428 
FOREST AND STREAM 
to navigate the mud-jerker to the best of his abil¬ 
ity. We are willing to pay our fare and then foot 
it, but we will carry no rails to pry out with. 
Five miles of southing takes us out of the 
woods, and we bend to the last, pass around the 
end of 'the high ridge, which has loomed on our 
left for the last seven miles, and Hi stops in 
front of a wood-colored building to change the 
mail. We can ride no further; our route from 
here lies in a northwest direction, and while the 
mail is changing let us take the lay of the land. 
We have made ten miles of southing, one of east¬ 
ing and are now standing on the rustic bridge 
which spans Second Fork. To the southest lies 
a mountain ridge, which terminates 'in an abrupt 
spur a mile below where we stand. Just where 
Second Fork sweeps its base Wilson’s Creek em¬ 
pties, and on the lower side of the spur Stony 
Fork comes in—all three beautiful trout streams 
of from twelve to eighteen miles in length. To 
the southeast lies a succession of mountainous 
ridges, shaggily whiskered to their very brows, on 
each and all of which deer are yet somewhat 
abundant. To the eastward is a narrow valley, 
and down this flows the Blockhouse Run, an¬ 
other good trout stream; between Blockhouse Run 
and Second Fork is a high ridge, around the point 
of which the former sweeps, while the eye may 
trace the course of the latter for miles up and 
off to the northeast. Of all the many points and 
spurs in sight from where stand there is none 
more steep and rugged than the one between Sec¬ 
ond Fork and Blockhouse Run; it terminates 
abruptly half a mile to the eastward, and directly 
up that spur, straight by the jagged, pine-crowned 
recks near the top, lies our route; from the 
highest point of it we will follow the crest of the 
ridge some four miles to the northeast, then leav¬ 
ing Second Fork to our left turn down the hill 
a short distance into a basin, where rises a small 
stream, which empties- into Blockhouse Run, and 
in the head of that basin—at the “utmost spring” 
of the aforesaid stream—stands the shanty, where 
for a couple of weeks, more or less, we may hunt 
and ruralize to our hearts’ content- 
We will not go there to-night, however, partly 
because it is capital hunting on the ridge and we 
wish to “go slow”—partly because we couldn’t 
get there if we tried. Neither will we stay over 
night at the one-horse tavern on the flat, though 
to do him justice, Friend Crawford gives a cap¬ 
ital spread for a country inn. It happens, how¬ 
ever, that we did not come here to sit in conven¬ 
tional chairs at civilized tables, nor to sleep in a 
bed, or under shingles, or for any tame or civil¬ 
ized purpose whatever; had we cared for such 
vanities, we had not left the fleshpots of Gotham 
and the fatness thereof. But across the cleared 
flat and up the point, by the huge rocks with 
their feathery tufts of stunted pines, up, still up, 
and at last we are at the summit. And now, as 
you are full of short breaths, sit down for a 
five-minutes’ rest while you take a more ex¬ 
tended survey of the country. To the east, the 
west, the south, far as the eye can command -the 
view, forest and mountain; not a clearing nor 
a vestige of civilization in sight, save on the 
flat below. Could you get a view for fifty miles 
to the west and southwest, you would see only 
mountains and forests, while in other directions 
the clearings, though somewhat nearer, are 
mostly from ten to twenty miles distant. Take 
the hint, and should you chance to wound a deer, 
do not follow too fast and too far. 
And now, as the edge of a mild October sun 
seems to touch the hazy, smoky ridge to the west 
of us, we will don our knapsack again, but only 
for a trifling walk of some fifty rods, which 
brings us to the “Rock Shanty,” where we are to 
camp for the night. You might pass the huge 
rock which bears the above name scores of 
times without suspecting the “shanty” part of it; 
even if you noticed the jutting shelf at the south¬ 
east end you would hardly think it might afford 
comfortable shelter for three or four men; it 
will do so, however, though, from its vicinity to 
the clearing, it is seldom used as a camp, save 
by some hunter who prefers the bracing outdoor 
air and the crisp balmy fragrance of hemlock 
browse, to a close room with the smell of fea¬ 
thers and cabinet ware. 
At the Rock Shanty we have the three indis¬ 
pensable requisites for a comfortable camp, viz.: 
Wood, water and browse. The latter is at hand 
among the bushy young hemlocks, there is a 
clear, cold spring in a tiny basin some 20 yards 
east of the rock, while several uprooted hem¬ 
locks of huge dimensions will furnish an abund¬ 
ance of thick, resinous’ bark, than which there 
is nothing better for a camp-fire. An hour’s 
busy work with the camp axe and toma¬ 
hawk give us an abundance of feathers, 
and a rousing fire built with green beech 
sticks, chinked in thickly with dry bark. 
While the fire is giving out its bright, crackling 
blaze, let us get out and overhaul the knapsacks; 
first, take the bread from the flour sacks and 
envelope it in a newspaper, then take the butter 
out of the cups, lay the former on the rock 
away from the heat and fill the latter at the 
spring, setting them to boil while 'we get out 
the tea and slice some bread. When the water 
boils very hard (not before) take the cups 
from the fire, let them stand a minute to cool, 
then add the tea, and putting them back again, 
let the tea boil fiercely for one minute, take 
quickly away from the fire and smoke and your 
tea is made as well as the best French cook 
could do it. 
Much of the discomfort experienced by tyros 
in camping out comes of not knowing “how to do 
it,” rather than of necessity; there is, as a rule, 
no need of drinking tea that tastes like a mild 
infusion of creosote, nor of catching cold 
through sleeping with your back to the damp 
earth, nor of tiring yourself out the first day, 
nor of making yourself miserable and sick in 
any way or manner whatever. One suffers 
enough in the clearings—especially in villages 
and cities—let us at least enjoy freedom in the 
forest for the few weeks or months it may be 
permitted us to sojourn therein. Wherefore, hav¬ 
ing finished our simple meal, let us put the flour 
sacks to use by filling them with fine picked 
browse and making pillows of them; not a bad 
idea you will admit after trying it one night: 
also, you will find that it pays to spend an hour 
in picking an extra quantity of browse and ar¬ 
ranging the camp so that you are morally sure 
of a healthful comfortable night’s rest. It does 
one no harm to get well fatigued through the 
day, but to enjoy the sport one must fairly re¬ 
cuperate his exhausted energies by a good rest 
at night and -rise from his bed of browse in the 
morning fresh and lively. 
And now that we are snugly settled for the 
night, with the pipes drawing to perfection and 
the fire burning so cheerily that even I, who de¬ 
light to poke a camp fire, am content to let it 
burn in peace, how shall we pass the hour or 
two that intervenes between supper and bed 
time? Shall we spin yarns? Content, though to 
say truth I have spun them so often that I 
begin to -tire of them myself. Suppose I dis¬ 
course of a trip that Neil Miller and I once took 
to the Muskegon in search of sport and adven¬ 
ture—not that anything wonderful in -the way 
of adventure or sport ever came of it, but some¬ 
how my mind reverts to that trip more fre¬ 
quently than to any one of the many I have 
made; also it was “the turning point in life” 
for one of the parties and came tolerably near 
being the turning point out of life for the 
other. We have a spare hour on our hands, let 
me perforate your patience with a drowsy yarn. 
Ned Miller and myself were hunting chums 
and sworn friends for years. We are friends 
yet, though Ned hunts but seldom, having “of 
his -own domestic cares” to a pretty consider¬ 
able extent (i. e., a wife and seven children). 
It is nine years this blessed autumn since Ned 
and I climbed the point and stoped at the Rock 
shanty on our way to the head of Rear Run. 
All through the long hot summer we had 
looked forward to the time when the first 
autumn frosts should have made hunting pleas¬ 
ant as well as practicable and legitimate. Often 
on a hot summer’s eve had we met to discuss 
the merits of various localities, finally agreeing 
on the vast forest region lying in the southeast 
portion of Tioga county as affording the best 
promise for still-hunting; and just at sundown 
of a glorious October day we unslung our knap¬ 
sacks at this very Rock Shanty. Hardly had 
we got a fire started, when we were joined by 
Sam Hoover, a man whose life was passed al¬ 
most entirely in the woods, and who was usually 
conceded to know more of the deer’s habits 
than any hunter in the country. He had been 
prospecting the swamps about the head of Bear 
Run and thence to Little Pine Creek, with the 
intention of hunting and trapping through the 
fall and winter, but had “found the sign so 
sca’ce that he was goin’ to peg out for the West. 
Anybody could have his chances in them woods 
’at wanted ’em. He knowed a place in Gratiot 
county, Michigan, whar ther’ was bar, an’ no mis¬ 
take. He was jest goin’ to tote his plunder out 
thar, and the devil might hunt Tioge county for 
him. He had hunted a week an’ only got one 
shot—a runnin’ shot at that.” 
This put a new face on our pet project. If 
old Sam couldn’t kill a deer in a week’s hunt 
we might as well subside on the venison ques¬ 
tion, and after several conference pipes we de¬ 
cided to take the back track in the morning, go 
home, take three or four days in which to get 
a good ready, take our guns, traps, camp 
equipage and selves to Buffalo, thence to Can¬ 
ada or Michigan as the spirit might move us, 
and spend the entire fall and winter months in 
the depths of the forest. That would be some¬ 
thing like hunting we both said and thought. In 
the morning we ate what we wished of our 
provisions, gave old Sam the rest (he seemed 
