," said the Colonel, in hearty Western fash- 
ion. His sitting room and bedroom beyond are well 
filled with Florida birds and Rocky Mountain fauna, shot 
by his own hand and mounted by his own skill — a 
mountain lion and its kitten and a splendid pair of 
buffalo heads being the most conspicuous. The Colonel 
has made three trips to the Rockies, and meditates a 
fourth, just to see the changes since 1842. 
"I first went to the Rockies in 1842." he says, crossing 
one leg over the other, and throwing himself into a 
reminiscent mood. "I was trappin' then fur the Hudson 
Bay Company. No railroads then, so I sailed down the 
Mississippi on a steamboat to New Orelans, then'up into 
New Mexico, and followed the Rocky Mountain chain up 
to the headwaters of the Columbia, and down that stream 
to its mouth. I had seventy men under me — drawn from 
all nationalities almost, principally Americans, half- 
breeds and 'courriers des bois.' We were independent, 
hunted about until we found a district with good signs 
of beaver and other fur, pitched our camp in the center 
of it and generally stayed there till we had cleaned it 
out. Of course we had many pitched battles with the 
Indians. I suppose you could fill this room with the 
redskins I've made good Indians of alone. The Co- 
manches, Sioux, Blackfeet, Crows and Piutes were al- 
ways on our trail, one or the other of 'em, some after 
ha'r, but more after our guns, clothes and skins. The 
Comanches were the worst Indians on the plains. They 
would kill a white man just for his hair., Scalps made 
the 'big Injun.' But the Sioux, Crows and the others 
killed more for the plunder they got out of it. I lost 
but one man in the two years, and they got him because 
of his own recklessness. We knew the Comanches were 
on our- trail. I warned him; but he laughed, said he 
could shoot all the Injuns that could surround him be- 
fore they could get within arrow range. The Indians 
carried bows and arrows then. He was my best man. 
He left the camp one afternoon, sun about an hour high, 
to hunt for antelope, our fresh provisions running low. 
By and by we heard a shot down the creek, then an- 
other, a third and fourth in quick succession. 
" The redskins are after Joe, boys,' I sang out. Ten 
of us that happened to be in camp mounted and rode 
full gallop to the rescue. Sure enough there was a band 
of about fifty Comanches riding around Joe, cracking 
away at him with arrows. They were always mounted 
on good horses too, and now they rode round and 
round poor Joe, who had his back against a big rock, 
each one shooting as he passed, and sheltering his body 
from Joe's rifle by slipping under his horse. We soon 
put them to flight leaving twenty on the ground, but 
poor Joe was done for, literally shot full of arrows. 
There wasn't a place on him as big as your hand that 
hadn't an arrow in. He had killed six of them, so they 
paid pretty dear for his scalp. 
"Oh. yes, I killed that buffalo out of a herd of I sup- 
pose fifty thousand. We continually met herds of from 
fifty to a hundred thousand in those days; now there is 
scarcely one. I know a thing or two about the exter- 
mination of the buffalo that isn't generally known. 
They were killed by order of our Government to keep 
the Indians from going out on the warpath, and keep 
them at home on the reservations. With no buffalo 
to kill the Indian would starve if he wandered off, and 
so was obliged to stay at home and be fed. I had a 
friend, a hunter, who was paid by our Government to kill 
off the buffalo, so that I know what I am talking about. 
"My coyote, Jack: yes, you shall see him presently. 
It's a curious thing about coyotes. When I first crossed 
the plains there were timber wolves and plains wolves, 
but nobody had ever seen or heard of a coyote or 
prairie wolf. The next time I went, several years later, 
they were there in immense numbers. Where did they 
come from? I think they are a cross between the timber 
wolf and plains, wolf. But come out and call on Jack," 
Jack seemed very glad to see his master, but was a 
little doubtful of strangers. He leaped the length of 
his chain, showed his teeth and a strong inclination to 
get at us. ' 
"Jack," said the Colonel, "will whip any dog in 
Cameron county, and he will do it because of his quick- 
ness — he can make two motions to a, dog's one. He 
is the most affectionate brute you ever saw. I was 
away three or four days last spring, and I thought Jack 
would break his chain in his demonstrations of joy at 
my return." 
The vault of masonry the Colonel designs for the last 
resting place of his wife and himself. He is a native 
of York State, but was one of the first settlers in this 
part of the Alleghanies. He tells rare stories of the 
herds of elk and antelope that could be sighted at the 
"elk licks" throughout all this section when he first 
settled here, about 1835-42. C. B. T. 
The Adirondacks in 1898. 
The Weather. 
Old residents agree that they never knew such a pro^ 
tracted drought nor so hot a season as the one just past. 
But the depressing effects were nothing compared to 
those in the city, and the nights brought comfort and 
repose. 
Insects. 
Natives and visitors agree that the gnats, black flies 
and mosquitoes were never so troublesome before. A 
guide said that in twenty years' experience he never saw 
the like. Two dominies had an experience: They had 
gone into the woods to watch for deer. The pond was 
well chosen and well watched. In fact, there were more 
watchers than deer, and at c ' u sk the winged watchers 
drove the other two back from the pond. On the hill- 
side, among the spruces, is a smooth open place- — there 
we can rest. The transfer of "duffel" is soon made, a 
little fire built to warm the coffee, and by the light thus 
afforded supper is eaten. Hark! There's a deer. We 
listen. Sure enough, a deer is walking in the water 
within easy range of our watching place. We take our 
rifles and creep to the pond. We can see nothing. He 
is in the shadow. Perhaps the moon will reveal him a 
little later. We wait. The insects don't. We are again 
driven away. The night is hot — the fires dies down; one 
wraps himself in mosquito netting (about his head) and 
a blanket, the other gets into a sleeping bag. Presently 
he says: "I wish you would start up the fire a little to 
drive off the insects." Soon there is fire enough to roast 
venison, but that is walking around in the pond and the 
man in the bag is roasting. He gets out. So does the 
fire. More deer come into the pond. It is too much. 
Both men pull on their shoes and steal through the 
alders to another place at the water's edge. Again they 
can see nothing, but they feel much. It is a case of 
"hunters hunted," and found without difficulty. The 
moon does not- help things — the mosquitoes help them- 
selves. We go back to the blankets, but not to sleep. 
Whack! Swish! Whack! The battle is on — blood 
flows freely on both sides, but neither will yield. On one 
side it is determination, on the other desperation. "This 
is almost enough to make a minister swear. In fact, if 
I were ever going to swear, it would be now; and I am 
sure that if it would ever be justifiable, now is the 
time." Whack! Whew! Whack! The air resounds, 
but not with usual forest sounds at night. Will the 
night ever end? The man in the netting sits up. He 
looks ghostly in the moonlight. He feels so in the 
netting. The gnats are there. He is an old soldier — a 
veteran of more than three years' service in the civil 
war — but he affirms that he never spent a night of such 
suffering. The horrors of the Spanish Inquisition are 
the only thing to be compared with it. In the morning 
the deer are gone, and we go home. 
The hotels were generally full, and their managers 
proportionately happy. Rooms for August were booked 
much earlier than usual, and the frequent report was, "It 
is the best season we have had in years." There is no 
doubt that the war scare on the coast helped the early 
season, and the September heat the latter part. 
The State and the Forests. 
The State can hardly move too rapidly in the acquisi- 
tion and protection of this magnificent forest. The wood 
pulp industry continues its devastating work, and, to 
those familiar with lumbering for other purposes, it is 
both surprising and saddening to see the small sticks — 
one cannot call them logs — allowed to pass as "markets." 
The spruce and pine are being rapidly cut off, yet these 
are important factors, not only as related to the water 
supply, but as affecting the condition of this great natural 
sanitarium. 
Though much has been said and written on this sub- 
ject, the importance of the Adirondacks from this point 
of view is but little realized. For the welfare of her 
own urban population the Empire State cannot afford 
to allow any further depreciation of the Adirondacks. 
Fifty years ago the historian Headley, after quoting from 
Prof. Emmons' geological report to the State, said: 
"After such a glowing description in our State reports, I 
think there is little danger that anything I shall say will 
be considered as exaggerated."* During many years 
the State has had information. Colvin's later reports 
fully sustain the earlier. Lately much has been accom- 
plished, but much remains to be done, and the sooner 
the better. No such natural conditions exist east of the 
Rocky Mountain region. Their preservation and avail- 
ability are important not only to every citizen of the 
State, but to all our Eastern population. 
Suitably owned and cared for, the Adirondacks would 
be a source of large indirect revenue to the State, as well 
as of physical benefit and mental and moral inspiration 
to increasing thousands. For 
"The bosom is full and the thoughts are high" 
when one "in the love of nature holds communion with 
her visible forms." And here after all is the true end 
of sportsmanship. Dr. P , a well-known Brooklyn 1 
sportsman, asked: "What do you go off into the woods 
* Preface tq "The Adirondacks: or, l^ife in the-Woods." 1849, 
