Sept. 28, 1912 
FOREST AND STREAM 
393 
Still-Hunting Mountain Lions 
An Interesting Tale of a Day’s Sport Hunting Big Game in the Rocky Mountains 
Near Yellowstone Park 
J IM WILLIAMS, my partner, and I were 
camped at the Crystal Creek cabins in Jan¬ 
uary, 1912, for the winter, trapping coyotes, 
lynx and marten, with wolf hunting as a side 
issue. We had brought our grub and outfit up 
from Jackson in the latter part of December and 
got out our wood, fixed up the cabin, and after 
a trip down with the team, we snowshoed thirty 
miles back to the ranch and started to string out 
our traps. We had thirty traps of sufficient size 
for coyote, lynx and wolf, a few fox traps, size 
By WALTER C. DALLAS 
meadow below the house, with our webs creak¬ 
ing in the cold and our breaths leaving clouds 
of steam as of miniature engines, it seemed; as 
I remarked to Jim, “Good to be alive.” The 
day was perfect and we felt as if we could go 
several hundred miles without a stop. 
“I’ve got a hunch, Jim,” I said, “that we’re 
going to have some tales to talk about when we 
get back to-night.” “I hope so,” replied Jim, 
who is not much given to any very great flights 
of fancy. 
where a long ridge ran up to the top of the 
main “rim,” where we expected to find lions, if 
there were any in the country. After striking 
the foot of the ridge, we removed our snow- 
shoes, the snow having been blown off, leaving 
the ground bare, slung them on our backs and 
started climbing. Resting at intervals, for it was 
a long climb and steep, we finally came to where 
a spur ridge joined into the main cliffs. Here 
we stopped, ate our lunch, filled our pipes and 
looked out over the country. Across the Gro- 
EL LEON AT BAY. 
2, and a string of jump traps Nos. 1 and 2 for 
marten. 
We put in the first week setting coyote and 
wolf traps, after which we scoured the hills for 
a few days looking for wolves, but without suc¬ 
cess, as they, for a time it seemed, had all gone 
down below around the settlement. So, rolling 
out one cold morning, with the logs of the house 
snapping with the frost, we cooked a meal of 
elk steak and “sour dough” pancakes, and during 
our post-breakfast smoke our talk drifted to the 
subject of mountain lions. “I'll bet you my plug 
hat, Jim,” said I, “that we can scare up a lion 
or two in the Slate Creek cliffs.” “We might 
find some,” he replied, as he refilled his pipe; 
“let’s try ’em a whirl.” “All right, and we’d 
better be making tracks, too,” said I. So, after 
stowing away some lunch in our pack-sacks, we 
buckled on our snowshoes, took our rifles and 
started. 
The day was one of those still, sunny ones 
of the cold, sparkling variety which in Jackson 
Hole are rather scarce in winter time. As we 
swung down across the smooth expanse of 
As we rounded a bend of the creek we 
“jumped” a bunch of about a hundred elk out 
of the willows, who ran up the hill a few hun¬ 
dred yards, stopped and stared at us, one old 
cow “barking” at us as if angry for disturbing 
them at their morning meal. 
The shoeing was perfect that morning and 
we swung across the big flat toward Grovont at 
a fast clip. Crossing the ice at the old ford we 
climbed the low hills on the north side of the 
river and soon stood on the low divide between 
Grovont and Slate Creek, where we stopped to 
adjust our shoes and get some more “steam.” 
As I bent over, tugging at a refractory knot, 
Jim asked: “What’s that standing up there?” 
Looking up, I took the glasses and made it out 
to be an old sheep standing outlined against the 
sky at the topmost point of a high cliff, probably 
two and a half miles away, and looking down at 
us. As I watched, around the point came four 
others, one of them a small ram three or four 
years old. They watched us a few minutes, then 
bounded away over the rocks. 
We then continued on our way across to 
THE AUTHOR AND LIONS. 
vont, far below, we could see bunches of elk scat¬ 
tered here and there over the country, pawing 
out a precarious living. At our backs rose the 
straight w r alls of a long cliff some 200 feet high. 
“This sure looks like a good lion country, Jim,” 
said I, as I readjusted my pack. “You're right; 
let’s go,” said he, and we started climbing again. 
We soon neared the top, and as I stepped out 
of a narrow “notch” between the rocks I ex¬ 
claimed: “Here’s what we’re looking for,” for 
there at my feet was the print of a large lion, 
made probably two days before. “That’s him, ’ 
said Jim, and slid a cartridge into his rifle. 
Taking the trail I soon found his direction 
and said to Jim: “Which do you want; above 
or below?” for we had a sort of system for 
lions which I had learned from an old hunter 
on Grovont. “Makes no difference,” said Jim, 
and he climbed down through the rocks, while 
I, waiting until he stood in a small game trail 
at the foot of the cliff, started on the trail of 
the big lion, which led straight up the rim. Jim 
meanwhile was making his way along the foot 
of the cliffs. 
