996 
FOREST AND STREAM 
A British Columbia Grizzly-Note the Elk Horn on the Ridge Pole-A Good Moose Head From the East Kootenay-Not to Be Won Every Day. 
AFTER SHEEP AND GOATS IN EAST KOOTENAY 
WITH A FEW INSTRUCTIVE REMARKS FOR GENTLEMEN WITH THAT “MYSTERIOUS 
SOMETHING” IN THEIR BLOOD, AND STOUT HEARTS AND LEGS TO CARRY THEM THERE 
By Ubique. 
F OR the information of those gentlemen with 
that mysterious something in their blood that 
attracts every nature lover, whether rich or 
poor, and finally lures them from home to seek 
the haunts of game, near or far, in the wilder¬ 
ness, I will try to give in detail my experience 
of a trip in the open season of 1915. 
Accompanied by a native guide we left our 
base camp on the Kootenay River on the morn¬ 
ing of September 1. A small tent and five or six 
days’ provisions packed on two horses, with two 
to ride, completed our outfit. 
Our hunting ground was about half way up 
Canon Creek, which heads sixteen miles or so in 
a spur of the main range of the Rockies. Fording 
the Kootenay, we crossed the valley to the Ver¬ 
million on the east side and forded that also near 
the mouth of Canon Creek. After some hunting 
around for the old Indian trail up this creek, as 
it is barely discernible from disuse, we finally 
picked it up and followed its windings for some 
two miles, the valley gradually contracting until 
we reached the mouth of the canon. And a 
veritable canon it is, with vertical walls running 
up to 300 feet; shutting out the daylight in places. 
For the next four miles the bed of the creek be¬ 
came the trail. 
Near the entrance to the canon we 
came on a saline “lick,” which on examination 
showed signs of being recently visited by several 
ewes and lambs, while nearby was the torn-up 
skin of a full-grown sheep killed the previous 
winter—when down on the lower benches—by 
a cougar. 
Remounting, we crossed the creek, which 
brought the mouth of the canon into full view 
and with it—two goats standing on a projecting 
ledge—one of six. 
Certainly a beautiful shot for either rifle or 
camera, I thought inwardly, as I quietly but 
quickly dismounted, rifle in hand, as I had not 
the latter handy. Judging the billie’s range at 
150 yards, he described a half downward circle, 
the next second, from the impact of the bullet, 
tried to regain his balance, failed and dropped 
straight into the creek before he had become 
fully aware of our presence. The nannie craned 
her neck after her disappearing mate, then in 
our direction as though asking for an explana¬ 
tion, finally wheeling round as though on a pivot 
and away for the higher regions. She was quite 
safe to have stayed. 
The time was 10.45 A. M. when, according to 
some writers of sporting books, goat (and sheep) 
should be lying snugly tucked up in their beds 
at snow or timber line, having their usual mid¬ 
day nap, which, to say the least, is very mislead¬ 
ing, as it depends entirely on environment. That 
is to say—in a little hunted and less frequented 
territory, all game feels perfectly safe to move 
freely about, high up or low down throughout 
the daytime. 
Hence, when hunting in these places one must 
be prepared without being surprised to meet 
with game of any species in entirely opposite 
places to those “laid down” rules for the guid¬ 
ance of amateur sportsmen: Meeting these goats, 
for instance, so far below their natural habitat 
at that time of the day, is only one of many 
similar cases I have met with during thirty years 
hunting in the Rockies. 
As the weather was still warm and blowflies 
numerous, we were obliged, after dressing the 
billy, to anchor carcass and skin in the ice-cold 
creek until our return. 
We then lunched and started off up the canon, 
the horses stumbling and staggering over hidden 
boulders under the rushing water throughout its 
entire length. Arrived at its head at last, the 
valley widened out again, with here and there 
little meadows of (still) luxuriant grass and wild 
pea vine. Giving the horses a little time to feed 
and -rest, we examined the southern face of the 
bald tops and sides with the glasses and made 
out a band of five goats crossing the field of 
vision just above timber line. Five balls of 
snowy white showing up to the naked eye on a 
sun-baked ground, backed by slate-colored rocks, 
as plainly as a full-rigged ship on a summer sea, 
and feeling just as safe! Certainly old Mother 
Nature modeled some strange animals, of which 
old world looking —Haploceros Montanus —is not 
the least. 
Musing thus, I turned to the creek for a drink, 
to find it badly “riled up” where a few moments 
before it had been running clear as crystal. 
Though both moose and wapiti spoor besprin¬ 
kled the meadow and bars, we knew they could 
not possibly cause such a muddy state of the 
water running over pure gravel, but that it was 
a grizzly having his usual mud bath in a marshy 
side stream not far up. Having no time, how¬ 
ever, at our disposal to pay Ursus H. a surprise 
visit, we remounted to complete our last leg to 
where we intended to camp for our sheep hunt— 
some couple of miles further up—before dark. 
This was in a little meadow, an old camping 
place of the one-time famous hunting tribe—the 
Stonies. Bunches of Tepee poles, rotten with 
age, lay scattered around over a large area. As 
the meat par excellence of the redman’s culinary 
department is that of wapiti and bighorn, some 
bitter fights were waged in the past between this 
tribe; the Kootenays and the Sheepwaps for 
possession of this splendid waptiti and sheep 
territory as a winter hunting ground. 
The Stonies are now and have been for two 
decades residents of the neighboring state of 
Alberta, and are not allowed to hunt in British 
Columbia, while the remnants of the other two 
tribes are living peacefully in the Columbia Val¬ 
ley. 
Early next morning, lightly but warmly 
dressed for the stiff climb ahead, we started up 
a narrow “wash-out” with a gradual ascent for 
the first 1,500 feet or so, passing another “lick” 
that also showed signs of ewes and lambs. 
About 10 A. M. we reached timber line (7,000 
feet), perspiring freely and “burning up” the 
oxygen for twenty feet around us. We came out 
at the bottom of a large basin, some couple of 
miles across, scarred with ridges and ravines as 
regular as an oyster shell and crowned above 
with a mass of jagged rock towering up to 10,000 
feet. Keeping well under cover we scanned the 
basin carefully over. Away to our extreme right 
near the sky line of a narrow pass, a large band 
of goats was still feeding, but no sheep. Never¬ 
theless, they were present, but their pelage 
blended so perfectly with their yellowish sur¬ 
roundings of sun-baked grasses and many tinted 
shale, that we failed to see them; yet, as 
subsequently learned, they were in plain sight. 
The goats were forgotten as quick as seen— 
for the present at all events. My whole atten¬ 
tion was centered on one object—to secure one 
more trophy of the grandest game in America! 
Why? you ask. Because some beasts may hide 
away in dense timber, while others again may 
sneak out at dusk, but the gallant bighorn lives 
out in the open, trusting to his marvelously keen 
sight and scent to protect him. And no beast is 
better able to take care of himself, nor more 
difficult to stalk. 
Above me on the treeless* ridges and among 
the gray, bare, ragged rocks, where the winds 
blow and curl in puzzling eddies, driving the 
light dust and shale in swirling clouds, was his 
home. Winds that are never still, never constant 
