FOREST AND STREAM. 
[June s, 1909. 
8q4. 
I might want to climb, and I looked about for 
a good tree. Alas, there was none, but right 
at the butt of the log I stood on was a dead 
and blasted fir, smooth and devoid of branches, 
but leaning at an angle that looked feasible for 
shinning up if worst came to worst. I tried it 
with my hand and it seemed to be firm. 
All this takes longer to tell about than it did 
to happen, and it had just happened when bruin 
broke cover from the brush just below and not 
over twenty yards away. “Bang!” and the bear 
changed his course a little more toward the log. 
“Bang!’’ and another tack logward. By the 
time the next shell was in, the bear had reached 
the end of the log. This time he flinched and 
nearly fell back, but his claws held and on to 
the log he came, walking it like a rope dancer. 
Before another shell was in the rifle the bear 
was so close that I thought best to begin to 
climb, but when I was about to drop the rifle 
and throw one arm about the tree, with a grunt 
the bear jumped off the log and started up the 
hill again. 
To say I was astonished would be putting it 
mildly, but I managed to get the other shell in, 
and just as the bear jumped into another thicket 
I fired once more. This time I knew I made 
a clean miss, for I saw the dirt fly as the bear 
disappeared in the brush. 
Taking a few moments to collect my empty 
shells I thought I might venture to follow the 
trail. I did not care to get quite as close again, 
for the next time bruin might not change his 
mind and go on, but might linger to get better 
acquainted. I followed the trail through the 
timber until I came out on a barren spot. Here 
I lost the trail, and as further on the brush was 
very dense, I though it wise to keep out. Being 
a little tired and somewhat inclined to long for 
quiet, since for the past half hour things had 
been a little exciting, I seated myself on the 
hillside where I could look over the canon to 
the other mountain. As I sat quietly gazing 
across, something started a couple of deer far 
below me. It was a long shot, but having plenty 
of ammunition, I determined to try my hand at 
long range work. I had no business to do it 
and was sorry I did, for I only succeeded in 
crippling one poor deer which hobbled off into 
the brush. But after the third shot, which was 
the last, had been fired and the loud report was 
still being echoed by the hills, a curious effect 
succeeded. Immediately back of me, but a little 
to the left, out of the very thick brush men¬ 
tioned above, came a sound as of a cow bellow¬ 
ing. That is what it sounded like at first, but 
each bellow ended with a “Woof, woof.” Bruin 
was evidently very sick and thought he was in 
for more, when he heard the report of the ex¬ 
press. Now I had lost that very bear, but did 
not want him badly enough to go into that brush 
for him. After thinking it over I concluded 
that Bob would be very convenient to have 
round just thea, so I started for camp and 
reached it just at noon. Bob was there and the 
way his eyes stuck out when he heard the story 
was a caution. He expressed regret that he had 
not been along, and his first question was, “Why 
didn’t you pump him full of lead when he 
climbed the‘log?” Bob was shooting a .45-70 
repeater. He forgot you cannot pump a single 
shot express. 
We agreed that we would go back and try and 
find the bear, and after we had rested a bit we 
climbed the mountain and started down on the 
other side. Here we found a condition of things 
that made me pat myself on the back for the 
wisdom I had displayed in keeping out of that 
brush. The mountainside was very steep and 
many snow slides had broken down and bent 
over the quaking asp, until a tangle of trunks 
and limbs had been matted together in places 
forming a perfect roof to hollow places below. 
In several instances we walked for yards over 
the brush, while the ground was three feet or 
more beneath this strange walk. Now, if any¬ 
one thinks that a nice place in which to get 
mixed up with a wounded bear he is at liberty 
to hold that opinion. I did not and have not 
changed my view. We tramped about over and 
through the brush — for sometimes down one of 
us would go, falling into the cave-like open¬ 
ings below — but we did not find the bear, and 
kept on over the hill and tried to figure out the 
why and wherefor, and this is what we finally 
agreed upon as a reasonable conclusion: 
When I first started the bears they were on 
their way home, which was under the broken 
down brush. The dark cave-like spaces being 
ideal spots for bruin to make his den. There was 
a well beaten trail down one gulch and along 
the side of the canon, showing that these bears 
inhabited this spot. As I was between the bears 
and this trail, when first seen the first bear went 
in another direction and probably ran into the 
main canon. The second bear got confused, but 
was making for his den, and while I had every 
reason to suppose that he was making tracks 
toward me, the bear was really only taking a 
short cut home and just happened to run across 
me, for the bear could not see through the 
brush and trees any better than I could. Why 
he did not hit me with his paw which he easily 
might have done the bear alone could tell. He 
never did, so it remains still a mystery. 
The reason the bear did not stop when shot, 
or die before getting to his hiding place, was 
because the lack of penetration of the very light 
express bullet which had much too large a hole 
in it and too thin walls. There is no doubt but 
that several bullets hit the bear, but being ex¬ 
ceedingly fat — as bears are at this season of the 
year — the bullets did not penetrate far before 
they broke up into small pieces. While they 
made the bear sick and no doubt eventually 
killed him, they did not serve to stop him, as a 
solid bullet or one with more lead in it and a 
smaller hole would have done. The fact that 
after the bear had gotten to his den he felt bad 
enough to bellow showed he had got all that 
he wanted. 
Deer shot with the same bullets showed con¬ 
clusively how they worked, and as they had no 
such masses of fat to penetrate, did good execu¬ 
tion. 
After Bob and I had settled to our satisfac¬ 
tion why the bear had acted so strangely we. 
returned to camp, regretting that we had not 
found bruin dead or alive. Bob, however, never 
got over lamenting that he had not been on 
hand “to pump the bear full of lead as he 
climbed the log.” I also had a regret, but I 
also sang a psean. The bear did not get me, 
even if I did not get the bear. Prairie Dog. 
The Forest and Stream may he obtained from 
any nezvsdeater on order. Ask your dealer to 
supply you regularly. 
Cast'lron Pheasants. 
The “cast-iron” pheasant, as he has been 
somewhat appropriately dubbed, is a bird that 
every one meets with two or three times, if not 
more frequently, in the course of the last month 
of covert-shooting, says the Shooting Times. 
He gets up, generally speaking, early in the 
beat, and, having mounted above the “stuff,” 
and possibly higher than the treetops, sets his 
wings and comes sailing along at the rate of 
anything from 25 to 35 miles an hour. One 
feels a sort of misgiving directly he appears in 
sight, for from past experience one knows how 
easy it is to miss him. If he comes straight at 
one the chance he offers is not so difficult. 
There is then only one thing to consider, viz., 
to keep well ahead of him. If you can do that, 
and take him at an angle about five degrees 
short before he gets to you, well and good; but 
if he should sheer off a little to one side, or 
pass one to left or right at a distance of twenty- 
five or thirty yards, he becomes a most difficult 
bird. Time and again one empties both bar¬ 
rels at him without the slightest effect. Some¬ 
times he condescends to wag his tail, as if to 
shake off the pellets, but, as a rule, he sails 
onward, as if he had no idea that any one had 
shot at him, and disappears over the horizon. 
It would be interesting to have the opinion of 
covert-shooters as to why this bird is so diffi¬ 
cult to kill. Is it that we invariably shoot be¬ 
hind him, or is it that we take too full a sight of 
him and send the charge under his body? One 
could swear sometimes that one was not behind 
him, but it seems to make no odds to his cast- 
iron and armor-jacketed body. 
The Hog and Ground'Nesting Birds. 
Hendersonville, N. C., May 21. — Editor 
Forest and Stream: In my last letter I men¬ 
tioned the forming of a hunting and fishing 
club that was to lease a large part of Geo. W. 
Vanderbilt's Pisgah Forest estate. It now 
seems to be a fixed fact, and takes over, I am 
told, some 50,000 acres of adjacent mountain 
lands. 
On this large acreage bear, deer, wild turkeys 
and ruffed grouse have been on the increase 
for a number of years. There is considerably 
over one hundred miles of the finest trout 
streams—I speak within the mark—brook and 
rainbow trout being very plentiful. 
It is crossed by three large mountain streams. 
Mills’ River, Davidson’s River and North Fork 
of French Broad River; and each of these 
little rivers has its tributaries, all well stocked. 
The beauties of this Pisgah Forest country can 
with difficulty be told. Looking Glass Falls, on 
Looking Glass Creek, a tributary of the David¬ 
son’s River, is one of the most beautiful of 
them all. and a trout pool just below into 
which the falls dash. It is clear water in which 
I have seen a perfect rainbow. Years ago I 
fished that pool, and always lost a big trout 
there. 
To reach this pool and falls. I waded up the 
creek from Davidson’s River. I knew no trail 
to it, and I greatly enjoyed the wildness of it 
all, with the many flowers, and ferns of many 
kinds, rhododendrons of different sorts, and 
kalmia. 
Certainly this club is fortunate. No more 
beautiful country can be found for a camping 
