luLY I, igos.j 
FOREST ANb STREAM 
3 
R. L. IN CAMP COSTUME. 
Across the Clearwater Range of 
the Bitterroot Mountains, 
{Concluded from page 495.) 
The next day we corralled 
the horses bright and early 
and set out on a long and 
hard climb. Twice we got 
lost that day, and right 
there we had a typical ex- 
ample of the slipshod way 
of cutting a n d blazing 
trails. The old trail led 
over a ridge to the left and 
was lost in a high meadow. 
Retrailing then we discov- 
ered our path to the right 
somewhere in a burned 
woods. It would have been 
so simple to cut through 
the old trail and mark a 
nearby tree with an arrow. 
As I said before, the trail 
to Fish Lake is an oM In- 
dian trail and runs like- all Indian trails of that country, 
along the high ridges. That served the redskins a dou- 
ble purpose; in the first place the high ridges became free 
of snow earlier than the valleys, and in the second place 
they afforded greater safety when on the warpath. We 
had been told , that in 1877, when General Howard pur- 
sued the Nez Perces over the Lo-Lo, 
the Indians watched him from the 
heights, while his soldiers were dig- 
ging trenches and breastworks in the 
valley. From Lo-Lo Pass the one 
trail runs via Lo-Lo Hot Springs to 
Missoula and another continues 
along the highest crests of the declin- 
ing chain of hills. “We could have 
killed every soldier had we found it 
to our advantage to do so,” declared 
one of the Indian chiefs. 
Of course there is a lot of disorder 
among the pack horses when you 
come to halt. That is, you do every- 
thing but halt, for the spirit of un- 
rest is with the horses. Some stray 
away down the mountainside, others 
more :ambitious pursue a trail of 
their own, while still others with an 
inherent sense of cussedness, try to 
separate from their packs by wedg- 
ing against a set of trees or low 
hanging branches. 
This': particular trail carried us 
through- burned forests, over high 
ridges, finally into a place called Two 
Lakes. To our right was a high, 
long drawn-out saddle that we had 
to make at its most inconvenient spot. 
Otherwise it is not passable, and thus 
forces the wayfarer to make for the 
valley and then take to height again. 
Such is the nature of the beast. 
We soon found that it was impos- 
sible for us to reach Fish Lake and 
therefore it was decided to camp on 
the other side of the high saddle. 
This camp was named Camp Nash, 
after our illustrious companion, the 
Hon. Bill. Deservedly is this , spot 
remembered by his name, for here 
Bill had an extravagant experience. 
A storm threatened after we had 
finished our meal and so we decided 
to put up a tent. Into this we all 
got and adjusted our mattresses, 
bags and blankets. The best place, 
or rather the best one to all appear- 
ances, we left to Bill Nash, but fate- 
was against him, and it happened 
this way. The open ends of the tent, 
we had covered up, the threatened 
south end tightly, and the opposite Johnson 
one partly so as to admit fresh air. cabin. 
As a further protection against 
draught from his side, Eilbs flap of 
the sleeping bag was fastened up 
against it. But this'-night was not made for slumber, for 
in 'the dead, vast and middle of it a storm broke loose, 
such a one as you only find in the mountains. The rain 
came down in torrents, and as the wind in the canon 
often shifts, our airhole became a regular fountain. 
The sharp thunder rolled and rumbled, sounding echos 
here and there; radiant lightning lit up the tent for rno- 
ments. The sleepers tightened up in their blankets with 
a sigh or gap and the instinctive desire to remain indif- 
ferent. 
All of a sudden there was a yell. “Help-up !” it yelled 
out of Bill’s sleeping bag. “Some one pull me out of 
here, you’re losing a good man !” Bill’s predicament was 
singular. Being directly under the air vent he got the first 
■dose, and when he commenced to shift and turn around 
he made the opening larger, while the flap served as a 
first-class water chute. Bill was hot and that helped 
him from catching cold, and when I saw him the other 
day he told me that he does not think much of that kind 
of jokes. 
The following morning, a bright and sunny Sunday, we 
followed the trail to Fish Lake, our goal for first perma- 
nent camp. It was a short ride of two and a half hours 
that brought us to the high point from where we could 
see the lake. A magnificent view opened up before our 
eyes, a panorama of sublime beauty. Deep at the far end 
of the valley glistened the long looked-for lake. Beauti- 
ful meadows filled the floor of the valley and patches of 
spruce and balsam were scattered in between. 
With the assistance of glasses we made out two camps, 
one of white men and the other an Indian tepee. 
Far over to the east loomed up Graves Peak, and some- 
where over north, in among the multitude of peaks, must 
be the Lo-Lo trail’ of Lewis and Clark fame. One _ must 
possess the pen of Clarence King in his “Mountaineer- 
ing in the Sierras” to describe the wonders of that land- 
scape. It is a queer experience one has with really big 
impressions of that sort. To photograph them does not 
mean to reproduce. The artist’s trained eye seems to 
forsake him here, or else paint and canvas will not yield 
to the task. Words come a little closer, but best of all 
is your mind’s eye and the memory. There you ride 
again hour after hour striving for the high points in your 
trail. Around windfalls and over them winds the pack 
train until finally you reach a point where the woods get 
thinner and you bring up against the brink of a canon. 
That’s a time when life is worth living. So we rode 
down into the deep canon, and when we came out near 
• the camping ground we had a good mess of foolhens, a 
thing not to be sneezed at at any time. 
The inhabitants of the nearby tepee turned out to be 
Tom Broncheau, an old Nez Perces and a friend of one 
of our party. That same day we lived high, for when we 
came back from our first day’s fishing expedition with 
filled creels, preparations for an elaborate meal had corn- 
’s log cabin on Loclisa. Trail toward Uo-Lo trail leads oyer peak back of 
Place where Carlin party started 011 its fateful trip toward civilization. 
menced. Bob’s ax had skillfully hewn slats and stakes 
for a table, which was in the course of erection, and the 
Herr Director had a beautiful fire- going, while juicy elk 
steaks awaited the moment to be put in the frying pan. 
In due time we sat down, and as father Homer says, 
“Gladly raised the hands to the meal festively prepared.” 
1897 Mayflower, water, sugar and lemon juice toddy a la 
Bill Nash, punk a la Bob, mountain trout, elk steak, fried 
onions and potatoes, coffee. Can you beat that? You 
bet not. When we were home again we had a ten-course 
dinner with all the tassels belonging to it, but it did not 
begin to line up with that Bitterroot Mountain affair. 
It was an idyllic camp and an ideal one. The next day 
we had deer, the following elk, but the third had the big 
surprise for us. 
During the day some had built a smoke house and 
jerked elk; now near dusk all had found their way back 
except Bill Nash and Paddie. But with the last rays of 
day gently floating down into the valley there appeared 
the two mighty Nimrods; Paddie with the bear’s hide and 
Ragged Artillery lugging in the hams. 
They were greeted with great deference, and after the 
usual drink of welcome were made to tell the story. Bill 
said it was simple. They had run on tO' the bear ^ and 
killed him. But that wasn’t Paddie’s version.^ “You 
know,” he said, between munching and chewing, “Ragged 
Artillery always said when he’d run into a bear he’d hit 
him in the neck, and by jimmina crickets, that’s pre- 
cisely what he did. We were working down our way 
into that canon over across there, and when we thought 
we were down we found it had a false bottom. So down 
again we went, climbing over rocks and- windfalls. We 
were j ust cooning a log when I sees a something coming 
along over another log. ‘Bill,’ says I in a whisper, 
‘there’s a bear.’ With that he sees him and up quietly 
with his rifle. Now Mr. Bear comes along over that 
log, but Bill waits on account of the buckbrush; finally 
he had a good aim, bang it said and the bear was off the 
log. We sneaks up and Bill says, ‘He’s dead, stick him. 
Paddie.’ But thinks I he’s playing possum maybe, and 
reach down and tickles him with the rifle in the nose. 
But when he didn’t mind that I goes down and sticks 
him.” ' . _ 
This narrative was accompanied by Bill’s nods and dry 
cough. “I hit him where I aimed at and that did the 
business,’! he said. Have you ever noticed that the peo- 
ple who do things best in this world are the least to talk 
about it. 
Before leaving this great camp we had the pleasure to 
meet a number of good, people. -There was a Mr. Brown 
from Philadelphia, who rode in from the Lo-Lo with a 
party, then came the three United State Forest Rangers, 
E. M. Clark, James Stuart and J. Dunham, who, as we 
know, had been flghting forest fires, which, by the way, 
were burning now near our trail. This meeting at Fish 
Lake was remarkable inasmuch as 
there were at one time sixteen peo- 
ple, or one more than a year’s aggre- 
gate so far. The trail saw no white 
man before i860 or 1870, and none 
traveled through there regularly up 
' to two years ago. 
.It was night after supper when 
the rangers and Tom Broncheau 
came over for a friendly call. We 
sat around the camp-fire, that lit up 
the faces of our friends and visitors, 
while their bodies seemed to belong 
to the great unclassified all around 
us. Brightly shone the stars ; no 
light, no warmth, simply to give the 
deep azure blue sky depth. But our 
camp-fire burned, furnished warmth 
and kept the frost away, while the 
floating smoke of the pipes put us in 
that peculiar mood for listening. It 
was Tom Broncheau and Jim 
Stuart, both Nez Perces, whom we 
had asked to tell us about the coun- 
■ try and their people. Tom, in his 
. ■ even m-disturbable tone, told us of 
! his migrations and hunts, of the 
i pemmican of old, and the bitterroot 
i.... . . and Indian tea. He spoke of the days 
when the red children of the Great 
^ Spirit went, over the Lo-Lo as far as 
r Wyoming. That night he also spoke 
of Chief Isaac and his lost mine and 
how he and Jerry Johnson tried to 
; find it again. James Stuart, too, 
proved to be a man of thorough in- 
formation, especially with regard to 
history and folk-lore of his people. 
- The camp-fire blazed up and sent 
its light away into the branches of 
the spruces ; near it only the faces 
of listeners were visible, while in the 
uncertain light the figures were 
swallowed up by the background. 
Finally came the parting from our 
beautiful camp. The improvised 
smoke house was taken down and 
the jerked elk meat put away in 
some kajacs. We had been cautioned 
that the trail would be pretty bad, 
■ but our previous experience dispelled 
belief that it could be worse than 
what we had been over. It was 
another illusion, for the other piece 
of trail awaiting us was by all odds 
the worst of any. For miles we had 
that game of jackstraws in the shape 
of whole forests of large polepine 
burned and fallen over. It was simply incredible, and 
small wonder that we got lost twice that day, once tem- 
porarily and the last time for good. A diligent and busi- 
ness-like investigation the next day showed how it had 
happened. Riding through Lost Knife Meadows, a beau- 
tiful, cool spot with abundant water and vegetation, and 
about half way between Fish Lake and our intended next 
camp. Bear Grass Mountain, we had kept on traveling 
east instead of turning sharply to the left. It is indeed 
a peculiar feeling to be lost in a few hundred miles of 
wilderness, but we made the best of it. “If we are lost 
boys,” said Billy Kettenbach, “this is not the worst place 
we could have picked out.” And so it was. The day 
spent in retracing and finding the point of deviation was 
put in usefully and successfully in fishing and hunting. 
The next day’s close brought us to Bear Grass Moun- 
tain, but here we were cheated out of game on account 
of a complication of obstacles, for in this camp we 
formed a practical but highly unpleasant acquaintance 
with forest fires and barely evaded another one with a 
snowstorm. 
The first day had been strangely unsuccessful. Every 
one of us had seen many fresh tracks of elk, bear and 
