522 
FOREST AND STREAM 
November, 1917 
When I got that wallop I dropped the 
wood and prepared to face the bear. 
might object to us following his bear. 
We crossed mountains which were so 
steep I couldn’t go up ’em in high gear. 
“NEWT” GOING LIGHT ON A BEAR TRAIL 
NEWTON NEWKIRK RELATES HIS EXPERIENCES ON A BEAR 
TRAIL WITH A DISCIPLE OF NESSMUK. A GO-LIGHT SPECIALIST 
A CRISP November evening found 
. me sitting on a log with my chin in 
my hands gazing longingly out 
across the hazy expanse of Lonesome 
Lake whose chill waters were gently lap¬ 
ping the rocks at my feet. On one side of 
me rested my duffel-bag and on the other 
my rifle in its case. 
The log on which I sat was hardwood, 
but it felt pretty good to me after my five- 
mile hike over the tote-road from the 
railroad junction. The duffel-bag weighed 
only about 25 pounds when I started, but 
when I finished that tramp it didn’t weigh 
an ounce less than 75! Besides there was 
my rifle whose weight had increased from 
eight pounds to 18! Presently the sun gave 
me a pleasant goodnight smile and bowed 
himself down behind the skyline of rugged 
mountains across the lake. Then a faint 
sundown breeze began to rattle the skele¬ 
ton leaves of the scrub-oaks behind me. 
Already the farther shore was lost in 
shadow. Fishing the note from my pocket 
I re-read it for the steenth time: 
“Dear Newt—If you want to bag a big 
old he black bear come at once. It’s a 
sure thing—they’re thicker than bees here 
this fall. Leave the train at Pine River 
Junction and follow straight tote-road 
through to Lonesome Lake. Write a few 
days ahead and I’ll meet you with a canoe 
at the end of the tote road. Don’t fail. 
“Your old pal, 
“Hen.” 
“Yeh, you durned ole peliqan,” says I, 
addressin’ Hen who wasn’t present, “I’m 
here, but where are you and the canoe?” 
Then I nearly sprained by eyesight rub¬ 
berin’ out across the lake which was 
growin’ darker and dustier every minute. 
The idea of having to spend the night 
there on the shore didn’t appeal to me in 
the least. All the supper I had was a five- 
cent bar of chocolate I had bought on the 
train. I reflected that with my hunting- 
knife I could rig up a lean-to that would 
at least shed the dew and reflect the heat 
of a fire. The first thing then was a 
blaze, so I got busy. There is nothing 
quite so cheerful when a poor guy is alone 
in the woods as a camp-fire. Besides some 
shivery old bear might wish to sit down 
beside it and warm his shins. 
By NEWTON NEWKIRK 
With some birch-bark kindlings I soon 
had a smudge going and was rustling 
some, bigger dry stuff to pile on it when 
something hit me an insulting wallop 
on the back! It felt exactly like a 
bear! Pale with anger I whirled in 
my tracks to deal the impudent brute 
a jolt on the jaw—and there stood Hen 
grinning from ear to ear! “Sorry I’m 
late, ole scout,” says he, grippin’ my hand 
and shakin’ it until my teeth rattled, “but 
I’ve been trailin’ a fool moose all after¬ 
noon and got a late start from camp. 
Wot’s wrong with you, Newt?—you look 
pale?” “I always look pale when I’m 
mad,” says I, “and it’s a durn good thing 
for the bear you didn’t happen to be that 
you wasn’t him, that’s all!” 
With two paddles we pried our way 
cross Lonesome in less than no time and 
were sitting down in Hen’s comfy log 
shack to as swell a feast as ever uphol¬ 
stered a hungry man’s department of the 
interior. I’m ashamed to tell you how 
many helpings of deer-steak, baked-beans, 
biscuits and tea I got on the outside of! 
After we had filled our briars we lounged 
before a cheerful log fire and talked bear. 
“Honest, Newt,” says Hen, “the woods is 
full of em! One farmer near the Junc¬ 
tion has lost 18 sheep by bears and an¬ 
other on Pine River 11. Pete Laroux, 
a trapper whose line is eight miles north, 
has trapped seven bears so far and he lost 
an ole golwholloper that Pete says will 
weigh five hundred!” “Will you kindly 
tell me,” says I very sceptical, “how our 
friend Pete managed to weigh this particu¬ 
lar bear which got away?” 
(( A W, there you go!” says Hen in 
disgust. “Lissen ! this ole booster 
that got out of Pete’s trap, left 
two claws and toes from his right fore¬ 
foot. Well, Pete could judge from them 
claws and toes, couldn’t he? Besides, he 
saw his tracks. Why, Newt, hardly a 
night passes I don’t hear bears pokin’ 
around the camp.” “Huh!” huhs I, glanc¬ 
ing around to see if the door was locked; 
“Well, Hen, how many dozens of bears 
have YOU killed?” “Lemme see?” says 
Hen, squintin’ into the fire and shuttin’ one 
eye like a man who is countin’. Then he 
decided not to lie: “To tell you the truth, 
Newt, I have only killed—that is to say 1 
haven’t just exactly what you might call 
killed any bears. You see I haven’t hunted 
for ’em much, but I’m tellin’ you, ole man, 
that black bears are nothin’ but the com¬ 
monest kind of vermin around here.” 
“Well,” says I, “it wouldn’t make me 
sore to find out that black bears are only 
half so thick as you say they are. In fact 
I wouldn’t want ’em so numerous that I’d 
have to step over ’em or kick ’em out of 
the way whenever I took a stroll through 
the woods. I’m no black bear hog—all I 
want is one full grown specimen wearing a 
well furred pelt.” “Aw, that’s easy,” says 
Hen; “you leave it to me.” Then we cud¬ 
dled up in the blankets. 
N EXT morning there was on the ground 
what Hen and I had prayed for— 
SNOW! About three inches of the 
stuff had fallen during the night. “Great!” 
yelps Hen; “now, Newt, we can foller their 
feet-writin’ on the ground and if we don’t 
git enuff bears for a mess before night 
I’ll never guess again.” With enough 
breakfast for four ordinary men under 
our belts we shouldered our rifles and 
started with Hen in the lead. It had 
stopped snowing and the sun was breaking 
through, but the air was a sharp as a 
razor. Half a mile from camp two deer 
(apparently a buck and a doe) had crossed 
the old tote-road, but we were after bear. 
Woodmice and squirrels had left a record 
of their wanderings on Nature’s white 
carpet while now and then we came upon 
the delicate embroidery woven by the feet 
of a grouse wandering through the birches. 
It was not until we had left the tote- 
road and started up the south side of 
Moose Mountain that Hen, who was a 
few rods in advance, brought up with a 
jerk and began to study something at his 
feet. I hustled up and found him bent 
over the tracks of a monster bear! They 
stood out clear-cut in the snow crossing 
our tracks at right angles. “S-h-h!” 
shush’d Hen; “if we’d got here an hour 
sooner we’d connected with this gentle¬ 
man! Not only that, but I know this 
bear.” “Personal friend of yours?” I 
whispers. “Look!” says Hen; “see this 
track of his right forefoot? Well, don’t 
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