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New Brunswick with a Tracking Snow 
A Disappointing Start, a Satisfactory Day and a Strenuous 
Finish of a Fortnight in the Backwoods 
By F. W. OSGOOD 
FRED. W. OSGOOD. 
Fred. W. Osgood was born at Hudson, Mass., on June 13, 1875. At thirteen 
his first ten dollars, earned by cutting wood and trapping for the local gun club, 
went for a shotgun. He admits that while he has not been gunshy since, he 
is still somewhat shy of a buck-saw. In 1893, he moved to Boston and em¬ 
barked in that hazardous calling, the publishing business. He was with the New 
England Magazine five years, another five as secretary and treasurer of the 
R. Herndon Company, and the last five years in New York with the Encyclo¬ 
pedia Britannica Company and the American office of the London Times. 
For fifteen years Mr. Osgood’s annual vacations have been fishing and hunting 
trips to New Hampshire, Vermont, Maine or New Brunswick. When one 
crowds into two or three weeks all the sport of a year, such trips are bound to 
be strenuous, but he avers that they are worth the price. Of several of these 
hunting journeys he has written for Forest and Stream. 
Recently Mr. Osgood lias found more pleasure in hunting with a camera than 
with a gun, but admits that while his reform is not yet complete, he has reached 
that stage where he would rather get a picture'of a live wild moose than to shoot 
it. His experience proves that it is considerably harder to get the picture than 
to bag the game, and there are plenty of amateur photographers who will affirm 
his statement. 
There has been a Mrs. Osgood since 1898. Their home is in Pleasantville, 
Westchester county, New York, and they have two boys. 
N EW BRUNSWICK with a tracking snow. 
This thought had come to us many times 
while hunting in the big woods. We 
had called for moose on the barrens in Septem¬ 
ber and tramped the swamps and ridges in 
October. This year we had waited for the 
first snows. 
I met my friend B. A. Eastman in Boston 
early in November. He had come down from 
Barre, Vermont, and I over from New York. 
For four years Ben and I have hunted to¬ 
gether ; it was only a question of where to go 
and when to start. Following a hasty supper 
at the station dining room we boarded the 
sleeper for Fredericton, N. B. 
One of the schemes was to try Ben’s ’coon 
dog, Rex, on the lynx or bobcats. Rex was 
aboard the train, riding contentedly in the bag¬ 
gage car stretched out on an old hunting coat. 
He proved a good traveler throughout the trip. 
Beyond sundry excess baggage payments, cigars, 
etc., to square him with the train men, Rex gave 
us no trouble. 
After a good night on the train we were up 
early. From our car window patches of snow 
could be seen in the woods and it looked good 
to us. At McAdam Junction we turned out 
for breakfast. Here we met Mr. Hoyt, the 
genial Canadian customs official, and secured 
from him our hunting licenses. At Fredericton 
Junction the comfortable sleeper left us and 
we waited an hour or more for the two-car 
train which was to take us to Fredericton. No 
one hurries in that country; to-morrow is as 
good as to-day and the day after will do nicely. 
A dinner at Fredericton restored our good 
humor and helped pass the time until 6:30 p. m., 
when we left on the I. C. R. for Doaktown. 
About 9 o’clock we arrived and our trunks, 
knapsacks, guns and dog were unloaded in a 
hurry. The faithful Jimmie Storey, of former 
happy days, was on hand to welcome us. His 
“B’yes, I’m glad to see you,” was good to hear. 
The outfit was quickly packed in Jimmie’s wagon 
and we drove over to see Mr. Hildebrand, the 
grocer. We had ordered our supplies ahead and 
they were all packed ready for us. Quickly 
loading them on the wagon we started for 
Storeyville, three miles away. It was a frosty 
night and the wheels creaked in the snow as 
we drove along. Rex wanted exercise, so we 
let him run. Once outside the town Rex had 
an idea he was on a ’coon hunt and started for 
the woods. This caused a delay until we got 
him backhand aboard the wagon. The big stove 
at Jimmie’s house seemed a cheerful piece of 
furniture that night and the hot tea which Mrs. 
Storey prepared was most welcome. 
All of the family were up early the next 
morning to see us off. Ed Storey, with Jim¬ 
mie’s horses and a wooden shod sled, was to 
take in our outfit and provisions. The proces¬ 
sion started about 9 o’clock, the team in the 
lead. My old guide, Charles Beek, wa ked in 
with us a mile or more. He knew where lynx 
were thick, could pick up half a dozen tracks 
in a mile walk, or could five or six years ago. 
Perhaps he could now, but six years is a long 
time in the life of a lynx, especially when his 
pelt is worth fifteen do’lars at the furriers’. 
A couple of miles from the settlement some 
grouse flew across the road and Ben secured 
two of them with his pistol. Jimmie and I left 
the trail and visited some of his traps, finding 
a weasel in one. It had only partially turned 
white and was an odd-looking little beast. Join¬ 
ing Ben on the poor-dash road, we followed 
after the team. The tote road or poor-dash, as 
it is locally called, is hard traveling. The ice 
on the water holes would not bear the team and 
the mixture of snow and mud made poof foot¬ 
ing. About five miles in, two deer crossed the 
road ahead of us. Ben was in the lead and had 
an easy shot, but Rex tugged so hard on the 
rope that he could not take aim. Rex had never 
been led and Ben at last let him run. The dog 
had been trained in Vermont not to touch sheep 
or deer, and we thought it would be safe to let 
him go. Rex was full of hunt and soon had 
something going on a ridge a half mile away. 
It was probably a fox, for it went straight from 
us and Rex was soon out of hearing. We waited 
around for a while and then continued on the 
trail. About noon we crossed the Bartholomew 
River and left the poor-dash, taking an old road 
going east. Camp was soon reached. Ed had 
just got in with the team and all hands began 
unloading the sled and getting lunch. An hour 
later Rex came limping in with bleeding feet, 
a tired dog. His initiation into the big woods 
had been severe, but he had proved to us that 
we could not lose him. 
Our camp was on the bank of the Bartholo¬ 
mew. It was built and used the previous win¬ 
ter by McNabb’s lumber crew. The cook’s room 
with its stove, table, seats and bunks made a 
comfortable hunting cabin. After lunch we put 
the camp in order and Ed returned to the set-' 
tlement with the team. % 
Our first hunting day was rainy, but all turned 
out. I wanted to again see Dungarvon Lake, so 
headed that way for my first tramp. The coun¬ 
try around had been lumbered since I hunted 1 
it in 1904. and much of its topography had 
changed. My first attempt did not take me to 
the lake, but to the barren west of it. I back¬ 
tracked to the river, tried another trail and 
eventually reached the lake. Alex Storey’s 
lumber crew were cutting about a mile north 
of the lake and that probably accounted for the 
few signs of game seen in that region. 
Ben and Jimmie with Rex in tow hunted 
southwest to McGlagin’s meadow. They found 
fresh tracks of deer and caribou and one large 
moose track. Rex ran on a black cat’s track, 
but lost it on some bare ground. He was eager 
to hunt, and while on the rope made it interest¬ 
ing for Jimmie. That night I noticed Jimmie ; 
rubbing his arms. "Well, did he pull some?” 
I inquired. “Pull, you’re right he did,” replied 
Jimmie. “I was wishing for a hand sled; I’d 
hitched him to it and got on and rode.” Rex 
