Mid the flinty streets that wander down that 
island to the sea, 
I have heard a voice low calling, through the 
rush and roar to me: 
Heard a murmur, soft, insistent—fill my soul 
with wild unrest, 
‘Come you back,’ it whispered softly, ‘Come you 
back unto the West.’ 
HAT’S the germ that worked 
its way into me and made 
possible this story of how I 
went after bears and got four 
grizzlies.- Some ten years 
ago, I wrote an article for 
Forest and Stream, under the 
heading of “Story of a Moose 
Hunt,” in which I did not get the moose. To 
any chance reader who may remember this, I 
may say this is not a bear story without the 
bears, for bears were in evidence—lots of them 
—more than we wanted at times. My story 
may lack in educational finish, for I’m just a 
very plain ordinary business man, but what it 
lacks in that, I hope will be made up in the 
incidents themselves—all of which are plain 
facts and told without flourish or varnish. 
When a fellow has passed the half century 
mark of time, there usually comes a period when 
“mole hills look like mountains,” and things do 
not go along as easily as they should. That’s 
what happened to me during the winter just 
passed. 
Early this spring, I had a talk with a friend 
who had been up in British Columbia on a 
hunting trip last fall. I learned through him 
that there were some grizzlies up in the north¬ 
west that surely were waiting for me, and I 
decided that such a trip would be the very thing 
for “what ailed me.” 
A letter addressed to Otto Brothers, guides 
and outfitters, at Jasper, Alberta, Canada, 
brought a reply from Closson Otto, saying that 
some bear were in that country and he knew 
where there was at least one big fellow they 
had named “Old Tramp”—if I would come out, 
we would have a try for him, along with some 
others. 
One morning, the latter part of April, I 
stepped off the semi-weekly service of the 
through trans-continental train of the Grand 
Trunk Pacific, at their small station. I had not 
walked far up the platform when a man hailed 
me—“How do you do, Mr. Murdock.” There 
wasn’t any one there to tell him I was his 
man. I’m sure I didn’t tell him. But when a 
native guide way up in that north country sees 
a fellow step off the train, lugging an arsenal 
big enough to equip half a company of German 
infantry, loaded down with enough clothes to 
take him to the north pole and back, wearing a 
scared and timid look, much as if he feared a 
grizzly might be hiding behind the nearest 
corner, it isn’t very hard for him to brand the 
newcomer a “tenderfoot.” 
After we had exchanged greetings, we walked 
up to his house nearby. We had a short talk 
and then decided we would get things ready and 
leave the next morning for the mountains. His 
wife served a most enjoyable lunch, after which 
we went up to the corral and bunk-house. Here 
I met George Hargrave, who was to be our 
cook. 
When you first meet two men, whom you have 
never before seen, and of whom you know but 
little, and know you are to go alone into the 
mountains with them, and see no other human 
being for four to six weeks, it is no more than 
natural that you have some curiosity to know 
their peculiarities. The first thing I noticed was 
that Closson was a big husky fellow, weighing 
about 195 pounds, with a bright and strong face, 
a good leader, a good worker, a quick thinker— 
therefore a good manager. He worked with sys¬ 
tem. I have had a good many guides—a few 
really good ones, some indifferent, others very 
poor. Closson proved to be one of the very 
best it has ever been my pleasure to meet. Born 
in the wilds of eastern Canada, north of 
Toronto, with an axe in his little fist, he has 
been using it ever since. He can make anything 
from a toothpick to a full size canoe with the 
aid of no other tool. A trapper in boyhood, a 
trapper, guide and hunter since, strong as an ox, 
with eyes like an eagle’s, intelligent and a good 
companion. I want just here to make this state¬ 
ment. Although I have hunted for the past 
fifteen years, I do not profess to be a “hunter.” 
If I could consider myself as such, I would 
feel that I had attained a high pinnacle in 
natural life. But there is so much of real art, 
woods lore, tracking sense, leg muscle and na¬ 
tive instinct in the make-up of a hunter, that I 
have not the faintest hope that I shall ever 
reach that distinction. I do feel, however, that 
I have been out with enough men to know a 
good hunter when I see one. 
George Hargrave soon made it opparent that 
his job was that of a “help-mate.” You readers 
who may have been so blessed in your life’s 
companion know what that is. He “filled the 
bill.” He could put up a “mulligan” fit for a 
king. He could bake yeast bread and cookies 
“like mother used to make.” I never had a 
trip on which we had better “eats” and never 
lived in camps which radiated more good cheer 
than ours. George is a bachelor—I am some¬ 
what reluctant about writing this, because I 
have already given his full real name and ad¬ 
dress, and I don’t want any chance lady reader 
to try “throwing a rope” out that way, because 
I want to go back there again some day and 
want him there to go along. Besides being a 
good cook, a good camp packer and all-round 
helper, he starred also as a singer. He sang 
everything I ever heard or am likely to hear 
the rest of my natural life. He began when 
he got up. He quit only when he went to bed. 
His repertoire was most extensive, but I no¬ 
ticed when doing something that required 
specially close attention around camp, he always 
‘ 
