580 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Oct. 14, 1911. 
Out With the Boys 
By ORIN BELKNAP 
O CTOBER, last year, was made memorable 
to me by an unexpected gathering of 
three of my five sons at the old homestead, 
where the heartiest greetings of father and 
mother awaited them and welcomed their 
arrival; and where a plan was quickly formed 
for an expedition into the mountains on the trail 
of the elusive mule deer. 
Suddenly I announced a fixed determination to 
accompany the expedition. The only warning 
voice raised in protest against the rashness of 
my declaration of independence came, not unex¬ 
pectedly, from a certain little somebody, who was 
quite well aware that the infirmities of more 
than seventy years imperatively demanded con¬ 
sideration. 
“Now, father, you know you are not able to 
endure such a trip into the mountains. Let the 
boys go.’’ But the thought that the eldest, the 
fourth and the youngest of his five sons; Byron, 
Paul and Arthur, together with our son-in-law, 
Lewis Fuller, an enthusiastic and successful 
young hunter, were to be his companions on the 
trail, and around the camp-fires of our vacation 
wanderings among the mountains silenced all 
the considerations of reason. 
“Meanwhile the old choleric shepherd of 
Glencoe spurned all advice and girt himself to go.’’ 
The mysterious pul! of the mountain wilds 
upon his withered old heart strings was irre¬ 
sistible. But how could he prepare for sleeping 
comfortably out of doors when heavy frosts 
covered all exposed surfaces, and the edges of 
the murmuring mountain brooklet were fringed 
with ice? A word as to his equipment, which 
may prove a helpful suggestion to others. 
Some twenty years agone the two belligerent 
rams of a neighbor’s flock engaged in a pitched 
battle, which resulted in the death of one of 
the pair; and the skin of the victim was given 
me by my generous neighbor. A half day’s 
vigorous work was spent in fleshing the hide 
and washing the fleece, removing the offensive 
odor of the greasy wool, and leaving the fleece 
white and clean. A heavy sprinkling of equal 
parts of salt and powdered alum was next ap¬ 
plied to the inside of the skin, which was then 
folded and laid away for two days, when the 
skin was slowly dried and stretched while dry¬ 
ing, with the result of furnishing me a rug to 
spread beneath my bed in camp; and the warmth 
and dryness of my camp bed has, on hundreds 
of occasions, well repaid the work of its prepara¬ 
tion. 
Next came the question of a suitable weapon. 
The boys were furnished with a fine repeater with 
set triggers; two automatics, and a .30-30 maga¬ 
zine rifle. To me remained the superannuated 
Sharps of years long gone by. The faithful 
companion of many lonely wanderings; the story 
of the bending of the barrel of which, together 
with that of its subsequent repair, by the help 
of my wife, was given the readers of Forest 
and Stream many years ago. 
But now the voice of my e'dest son rose in 
vehement protest. “It’s played out, I tell you! 
I ve tested it, and I know. It is worn out; 
rusted out, and played out.” 
Aware that the boy’s eyesight was better than 
my own, his decision was accepted. And now, 
through the kindness of a nephew living near¬ 
by, Emory Metcalf, who, thirty-eight years ago, 
hunted buffalo with me on the far away pla’ns 
stretching southward from the Republican River 
in Nebraska, I was furnished with a .30-30 maga¬ 
zine rifle. This proved a splendid weapon, well 
balanced, and terribly effective in its fire. But 
we have all heard of teaching an old dog new 
tricks. 
It was carefully explained to me how to manip¬ 
ulate the strange weapon; and how, by the 
sliding of a small bolt, the gun could be locked 
to safety in all my clambering over the rocks, 
and instantly released for service by a- single 
easy movement. Of the success of this careful 
teaching, however, more anon. 
Our plan was to drive our wagon along a 
road leading into the mountains a dozen miles 
or so, where camp was to be pitched and the 
surrounding mountains hunted in every direction. 
This destination was reached in time for a late 
dinner and an evening hunt in the mountains. 
Starting my first serious mountain climb for 
many years, I was soon made aware of the fact 
that my own physical condition had changed with 
the passing years, but having firmly resolved to 
test my remaining ability to the limit, and aware 
that the week of the proposed hunt would pass 
all too rapidly, I came into camp at nightfall 
with a pair of legs pretty badly whipped. This 
was expected from the first, and now the kind¬ 
ness of my sons and son-in-law anticipated my 
every want, and a glorious night’s rest under 
the towering firs and pines recalled something 
of the vigor of long lost youth. 
Sunrise brought me squarely in front of a 
new effort planned to tax every remaining 
energy. Deer sign was scarce, and the very best 
of our hunting ground was known to be on or 
near the summit of the range six miles distant, 
and rising above our camp ground for 3.000 
feet—something of a job for an old man. 
Climbing, resting and climbing again, ignor¬ 
ing all protesting aches and pains, the summit 
of the range was gained about one o’clock, where, 
in spite of the cold wind, a sleep of ten or fifteen 
minutes was enjoyed on a grassy slope. Clam¬ 
bering around among the rocks with the rifle 
locked to safety, I slowly made my difficult way, 
conscious that the stiff climb had done quite 
thorough work with my now badly wobbling legs. 
Pausing on the edge of a shallow brush-filled 
ravine, instantly the thought occurred that here 
was just the spot where a big mule deer buck 
would hide in the dense brush, secure from all 
prying eyes. Just as the thought was formu’ated 
in my mind a violent threshing of the brush be¬ 
low me, and not more than two rods distant, 
brought the rifle up for instant action. 
The first thought was that the commotion did 
not sound like the rush of a mule deer, for 
only the first rustle of the brush was heard; 
when, thirty or forty yards distant, and on the 
same side of the ravine as that whereon I stood, 
and across a gently descending slope of open 
ground some twenty-five yards in width, slowly 
galloped one of the biggest bears in the moun¬ 
tains, and surely the fattest bear I ever saw. 
Really, he seemed nearly as wide as high. 
Instantly it was noted that what was to be done 
must be done at once. I had never worked the 
mechanism of the rifle I was carrying, as this 
was my first call upon it. A frantic search be¬ 
gan. Promptly forgetting its precise location, 
but aware that somewhere in the anatomy of 
this singular rifle was an innocent-looking some¬ 
thing which, jammed backward or forward, 
would enable me to do lightning business with 
this vanishing hogshead of bear’s oil, I danced 
a frantic jig in my search. Just as the bushes of 
a dense thicket closed behind the bear, the bolt 
was found, slipped forward, and—I realized 
something of the difficulties involved in teach¬ 
ing an old dog new tricks. 
Should I confess the humiliating story to the 
boys in camp that night? was the question. Cer¬ 
tainly; let them laugh. But did they? Nay, 
verily! When I said to my eldest son: “Byron, 
you know I am familiar enough with your auto¬ 
matic to work it quickly, and if I had carried 
that rifle to-day, I would have put three or four 
bullets into him before he vanished.” The dear 
boy replied: “Why, father, you know you could 
have had my gun to-day if I had only known you 
wished it.” 
And then nothing would satisfy him until I 
had promised to change guns on the morrow. 
That is the sort of companions who blessed every 
hour of my vacation. But who shall record the 
tale of the wobbly descent of that awful 3,000 
feet which yawned beneath me, and the story 
of the legs which woke up in my bed next 
morning? Crying protest in every fibre against 
any movement of the aching muscles, they were 
dragged forth and again lined up, facing that 
stern mountainside, and the strange part of this 
tale gives me pleasure in the telling. 
Keeping sternly at this vigorous work, the 
end of the hunt found me reveling in the en¬ 
joyment of a sensation as pleasurable as it was 
new. A feeling of rejuvenation I never before 
enjoyed assured me that, whether any other man 
on earth would be benefitted in like manner or 
not, if I were blessed with the presence of the 
same companions for each coming October, ten 
years of life would be restored me from the 
vanished past. 
But if the old man made a wobbling failure 
of all his hunting opportunities, not so the boys. 
Although their search proved our hunting ground 
to be quite bare of game, most of the mule deer 
keeping back nearer the summit of the main 
range, yet Paul killed a fine young bear, and 
Lewis Fuller brought in a large mule deer fawn 
on his back, having carried it for four miles. 
The glorious October nights, glorified by the 
rays of the full moon streaming down through 
the foliage of those grandly towering trees, and 
the toasting on sticks Of the flesh of the many 
grouse the boys brought in, together with the 
steaks of the fawn, called back to memory days 
long gone by, when these vigorous young men 
were but babes, and I needed little help in my own 
campaigns’ among the hills. I would not have 
missed this hunt for money piled up, though my 
only trophy was a single partridge. 
On the drive back home Byron and Lewis 
branched off on a side hunt of their own, jumped 
and killed a fat white-tail buck and brought him 
in on their backs. 
