537 
December, 1922 
axes, a couple of blankets, fry pan, tin 
plates, knives, forks and spoons, some 
extra clothing and six traps. “Where 
was the grubstake?” I hear you ask. 
Well, we had it all right — a three-pound 
sack of salt ! Of all the prize fools, we 
were a pair, yet our experience proved 
that it is a mighty hard thing for a 
strong, healthy man to die of starvation. 
Stopping Place at that time and from 
them we learned that a freighter would 
be along within a few days to take 
some stuff up to a trapper at Mile 108. 
They told us that if we cared to leave 
some of our stuff with them they would 
send it on up with this freighter. Need- 
less to say, we were mighty glad to 
leave some of our heavy stuff, and thus 
greatly lightened went on 
up the trail. 
We saw our first moose 
the next day but were 
so dumbfounded that we 
let him depart in peace. 
That night we camped at 
the deserted Mile 20 and 
the following morning Cy 
was again lucky enough 
to get a shot at a cross 
fox, which he floored the 
first crack. It was in 
beautiful fur and the first 
of this kind either of us 
had ever seen. Our next 
stop was at Mile 35, an- 
other va«:ated stopping 
house high up on the side 
of Moose Mountain. The 
Our first lynx 
As latter events progressed 
we became more and more 
convinced that Dame For- 
tune was looking after us in 
great style. 
Our first stroke of luck 
came in the shape of a team 
hitched to a light rig, which 
overtook us about three miles 
out on the trail. Some 
homesteader’s children were 
in it and they agreed to take The pen 
our packs on to their home, 
a couple of miles further 
on. We had been resting so much along 
the way that it was then getting on 
toward noon so we gratefully stopped 
at this settler’s place for dinner. After 
a bounteous meal we felt much re- 
freshed and went on our way rejoicing. 
That evening we camped near a small 
lake. Cy drew first blood of our trap- 
ping expedition as he shot a fine mink 
at the outlet of this little pond. It was 
rather small but very dark and fairly 
prime. That night I didn’t sleep very 
much for fear that a bear would walk 
off with me; once or twice I had a bad 
nightmare and woke up shivering. It 
was my first taste of the wild and woolly 
and I had some sort of an idea that it 
was dangerous to be safe in that neck of 
the woods. 
We stayed at this lake for a couple 
of days and explored the country west 
of there but found it too low and 
swampy for good trapping, so decided 
to move on up the trail. A family by 
the name of Rose owned the 10-Mile 
in which the black bear was 
caught 
timber in this part of the 
country w'as fairly heavy, 
and had we but known it 
this was one of the best 
marten and fisher' coun- 
tries at that time within 
a good many miles. 
T he morning we left 
the 35 Mile place I 
shot twice at a big wolf, 
right from the door of the 
old house, and I guess 
he’s still moving. Game 
seemed very plentiful, 
large and small, and we 
often stopped to throw 
stones at spruce part- 
ridges (fool hens) and snowshoe 
rabbits. From Mile 35 to Mile 47 the 
old trail was a succession of “up hill 
and down dale,” the last long slope down 
into the valley of the 47-Mile Creek 
was four miles long. We stopped for 
dinner here and then hit out for the 
Athabaska, as according to the map we 
had it was only six miles further. The 
trail led down along Canyon Creek, this 
stream emptying into the river at the 
foot of another four-mile hill. We dis- 
covered the Athabaska to be a large, 
swift-running stream. 
At Athabaska Crossing we saw the 
first human since leaving the 10-Mile, a 
ferryman by the name of Jim Hind- 
marsh was stationed there in the gov- 
ernment employ, his job being to trans- 
port any teams or travelers across on 
the ferry. He proved a most likeable 
chap and in later years I came to regard 
him as one of the best friends I had on 
the old trail. Naturally we were curious 
to learn all we could about trapping in 
that vicinity and that night he gave us 
what later proved as valuable informa- 
tion relative to the furbearers of that 
district. A short time previously he 
had shot a bear in a meadow back of 
the Stopping House and we sampled 
some of it pickled in vinegar. It was 
most delicious. 
Hindmarsh advised us that an old 
trapper was located at the Baptiste 
Ferry, only three miles distant by pack 
trail, and he hinted that we might be 
able to get in with this man for the 
winter. Accordingly we set out the next 
morning for the Baptiste. 
“Old John” Anderson, the 
ferryman, came across in re- 
sponse to our hail and took 
us back in a small boat to his 
cabins on the north side. Old 
John had a reputation for be- 
ing one of the worst grouches 
that ever walked ; be that as it 
may, I found him one of the 
squarest men to deal with I 
ever had the pleasure of meet- 
A silver fox — the trappers’ pot of gold 
ing. True, he was gruff and outspoken 
in his manner but he had a number of 
splendid qualities that more than offset 
this failing. 
Old John had done considerable trap- 
ping in Michigan and Wisconsin in his 
younger days, and while he had done 
very little along the Baptiste he was 
nevertheless thoroughly familiar with 
{Continued on page 564) 
