FOREST AND STREAM 
457 
Across the Lake on a Home-Made Raft—Dining With a Moose Antler as a Table—W hat the Lumbermen Did by Backing Up the Water. 
strewn with a wild jumble of dead logs and 
limbs and shingles that carrying a pack through 
it was a most difficult task. We were bound 
across, but how ? We had no canoe or boat. 
“A raft, ’ said Dave. But how build it, and 
where? There was no real shore; just a rag¬ 
ged edge of logs and sharp sticks, as you may 
see in the picture. It was with a good deal of 
trouble that, without my pack or rifle, 1 worked 
my way through to it. For an answer Dave 
Graham got out his axe and began cutting logs, 
which, one by one, he carried through and over 
that tangle to a kind of landing that he smoothed 
off, where he moored them until enough were cut 
to be withed together. I helped with some of 
the lighter ones, but mostly I sat and marvelled. 
I am sure I can do several things better than 
can Dave, but that which he did that day I could 
not do to save my life. And he did it appar¬ 
ently easily, as if he were accustomed to throw 
off a little thing like that every morning before 
breakfast. My hat is off to Dave Graham, quiet, 
modest, genial, strong and efficient! Best type 
of that grand chap, the northern guide. 
Well, we finished that raft and, strapping or 
tying the duffle and rifles to it, we pushed off, 
only almost to founder, and to get back to the 
shore just in time. Three more big logs were 
added, and our short, but long-drawn-out voyage 
was accomplished round the turn of the forks 
into the west branch. But here was another dif¬ 
ficulty. The shore where we desired to land was 
as bad as that we had left, and it was only after 
an hour’s hard work that we at last succeeded, 
by means of relaying the articles on’e by one, in 
getting ashore and to a little knoll in the quasi 
island between the forks where it was smooth 
enough to pitch a tent. 
I have said that Dave was modest, and a proof 
of it is that, although he had called many moose, 
nothing would move him to call while I was in 
the party. If modesty could be made into an 
extract and put up in bottles, I would have oper¬ 
ated on Dave, and flooded the market with this 
rarest of virtues. The child-like fellow had read 
some articles and books of mine, and artlessly 
concluded that, since it was all down there in 
real print, I must know it all! 
1 here is, however, no use in telling you all 
that happened and didn’t happen on that tour. 
Let it suffice that we “had a bully time,” and 
things came to several heads. It was not good 
calling weather, perhaps, because there had not 
been a good frost yet, a circumstance that sup¬ 
plied us with all the berries we could eat, a 
sweet boon in the woods. I have seldom seen 
so many blueberries, raspberries and blackberries. 
It was a matter of climbing to some lookout, 
whence we had a view over the surrounding 
country, sitting tight, and sendipg the sonorous 
whining bray of the cow-moose across the shaggy 
hills and vales. The very first morning we had 
a couple of gruff answers, but they were far 
off. After an hour’s waiting for them to get 
nearer, we saw a couple of black specks moving 
slowly down the ridge on the opposite side of 
our valley, perhaps a mile and a half away. They 
were coming toward us in a general way, but it 
was a mated pair, and evidently taking no slight¬ 
est notice of us but making for the black swamps 
with which the narrow river was covered. 
After another hour, which was made interest¬ 
ing by the quarrel of a raven and a Cooper’s 
hawk, that always stopped short of actual battle, 
we trailed over country to the spot where the 
pair had entered the river valley, and, first try¬ 
ing a “couple o’ blats,” as guide Willie Rogers 
would say, I left Dave on a knoll and took a 
cruise up-stream, only to discover that the moose 
had been moving pretty rapidly in that direction, 
and so we gave it up for the day. 
That was a characteristic morning, but I must 
tell you the most interesting thing that did hap¬ 
pen to me, and I shall take the liberty of adding 
an account of the killing of a bull, that is rather 
typical of what I call still-hunting in calling¬ 
time. 
After Mr. Knight and his party had rejoined us 
down river, we concluded to hike to another 
country, and therefore started back to Lawlor’s 
Lake camp. Now one of my favorite pastimes 
is to stroll off alone in search of adventure, and 
a new country is ever fascinating. So, taking 
on my back my lightweight Comfort Pocket (air 
mattress and cover) and speed kodak, I shoul¬ 
dered my old reliable Winchester thirty-five, and 
started up the Isaac’s Harbor stream. 
I had a compass and an excellent map (one of 
the Canadian Geological Survey, I think). Be¬ 
sides this I had nothing, not even a lunch, as I 
planned to make only a detour and be at the 
head of Lawlor’s by noon. Thus we see that 
these invariable rules, even when laid down bv 
one’s self, are oft sadly neglected! With the 
thirty odd pounds on my back I took a compass 
course across country, and easily found the other 
branch of the river, only a brook in its upper 
reaches. 
It came on to drizzle, miserably of course, but 
that made it still better weather for going along 
quietly. The inevitable occurred! I came upon 
fresh tracks and browsings, and the excellent 
feed conditions were proof that moose must be 
near. It was about nine o’clock and I would 
gladly have divested myself of my sleeping-bag, 
had I been sure exactly where I was, so that I 
could have picked it up on my journey back to 
the lake. Thirty pounds, or so, with a heavy 
rifle and a camera case, do not seem much on 
paper, but experience has told us all how such a 
weight grows “as the square of the distance.” 
The river valley was a gulch for the most part, 
and grown up on each side with scrub trees of 
various kinds. The trail was lost time after 
time, and it was only by following little meadows 
that occurred once in a while that it could be re¬ 
discovered. 
For a couple of hours it always came back to 
the river, but at last it persistently ran off to the 
west. This was disappointing, as I had hoped 
to go east, or toward Lawlor’s. However, I was 
in for it now, anyhow, and felt pretty frisky, so 
I consulted map and compass, and started up 
over the ridge after the tracks. Oh! that ridge, 
and the next, and the next! For the dratted 
beasts seemed to choose the very highest and 
densest the next half hour. Worse than that, 
the trail finally disappeared, and no amount of 
grunting and calling through the bark horn elic¬ 
ited a response. 
It was twelve o’clock, and where was that 
piece of “Dot” chocolate and that biscuit that I 
always carried for times just like this? It was 
a great berry year, but up on these scrub spruce 
ridges berries did not grow. It was a case pull 
the belt in, take a drink of delicious spring water, 
munch a mouthful of cress, and wait for a bet¬ 
ter opportunity. 
Giving up the chase, I made a compass calcu¬ 
lation and started straight for Costley’s Lake, 
for it was that body of water that I really 
wanted to see. The compass said it could not 
be far away, and I reached its to me unknown 
shores in just twenty minutes, a proof that the 
map was a good one. Costley’s is big and round, 
but I had to verify it by finding the outlet, which 
