SS2 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
INov, 16, 1901. 
A Ride on a Bull Moose. 
Mr. Paul Libby, of New York, has recently returned 
from a two-months trip through the Maine wilderness, in 
which time, in company with his friend Mr. Charles 
Wake, he traversed nearly one thousand miles in canoes 
and over carries. This was Mr. Libby's first trip to the 
Maine woods, and he is enthusiastic in praise of the 
country and the opportunities it affords sportsmen. The 
party saw a great many deer and moose, counting as many 
as twenty-five in one day ; but as the trip was made in the 
close season, they had to content themselves with snap- 
shots of the game, and they have a number of exceedingly 
interesting views. 
The most novel incident of the entire trip, and cer- 
tainly the most exciting, occurred on the morning of Aug. 
20, when Mr. Libby, in answer to a "defi" from his guide, 
leaped from the boat and rode on the back of a bull moose 
in the waters of Churchill Lake. 
The party, consisting of Mr. Wake and his guide in 
one canoe, and Mr. Libby and his guide in the other, had 
just paddled into Churchill Lake from Eagle Lake, when 
Mr. Libby, whose canoe was behind that of Mr. Wake, 
saw ahead a bull moose feeding in the shallow waters of 
the lake. Wishing to obtain a picture, Mr. Wake asked 
his guide to bring him close to the animal, and the guide 
cautiously and slowly paddled up to the moose, between it 
and the mainland, and Mr. Wake got a good picture. The 
moose started to swim across the lake, with Mr. 
Libby and his guide following closely in 
their canoe. The guide, intending to have 
some sport with Mr. Libby, offered to 
wager that he could not ride the animal, 
and Mr. Libbj'- promptly accepted. Both 
parties Avent in pursuit of the moose, and 
getting him between the canoes, in the cen- 
ter of the lake, it was now "up to" M". 
Libby to make good his part of the wage, 
His canoe was paddled close to the moose, 
and Mr. Libby, who is an athlete, jumped 
from the canoe and landed fairly and 
squarely on the back of the moose, which 
becoming frightened dropped to the bottom 
of the lake, taking the rider with him 
Both came to the surface simultaneously, 
and the moose promptly made for the 
shore. Mr. Libby managed to climb into 
his canoe, but he was not satisfied with his 
brief experience, and Mr. Wake had not 
had the opportunity of obtaining a picture, 
so the canoes were again started after the 
moose, to drive him into deep water and 
force him to swim. This time Mr. Libby 
landed on the back of the animal nearer 
the neck, and held on to an ear. He then 
had the unique experience of riding for 
some distance on the back of a swimm-ng 
moose, a feat which few men, if any, can 
claim to have accomplished. 
Mr. Wake, from the canoe, obtained the 
interesting picture of the performance, 
which is here reproduced. With the photo- 
graph in_ evidence, Mr. Libby can look his 
listener in the eye while relating his ex- 
perience, for here is absolute proof of its 
genuineness. 
The photograph is remarkable in itself. The canoe in 
the picture, the bow of which is clearly shown, was in 
full motion, as was also the canoe from which Mr. Wake 
took the picture, and the speed at which the moose, with 
the rider clingmg to his back, was traveling, can best be 
judged by the disturbed condition of the water as he 
ploughs his way toward shore. G. F. D. 
A Walk Down South ~IV. 
I LEFT Canton about 2 o'clock P. M. on Oct, 18. The 
road to Waterville, my next post-office, was very hilly as 
far as Liberty, or Blockhouse, so I was told. I walked 
down the Sugar Bush Creek road nearly a mile, and was 
near the forks, where I was to begin going over a great 
ridge, when an oldish man drove along with a two-horse, 
light wagon, 
"Are you a peddler?" he asked. When he found that 
I was not, he asked if I wanted a ride. I did, and his 
team drew me almost to the top of a mile-long hill. That 
was a lift to start one's courage. When the driver reached 
his home, I shouldered my pack and walked along a rising 
grade for half a mile or so, %vhen a single-horse milk 
wagon came up. 
"Want a ride.?" was the question. I did, and for nearly 
four miles I traveled with a creamery skimmer, whose 
father liked to hunt, and always kept a bird dog to shoot 
oyer He served as guide sometimes to visitors, and 
killed much game every fall. But the skimmer did not 
care so much about hunting. He had killed game, of 
course, some gray squirrels and birds, but always with 
a shotgun. He wished he had learned to shoot with a 
nfie, for that was "cleaner shooting" than with a shot- 
gun It appealed to him to have a single bullet do the 
work of many pellets. But the shotgun had spoiled him 
for rifle work; and. anyhow, skimming milk and draw- 
ing it to the churn six miles had kept his mind off shoot- 
ing topics for some years back, except an occasional hunt 
At 1 aylor s Corners we parted. I walked on and came 
to Ugdensburg, along the side of a ridge 200 feet high 
I got occasional views up creek gullies and distant views 
of mountains. There was nothing within fifty rods of 
the road, however, to suggest hunting. 
The skimmer told me of an old barn three or four miles 
away, beyc.iid Ogdensburg. As I went down into a hol- 
Jow a hundred feet deep, a gun shot up the brook there 
suggested game. But the stream was not fit for cnokine 
or drinking, though it looked all right close at hand, save 
tor a farmhouse and barn far up on a distant hillside in 
the stream s watershed. I did not camp there, as I would 
have liked to have done. 
At the top of a hill beyond I found the old barn. A 
look m disclosed a luxurious pile of straw. I went to the 
next house and asked who owned or controlled the place 
The man of whom I asked the question owned it Could 
I sleep there? 
"What you sleeping out for?" he askedl. 
"It's as comfortable as any other way," I replied, "I 
don't like to pay hotel bills." 
"Do you smoke?" 
"No. Here's my match box, if you want it." 
He didn't want it. Then I wanted to buy some milk. 
He wouldn't sell, but gave me a couple of quarts to 
drink. I went back to the barn, and, because the night 
looked cold, I dug a hollow in the mow, banked it around 
with three-foot sides. With the woolen blanket, the 
tent sides and the rubber blanket over me, and a woolen 
shirt tied over my head for a nightcap — a most necessary 
article for exposed sleepers — I soon found my way into 
the land of Nod, whence I was summoned by the 
near and loud cawing of crows soon after daybreak. The 
birds were within six rods, picking up grain that had 
fallen during the too late harvest, and were having lots 
of fun over it. 
The crows I have seen were not always so "peaceful as 
these grainers appeared to be. Hardly a day has passed 
during which I have not seen crows in swift and ap- 
parently angry pursuit of each other. Often these disputes 
seemed to start in woods, where there were beech or 
chestnuts, so I suppose the search for food among the 
sable harvesters is accompanied by much strife in the com- 
mon granaries of nature. 
I went to the house to take a photograph with which 
to pay for the milk I had received the night before, and 
received a full-fledged breakfast of bread and milk, apple 
jam and butter, and a cup of hot coffee. With that I 
started on, intending to fry sausage for lunch. A patch 
of woods looked so like red-squirrel country that I 
* RIDE ON A BULL MOOSE. 
stopped to see if I could not get one or two. I saw none, 
but found some great hemlocks on a side hill. That was 
cheering. The hemlock is an Adirondack tree, and, with 
some spruces I had seen the day before, rendered the trip 
less lonesome than it had been. It was homelike. 
No sooner was I under the pack than I was overhauled 
by a light wagon drawn by a big, black horse. 
"What'll you give for a ride from here to Liberty?" the 
driver asked. 
"I'll take your picture if you'll trust me for it." Then 
I saw a mail bag, and knew it was the stage. I asked the 
price, and it was 25 cents for six miles, so I got in and 
rode. 
We were talking about the scarcity of gray squirrels 
this year, when the sun faded out of sight in a mist, the 
west grew black and the wind rose rapidly and grew 
colder. To the north I could see the rain sweeping over a 
great ridge there, and we prepared for a shower, I wished 
I hadn't ridden then. 
It sprinkled, and then it poured. My rubber blanket 
shed the water beautifully, however, and by crouching I 
was able to keep out of the wind behind it. Nevertheless 
it was a long three miles to Liberty during the shower, 
and we got there just at noon. The dinner bell rang as 
I left the wagon, and I ate at the table of one of the 
hotels. It was a good meal, and drove out the hardest 
thoughts brought on by the rain, which is nearly always 
discouraging. When the meal was over, the sun was 
shining again, and the road seemed clear and good to 
follow once more. The direction was "right down the 
creek" and I couldn't lose my way. 
Block House Run is the stream's name, so-called be- 
cause the first building upon it was built of great wood 
timbers, which resisted the weather for sixty years, b;it 
succumbed to fire twenty years ago. 
At the hotel my rifle was examined with the general and 
awkward handling which men unused to firearms bestow 
upon weapons. They asked if it would kill a bear — a .32 
rim-fire, I had my doubts about it — so they said I'd bet- 
ter look out, for the bears were thick down that way. 
crossed the road every night, It was said, and often by 
day. Of course all this was taken with seasoning; never- 
theless it was encouraging to learn that the farm country 
was being left behind and real woods were soon to come 
in sight. 
A little over a mile down the creek the stream suddenly 
dipped down into a deep, narrow gully, while hills, rather 
two long ridges, loomed up. on either side. Along the" 
side of one of them the road struggled for a while, then 
pitched, with utter abandon, one might say, down into the 
hollow. 
It was . a new kind of country to me, The valliey was 
like the letter V, with the bottom filled in for a few 
rods. 1 learned later that each leg of the V was from 
500 to 1,000 feet long. The tops were forest-crowned, but 
nearly all of second growth. In another year it will be all 
second growth. The road led past a farmhouse or two 
lost in the depths. Then I came to Butterwood, an un- 
painted village of one-story houses. In the road side path 
I spied the mark of a lumberman's shoes. His soles had 
the thirty-six odd "corks" with which he grips the slip- 
pery log or the smooth rock every time he steps. Nothing 
that I had seen since I started was quite so thrilling as 
this track. It was like the trail of a friend. A mile 
further I asked a man where the lumber camp was. 
"Right down the valley 'bout a mile and a half," was 
the reply, and I started down the valley, feeling better 
than for many days. 
That was late on Saturday afternoon. I reached the 
camp about 5 :30 o'clock. It was a hemlock board struc- 
ture, with dining room, lobby and kitchen downstairs and 
the dormitory upstairs — and there were hearty woodsmen 
ready to say "Howde do !" and a boss ready to say, 
"Com.e in and spend the night." 
As usual, I was believed to be a pack peddler — a novel 
sort of one, because I had a rifle. I ate a hearty supper- 
potatoes, bacon, lima beans, bread and tea, but not the 
strong Kreutzer cheese. I talked with the boys till nearly 
9 o'clock, and then went to bed. I heard that it was pos- 
sible to get a job. In the morning I asked for work, for 
I was reluctant to leave so cheerful a place. The jobber 
was Marshall Carson. When I asked for work he looked 
at mv bicvcle trousers and repeated in surprise. 
"A job'?" 
And then I got it. 
It was a bright autumn Sunday. Red squirrels were 
chickering down the road, and the leaves falling to their 
winter graves. Nearly all hands went after chestnuts "up 
on the hill." One of them took my rifle for lupk, when I 
consented. They tied meal sacks under 
their left arms with a strap or string over 
the right shoulders. At noon they came 
back, some with only a couple or three 
quarts, others with nearly a bushel. 
They wanted to try my gun. One wanted 
to buy it. We fired a few shots. It was 
then that I became acquainted with Daddy. 
Daddy was the oldest man in the camp. 
For forty years he had been a woodsman 
and a hunter. He had killed many big 
deer. It was a pleasure to see him draw 
up the little rifle and fire as the sights 
came level ; it was also pleasing to we 
two when our bullets struck less than a 
quarter of an inch apart at seven rods. 
That showed a certain affinity. 
Daddy has a camp over toward Laurel 
Hill, where he hunts deer every fall, and 
traps skunks during the winter, as well as 
shoots foxes. That is his vacation from a 
summer's toil in a lumber camp. He kills 
deer and enjoys life as much any one one ; 
"civilization" has no charms for him; the 
lumber camp is as near as he cares to 
come to the clearings, now that his wife is 
gone. 
In the afternoon many went chestnutting 
again. Daddy took my rifle and an empty 
dinner pail, but he gathered only a few 
chestnuts. He heard a black squirrel, and 
a squirrel was more to him than picking 
up the forest fruits. It was much more 
to him than the night's meal. He kept 
Johnny Elliott and me out till it was after 
dark, and we all three caught harkie be- 
cause we were too late for supper — which 
made extra work for the jobber's wife, who was cook. 
One morning soon after daybreak, as I followed the 
teams to the bark pile to help load, a great "pheasant" — 
my "partridge" or a book's rulTed grouse — roered noisily 
from out over the valley, which lay two hundred-odd feet 
below, then circled back t© its native hillside, only further 
on. It was a si^ht to make one dizzy — that heavy bird so 
far up in the air. On the next day I was near the top 
of the ridge, with a descent of nearly 1,000 feet to the 
creek bottom, when Daddy, over the next gully, stopped 
"fitting" logs to look up. His ears had heard the honk- 
ing of wild geese. One by one the saw crews ceased their 
rasping and the nosers stopped rounding ofi^ the edges 
of log ends with their axes. For a few moments the 
destruction of the forest cfeased that a flock of sixty-odd 
wild honkers might be seen far overhead among the 
cirrus clouds as it appeared. I worked for two and a 
half days as "Buddy" the boy, and then quit because the 
boss wouldn't let me take half a day to get photographs. 
But I did not have to leave at once — not with a camera. 
I got all the pictures I needed and came away. Daddy 
shook my hand : 
"I wish you could go over to my camp with trie this 
fall,"_ he said, as he turned away, and that was the most 
pleasing thing I heard all the while I was there. The 
old woodsman was willing to risk his fall hunt's pleasure 
on me. 
Down the vaUey, through a red-squirrel country, I 
reached English Town or English Center. I met William 
Wentz there. He has read the Fore.st and Stream for 
years. Both he and his mother are field sport enthusiasts. 
Only the day before he had killed three mallard ducks, 
three pheasants and a gray squirrel — the best string he 
ever made.. He got the ducks over a point by his dog 
across the water straight into the siui's reflection. He 
could not see them till they got down stream a way, and 
then he fired twice. He got two birds at once, the third 
he did not know he had hit till the dog came down -stream 
with the bird in his mouth. 
Within twenty minutes' walk of the bridge. Wentz said 
there were deer tracks sure to be seen. On the hills 
round about were wildcats, which no one ever hunted; 
foxes, a few of which fell before dogs, and bears that 
sometimes were met_ in the roads. Deer are protected 
from hounds by public law, local prejudice and the rattle 
of oak leaves. Few are killed these days. Large game 
is more' numerous than small. I saw six buggies on the 
way from English Center to Waterville, and in five of 
them were guns or rifles. Even a pair of sweethearts 
clasped hands over a rifle and divided the attention of 
their eyes among the wood, the hillsides' and each other's 
face. ■ 
The hills are steep, slide rock; on top it- is said to be & 
level country, with few gullies ; all is grown to brush and 
saplings. "The briers make still-hunting practically im- 
