THE GUN AT HOME AND ABROAD 
Perhaps they might be found in the neighbouring valley of Inns ? It 
seemed likely; but, to make sure, I despatched a local man, Elias Lille - 
fjeld, to examine and report on the ground. He was a fine, handsome fellow 
of medium height, extremely good-natured and strong as an ox, and for 
three days he ranged the valley according to my orders; but, alas! not a 
single elk could he see, nor any sign of one. Wolves had been there. For 
the last three years they had played havoc with the elk on the Veffsen 
where they had lived and bred in security, and having created a scarcity 
in the valley, they crossed the mountains into Tunsdalen, where for the 
last two summers two packs at least had been diligently hunting. Bad news, 
this, and very disappointing, as I had heard nothing of these depredations 
before; but as the birch region at the further end of the valley had not 
been explored by Elias, I determined, after a day’s rest, to take a walk 
up there, however poor the chance of a find. 
The morning of September 7 was one of the loveliest imaginable, as 
Kristian and I and the faithful Bismark set forth on our expedition. Under 
a brilliant sun the dew-drops, falling on to a carpet of multifarious mosses 
and berries, glistened with a myriad hues, and as we worked up the moun- 
tain side a good breeze promised well for Bismark, if perchance anything 
worthy of his attention should be found. But all to no purpose. No fresh 
spoor was to be seen, except that of wolf, and they had made regular 
paths up and down the hills where the packs had passed to and from a 
carcass. We were in despair, and after a while Bismark, too, became 
disgusted, retreated behind his master, and wished to know why we had 
brought him out on such a fool’s errand. 
After about two hours’ climbing we found ourselves above the timber 
line on a jutting spur, from which a glorious view could be obtained 
not only of the valley itself but of the serried banks of mountains that 
culminate in a great snowy chain to the north. On these (so Kristian told 
me) the Laps were now living with their reindeer for the summer. I plied 
the glass for ten minutes, carefully scrutinizing the big birch corries 
to my left. Nothing there; then on the next headland, a still more likely 
place. This likewise revealed no sign of life, so again we crossed the bowl 
of a corrie with its rushing torrent, and proceeded rapidly to the next 
spying point. 
As we were in the act of rounding the turn I had to remonstrate with 
Kristian for the pace at which he was travelling — a very common fault 
amongst Norwegian hunters when in open ground. He was tearing along 
270 
