550 
FOREST AND STREAM 
November, 1917 
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of fur goods and big mounted game heads we sell. 
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9 East 40th Street New York City 
GOING LIGHT ON A BEAR TRAIL 
NEWT’S EXPERIENCE WITH A GO LIGHT SPECIALIST 
By NEWTON NEWKIRK 
(continued from page 523) 
crawled out, threw some wood on the fire, 
wrapped my blanket around my remains 
and sat down with my feet in the fire and 
my back to a tree. Every now and then 
I’d doze off—then the tree would slip out 
from behind me and I’d fall over in the 
snow! Thus I spent the night. Hen 
crawled out about daylight. 
“How’d you sleep?” says I. “Like a 
log,” says he; “how’d you ?” “Like a dog,” 
says I. Then we had breakfast—parched 
corn and tea! Shouldering our packs and 
rifles we again took up the bear track. 
The sun came out bright and warm and 
the snow began to drip from the trees— 
every time I staggered against a sapling I 
got a shower-bath! Hen was setting a 
swifter pace than at any time we started. 
When I tried to reason with him he point¬ 
ed that unless we came up to that bear 
before the snow melted we would never 
come up to him, because no snow, no track. 
So I wearily dragged myself along. By io 
A. M. I was stepping all over my own 
feet and when we sat down beside a brook 
at noon to dine sumptuously on parched 
corn and cold water I felt it would take 
a derrick to get me on my feet. 
A NOTHER hour’s going and bruin’s 
trail wound up the north side of a 
mountain and started down the south 
side where the sun got in its warm work. 
In spots there was no snow at all—here 
we lost the track—there we’d pick ’em up 
again—at last we lost ’em for good and all 
—the snow had vanished—the ground was 
bare—the jig was up. After that it became 
a needle-in-the-hay-stack proposition. 
That bear was afraid to come out of the 
alders until I had passed by. 
“That’s wot I call tough luck,” says Hen 
sitting down on a log. “I’d call it good 
luck,” says I; “if that snow had stuck you 
and I would have left somewhere in this 
gawdforsaken waste a couple of perfectly 
good skeletons, that’s all!—I can feel my 
poor stummick growin’ fast to my back¬ 
bone right this minute and I’m so durned 
hungry I’d eat an owl. with the feathers 
on!” After a pipeful apiece we pulled 
our belts a notch tighter and started for 
camp. Hen said the shortest cut was 
across country in a straight line instead of 
along our back track. Accordingly we 
started angling up toward another part of 
the ridge we had just crossed. There was 
a clump of alders in our path. These we 
straddled, Hen going above, I below them. 
Suddenly with a “W-h-o-o-s-h!” that 
lifted my hat into the air a great big 
giant of a bear busted out of the alders on 
the lower side just behind me and dashed 
down the mountain ! When that happened 
I wasn’t thinking of bears—I was thinking 
of something to eat. That bear went so 
close to me the suction of air in his wake 
jerked the rifle out of my hands! By the 
time I got hold of it the bear had hit the 
last high place and disappeared! Hen 
came running down around the clump with 
his gun at the ready and his eyes stickin’ 
out like a beetle’s! 
“Where’d’e go?” he gasps. “The last I 
saw of ’im,” says I, “he was headin’ 
to’rds Canady.” “Why didn’t you shoot?” 
says Hen. “Hen,” says I reprovingly, “I 
had the sights of my rifle right fair on 
that bear’s heart and my finger was pressin’ 
the trigger, when I happen’d to think that 
you might be right in line! Then I low¬ 
ered the gun and let him go. Wot, Hen, 
is the biggest bear that ever was compared 
with the life of a friend?” I saw Hen 
lookin’ intently at something on the ground 
beside me and I also took a look. There 
in the shade of the alders was a patch of 
remaining snow and on it the impression 
of my rifle! I met Hen’s eyes—he gazed 
at me steadily for a moment, but said noth¬ 
ing. It was very embarrassing and I was 
glad when he shook his head sadly and 
with a sigh started on. 
Hen said we would surely reach camp 
that night, but we didn’t. When darkness 
caught 11s camp wasn’t in sight and for 
an hour previously I had noticed that Hen 
had been doing considerable side-stepping, 
back-tracking and rubbering. Finally I 
says, “Hen, if you’re lost why don’t you 
come right out and admit it like a man?” 
“I’m not just to say lost,” says Hen blush¬ 
ing ; “ I know where I am allright—it’s 
the gorrammed camp that’s lost, but it’s 
around here somewhere.” By this time the 
woods were as black as a pocket. Hen told 
me to stand still and he’d find the camp 
or bust. With that he sarted off in the 
darkness. He didn’.t find the camp, but I 
think lie nearly kept his promise to bust— 
I heard him stumble and fall with a dull 
sickening thud—then he said words that 
have no place in this story. 
B YE and bye he hollered and I an¬ 
swered. By degrees he worked his 
way back to me and struck a match. 
Near us was a windfall that offered scanty 
shelter. “We’ll have to sleep under that,” 
says Hen; “it’s too dark to get a fire and 
build a lean-to.” “Hi-hum,” says I begin¬ 
ning to dig out my blanket; “another glo¬ 
rious November night in the open!” I 
didn’t sleep any at all the first night. Well, 
I slept less than that the second! I spent 
the night praying for dawn and was the 
first to poke my head above the brush in 
the chill and misty morning. 
There, not more than 50 yards away 
through the trees was our camp! 
I dragged Hen to his feet and pointed 
