13 
January, 1923 
catch a large mink that had dug a hole 
in from the outside. I had estimated 
that my probable catch at Moose Lake 
would be anywhere from one to two 
hundred fine spring ’rats, but I never 
saw a single one there ! The only thing 
that I could figure as having happened 
to them was that they were all frozen 
in their bank dens. I saw but one ’rat 
that whole spring and it came right out 
of a big beaver house, it had lived 
through the bitter cold spell with a 
family of its large amphibian cousins. 
Well, there was no use trapping ’rats 
that “wasn’t,” so after I had wasted a 
week’s valuable time in this direction, I 
turned my attention elsewhere. On my 
return to the Kimberly Lake cabin I 
found that a bear had been paying me 
a visit and had tried his darndest to get 
in via the hole in the roof from whence 
it had projected the smoke-piece belong¬ 
ing to my stove. I was somewhat nervous 
that night—you know how a fellow feels 
when he wishes something will happen 
and hopes to the high moon that it 
won’t—all in the same think ! Anyway, 
if that bear did happen around that 
night he must have got a sniff of the 
high explosives for he didn’t poke his 
head in at the window. The next day 
I made my first deadfall and thought it 
was strong enough to kill an elephant. 
All winter long I had been carry¬ 
ing a .35 automatic and as yet had 
drawn blood on nothing but spruce 
partridges and rabbits. At least a dozen 
times I had shot at brush wolves and 
once got a crack at a big lynx as he 
sprang into the brush but it 
seemed as though it just 
wasn’t the gun for me. In 
testing it out at two hundred 
yards, neither Old John nor 
myself could hit a toboggan, 
the bottom of which faced us 
squarely. Old John had a .303 
Ross, using the .303 British, 
and with it I placed three 
shots in an eight-inch bull 
placed on the toboggan. I 
think the barrel of the .35 
must have been strained for 
there certainly was no excuse 
for it to shoot as it did, other¬ 
wise. 
The day I was building the 
deadfall, as a residence for 
Mr. Bear, another trapper 
came along from up toward 
the head of the Little Smoky. 
He had a dog with him that 
resembled a small black bear, 
except that he was a little too 
gray in color. This trapper 
took a fancy to my .35 and I 
likewise realized what a great 
aid his dog would be to me as 
a pack animal. It took us a 
long time to make the deal, 
but when it was put through he had my 
rifle and I had four beaver skins, two 
skunks, a mink, and the dog. 
Realizing that I couldn’t do much 
without a rifle I went down to the Bap¬ 
tiste and borrowed Old John’s .303. 
When I got back the bear had been in 
the deadfall but had escaped with only 
the loss of a few hairs which he had 
left on the “dead” log when backing out. 
I think he must have figured my con¬ 
trivance as some new back scratches I 
reset the trap and weighed it with ad¬ 
ditional logs. 
A pen set for marten 
The author’s cabin on the Athabasca 
During the winter I had located a 
number of beaver dams up on the Mar- 
shead Creek and had this place figured 
out as a one best bet. Packing my 
“bear dog” and myself to the limit I hit 
out for the head of this stream. About 
this time it started to rain. Whenever 
it wasn’t raining it was snowing or a 
combination of the two. To say life 
was miserable is putting it rather mildly. 
The only shelter I had was a pitifully 
small square of canvas and after it had 
been raining for a few hours this started 
to leak in spots. 
About the only thing I did on this 
trip was to shoot a large cinnamon. I 
managed to set out a few beaver traps 
but it seemed as if beaver weren’t mov¬ 
ing about much, at least not where my 
traps were. At length I got disgusted 
and pulled back down to Kimberly, de¬ 
ciding to wait a while for the weather 
to settle. 
The bear had been to my trap again 
and a second time had set it off without 
losing his hide. When I reached the 
cabin it was snowing a little and after 
investigating the trap I cooked some 
dinner. Overcome by drowsiness (owing 
to the comforting warmth of the cabin 
and the fact that I had slept but little 
of late) I went to sleep, leaving the door 
slighly ajar. I was awakened by a sharp 
bark from the dog. I sprang to my feet 
and grabbed the rifle as I rushed to the 
door. There, not more than thirty yards 
away, stood a black bear. I shot him 
in the hips as he turned to run and he 
didn’t go far. This bear was not very 
large and I could hardly imagine how 
he had escaped from under the tremen¬ 
dously heavy deadfall. Indeed, it is 
astonishing what weight these animals 
will bear on their powerful shoulders. 
However, there proved to be another 
bear thereabouts. I had reset the dead¬ 
fall and during the following night a 
bear had been there but he had exercised 
good judgment and climbed 
over the top instead of going 
under the “dead” log. 
I figured this last bear a 
rather educated fellow so tried 
another “stunt” on him. I had 
an old single-barrel shotgun, 
open bore, and set it out for 
Bruin. I had the gun fastened 
securely and had crotched 
sticks arranged so that when 
the brute pulled on the bait he 
would get the full charge in 
his chest. It worked all right 
in a way, but it was a blamed 
poor way, for the bear walked 
so far away, after receiving 
the charge, that I didn’t find 
him until he had rotted. 
I made several more trips 
up toward the head of the 
Mile 70 Creek and each time 
managed to get a number of 
flat-tails. There was a small 
lake not far from Kimberly 
that had been inhabited by a 
family of beavers, but when I 
got through with them there 
was only one left. During the 
whole of the spring trapping 
period I saw but three men 
besides Old John, so one can readily 
imagine what kind of a wilderness I was 
trapping in. Very few Indians or breeds 
ever happened down that way at that 
time, though in later years they have 
created havoc with the once numerous 
tribe of beavers. Beaver and lynx are 
the two main catches of Indians. In 
(Continued on page 27) 
