772 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Nov. 25, 1911. 
near the head of the bed and then the mos¬ 
quito netting snapped into place over the door 
and tucked in beneath the brown canvas “floor.” 
Turning to the camp-fire, the man who had 
put up the tent saw that his companion was 
just placing the bacon on to fry and putting- 
tea into the boiling water in the smallest kettle. 
So again he went into the brush, this time re¬ 
turning with the other part of the jackpine 
stub he had felled. After chopping more wood 
for the camp-fire, he carried the remainder, in 
large chunks, to the fire on the beach. A last 
trip to the brush resulted in a big white pine 
stump being added to the beach fire, the flames 
and smoke of which soon were shooting high 
above the bank. After washing his hands and 
face at the lake shore, the stern paddler climbed 
the bank, just as supper was being set out, the 
browned, puffed biscuits, the steaming Indian 
rice and beans and the crisp bacon and the 
kettle of strong tea. 
“Better have some, lad,” said the taller, as he 
heaped his plate with beans, rice and two bis¬ 
cuits. “Larry, here, always gets just the right 
rise to his biscuits.” 
The sun had just dropped from sight when 
they began to eat. It was a half hour above the 
horizon when they had landed. 
Their meal was ended when the beans and 
rice were gone, the last piece of bacon eaten, 
all the apricot juice soaked into a biscuit, and 
the tea pail drained. Larry poured the boil¬ 
ing water from the beans and added fresh from 
the lake. The tea pail, also refilled, was hung 
over the fire, and the men lighted pipes and 
stretched out on the ground. They had eaten 
heavily, and there was little conversation. 
When the water and beans had boiled, Larry 
lifted the former from the fire and began wash¬ 
ing dishes. It was a simple operation. He 
poured the scalding water into the plates and 
cups, which had been wiped clean with biscuits 
by the users as they finished their meal, and 
rinsed and dried them, using an old flour sack. 
The dishes washed, he soaped and rubbed the 
drying rag, rinsed it at the lake and hung it to 
dry. It was the last of a series of cleanly acts 
which had characterized his’ preparation of the 
meal. 
When the dishwashing began the stern 
paddler had lifted the beans from the fire. Mix¬ 
ing in salt, pepper and brown sugar, he re¬ 
placed the pail on its pot hook. Then he cut 
several strips of salt pork and laid them on 
top of the beans. When they had boiled again, 
he poured off the water until they were just 
covered. Then, with the cover carefully set 
into the top, he went to the sand beach, where 
the fire had died down, leaving only a bed of 
glowing coals. Raking out most of the coals, 
he carefully set the pail in the bottom. With 
the paddle the scorching sand and a few coals 
from the sides of the hole were raked down 
around the pail until it was covered. A stick 
was thrust into the sand beside the upright 
handle and more sand raked over until there 
was a mound where the hole had been. In the 
morning the beans would be lifted out, browned, 
steaming, a ready-to-hand breakfast. 
When he returned to the camp-fire the taller 
Canoeist found that the packsack containing the 
grub had been placed in the tent, and that l is 
companion and I were sitting near the re¬ 
plenished fire. 
Both again lighted pipes, cutting the tobacco 
from small brown plugs held between the thumb 
and forefinger of the left hand, the palm form¬ 
ing a cup beneath. A knife in the right hand 
chipped off small pieces until there was a pipe¬ 
ful. The chips were ground under the right 
thumb and the tobacco tamped into the bowl. 
Scores of such pipefuls may be carried in a 
small space. 
We talked of woods folk and woods doings, 
much as farmers gossip of the crops and their 
neighbors, or city people of the shops, the 
market, the league leaders and their acquaint¬ 
ances. They told me the news of Koochiching 
and dropped one bit of information which, when 
amplified by my questioning, told me that I 
need go no further west, but that I should be at 
the trading post on Crane Lake the next noon. 
It was cloudy and threatened rain when we 
paddled from the island the next morning at six 
o’clock. There was little wind, and fifteen 
minutes took us to the north end of Grassy 
portage. It was a year of comparatively high 
water, and we were able to push up a little creek 
almost to dry land. They were ahead as we 
landed. The bowman stepped out into ankle- 
deep mud and water and turned to screw the 
yoke into the center of the gunwales of their 
A GLORIOUS morning, clear, still and cold, 
greeted us on Sept. 26. Mountains grander 
than ever. An ideal day for hunting 
and painting. Fine sleep last night, wonderful 
English mutton chops for breakfast this morn¬ 
ing. Doctor off upon his black horse to spend 
the day out upon one of the benches, making 
oil sketches. Jack and I away east over the 
pass. A marvelous view on top. We paused 
on the way up to take photographs of ptarmi¬ 
gan, and at ten a. m. reached the head of a 
great timbered valley, down through the bottom 
of which, 1,500 feet below us, ran a little stream 
flowing into Tyaughton. 
We tied our horses and started on foot along 
the mountain, when Jack espied a tiny white 
object against the face of the cliff across the 
valley, just opposite us and about a mile dis¬ 
tant, looking just like a little white bug upon 
a cloth of brown velvet. Jack thought it a billy, 
for it was not quite as pure white as the nannies, 
but the wind was wrong, and he was working 
off the cliffs down into the pines, where it would 
be difficult to find him, so we decided to hunt 
along the mountain upon our side. 
After an hour Jack said, pointing: “Dere’s 
goats, he’s coming down,” and we saw him 
mosey along down through the pines and finally 
stop for a long time. It was difficult to tell, 
however, whether he lay down or sat down, but 
we concluded that he had lain down upon a 
steep rock, with his fore legs quite well down 
in front, and that he would likely remain there 
eighty-pound Peterborough. The other lifted a 
packsack which did not weigh less than 125 
pounds—I knew how long they would be away 
from supplies—and started at once across the 
third-of-a-mile portage. The other lifted out 
the other pack, which weighed probably forty 
pounds, adjusted it to his back, and then swung 
the canoe bottom side up over his head. He 
lowered it until the two pads of the yoke rested 
on his shoulders and then started along the 
trail. My own outfit and canoe were light and 
I was able to follow in the same manner. 
After wading out through the mud to the 
water on the other side, the taller man waited 
until Larry had swung the canoe from his 
shoulders to the water. Then both packs were 
set in, the men followed, and they were off. 
After we had pushed through the marsh to 
open water, the stern paddler said: 
“We want to make the third portage on the 
Little Sioux to-night, lad, so we’ll mooch. 
B’jou’.” 
They settled into their long, strong stroke, 
with the quick recovery, and were able, from 
their positions on their knees, to use their back, 
hip and thigh muscles as no seat paddler can. 
In five minutes they had turned the first 
point. 
throughout the middle of the day. We there¬ 
fore decided to have a try at him. 
Down we went through the rocks and trees, 
slipping occasionally ten or fifteen feet across 
a grassy place, clear down to the little trout 
stream, and just as we struck it two tiny water 
ousels came twittering past, plunging into the 
icy water and teetering up and down upon a 
rock; the same little “How-de-do” birds which 
have been my companions many and many a 
time since as a small lad I began to wade the 
trout streams of Colorado. To Jack’s disgust 
I insisted upon stopping to photograph the 
ousels. 
Then we began an i,8oo-foot climb up the face 
of the mountain, to get above the brown cliff 
across which the goat came, into a snow field 
above it, and thus passed around him safely and 
came down into the wind, which swept up the 
valley. Very hard going this, for that side of 
the valley was in shadow, everything frozen, 
and the grassy slopes as slippery as greased 
poles. Finally, after two hours of toil, we got 
across into the timber, and for the life of me 
I could not tell whether the goat was north, 
east, south or west, for the timber lay in little 
rolling ridges along the mountainside, all of 
which looked exactly alike; but in some mys¬ 
terious way Jack knew exactly how many of 
these little ridges and depressions we must 
cross to get to the one which would lead us 
down to the billy, and we got to within thirty 
yards of him before he suspected our existence. 
A Sheep Hunter’s Diary 
Pictures and Text by the Judge 
(Continued from last week.) 
