Where Rolls the Kooskia 
A Trapper’s Work—The Black Canyon —Charlie 
Adams’ Woodcraft—A Miner’s Passing 
Part IV. 
By CHARLES STUART MOODY 
F ROM the Lost Lakes we took a course 
twelve miles due south until we inter¬ 
sected the Lo Lo trail. From thence we 
had the choice of turning west for several miles 
until we intersected the trail branching off to¬ 
ward Jerry Johnson's cabin on Warm Spring 
Creek near where it enters the Lochsaw, or we 
could choose a way through the timber and reach 
the cabin by a much shorter route. This Charley 
elected to do. It was much harder going, but 
he never chose a beaten path when he could 
make his way without one. 
I saw something between the Lo Lo trail and 
Jerry Johnson’s cabin that I must pause long 
enough to criticise, though at the risk of appear¬ 
ing tiresome. We were heading down a long 
comparatively open ridge with scattering lodge 
pole pine growing over it. Near the southern 
extremity of the ridge we appeared upon what 
at first glance resembled a butcher’s shambles. 
All about, for several acres in extent, lay the 
bones of innumerable elk. Elk of all sizes and 
conditions lay over the ground, calves, yearlings, 
cows, bulls with great fronts, their bones picked 
clean. No sportsman had done the murder. At 
first I thought perhaps the animals had starved 
to death, until looking more closely I could see 
bullet holes in some of the skulls. “Charley, who 
did that?” 
“Trappers,” was his answer. 
“In heaven’s name, for what purpose?” 
“Bear bait.” 
The human fiend had sought out the place 
where a noble band of elk had yarded in the 
deep snow and had deliberately shot down the 
entire herd that their festering carcasses might 
attract the bears when they came from their 
dens in the spring and perchance a few of the 
animals that came to feed might step into one 
of his steel traps arranged cunningly about the 
feast so spread. Over a hundred of the noblest 
game animals on earth were slaughtered that 
some miserable creature - might increase his 
chances of trapping a half dozen bears whose 
pelts would bring him fifteen dollars each on 
the market. I turned sick at contemplation of 
the destruction. We rode on down the ridge 
three miles to the trapper’s cabin. If that trap¬ 
per ever reads this article he \vill know who 
it was that burnt his domicile. 
The next afternoon we made Jerry Johnson's 
place. Jerry was not jt home, but we made our¬ 
selves free with the place, as is the custom in 
the West. This was then the only fixed habita¬ 
tion in the vast basin of the Kooskia. Some few 
trappers’ cabins there were scattered over the 
country, but these were used only in winter. 
Many years ago Jerry Johnson, a trapper and 
hunter in Montana, became possessed of the idea 
that he was about to end his days in the poor 
house. The matter so preyed upon his mind 
that he sought out the solitudes of the hills and 
resolved to end his existence there. Where the 
warm springs pour their mineralized waters into 
the Lochsaw, he found a spot where he might 
build himself a cabin and pass his time. Fish 
and game were plenty, and in the little meadow 
below the place grew grass sufficient to keep his 
cayuses. The climate, too, was not so severe 
but that the hardier vegetables would grow. He 
erected two comfortable cabins, and in time his 
place became known to the few travelers who 
penetrated the wilderness. Here he lived the 
life of a hermit. The old fellow welcomed all who 
came, refusing compensation for his hospitality. 
A few years ago, long after our visit, he be¬ 
came ill in midwinter in his lonely cabin. Fie 
was growing old and feared to die alone. With 
infinite toil he made his way on snowshoes to 
the Hunter Hot Springs, the nearest settlement, 
and by the people there was taken to Missoula, 
where he died in a hospital, not, however, I am 
glad to state, as a county charge. With his death 
passed nearly the last of the pioneers of early 
Montana. Some day the warm springs at Jerry 
Johnson’s will become a great health resort. 
For ages they have been used by the Indians for 
medicinal purposes. 
From this place we made our way toilsomely 
down the Lochsaw, intending to inspect the fam¬ 
ous Black Canon. 
The Black Canon of the Lochsaw is a stu¬ 
pendous gash in the cheek of nature. Let the 
reader imagine a great seam riven in the black 
basaltic rock 4,000 feet deep and sixteen miles 
long, with walls as sheer as the sides of a house, 
then let him imagine a river sixty yards wide, 
swift as a mill race before it strikes this gorge, 
plunging headlong into the black abyss-, and he 
may form some idea of what the Black Canon 
is like. 
As we debouched from the dense forest of 
the "Kooskia and stood upon the margin of the 
deep pool that forms the reservoir for the in¬ 
take, I saw the waters of the pool shaded by the 
dark background of forest until they looked 
ominous and sinister. The current was circling 
around in a gigantic whirlpool, sweeping against 
the shores with titanic force, carrying on its 
bosom logs and bits of drift. At the foot of the 
pool stood two perpendicular walls of black rock 
penetrating the very heavens, and between them 
an open door twenty yards wide. Into this the 
waters were rushing with a sound like the thun¬ 
dering of an express train. The spray was 
thrown fifty feet in the air, drenching one like 
rain. Now and then a great log became de¬ 
tached from the grand sweep of the whirlpool 
and plunged into the yawning cavern. I crept 
along the ledge until I could peer down into the 
depths. The sight was enough to chill the blood, 
if one thought of the fate of a man who should 
attempt to navigate that torrent. Some idea of 
the resistless force of the water is given by the 
fact that when a log enters that canon it is never 
seen again. If it emerges at all it is in the shape 
of wood pulp. In sixteen miles the river falls 
over 500 feet. No craft ever devised could live 
in that chasm for a mile. 
In that pool are some monster trout. I know, 
for one of them managed to eat up about two 
joints of my pet greenheart, sixty feet of line 
and a No. 2 coachman. I advise the man who 
intends penetrating that country to go prepared 
for a fight if he hooks one of the big red-sides 
in the Lochsaw. It is fun enough, when you do 
get one. 
There is an ancient trapper’s trail leading from 
the Lochsaw up Old Man Creek across the divide 
on to the Selway. It was our intention to locate 
this trail and follow it across the hills. The 
trail had been unused for at least forty years 
and was all but obliterated, especially in the deep 
timber where the trees had fallen. Many of the 
blazed trees had been burned, others had de¬ 
cayed and passed away, second growth timber 
and underbrush had buried it for miles. One 
day, before we started on our way toward the 
Selway, Charley forded the Lochsaw with his 
axe on his shoulder, and I saw him browsing 
about in the deep cedar forest on the south side. 
Curiosity got the better of me and I crossed 
over to find out what he was doing. 
After at least an hour he paused beside a fallen 
cedar that lay half buried in the moss and re¬ 
marked half to himself, “It must be this one.” 
“What is there about that tree, Charley, that 
is so interesting?” I asked. 
