1010 
FOREST AND STREAM 
[Dec. 24, 1910. 
off. Charlie went outside and called him back. 
As he approached, Charlie reached inside, and 
grabbing a rifle, aimed at him and pulled the 
trigger, but by some chance the gun did not go 
off, whereupon Charlie clubbed the weapon and 
hit him on the head, knocking him down. While 
on the ground he fired at the halfbreed with his 
own rifle, killing him instantly, and knowing 
there was no eye witness save French Charlie’s 
Indian wife, and naturally fearing to rely on 
her testimony, he fled back into the mountains. 
This had occurred a month before our trip, and 
of course was still one of the subjects most 
talked of about Lillooet; public opinion inclining 
to call it justifiable self defense, as it certainly 
was, although there was a warrant out for him. 
As far as the forks of the Cadwallader we 
had a good trail, but crossing we followed an old 
hunting trail along the valley of the smaller 
fork, which is not shown on the map at all. This 
is called Grizzly Valley, as it has always been a 
favorite haunt of these animals, and the scene 
of many of Manson’s grizzly hunts, he and his 
partners having taken eleven out of it. Our in¬ 
tention was to follow it to its head, where the 
stream forks again, and then climb and camp at 
timber line on the mountain to its north. The 
bear hunting there has always been done in the 
spring in the valley, and not more than two 
white men had ever hunted on the mountain. 
The hunting trail soon petered out, and for six 
miles we literally pushed our way through the 
tangled brush, mostly snow beaten willows, with 
an occasional ' patch of timber, in which was 
much down stuff, necessitating frequent use of 
the axe. 
That night we camped in a little open space 
among the brush, hoping we might be favored 
with a visit from a bear, of which we had seen 
many fresh signs during the day. The valley 
is high, about 5,000 feet, and when we broke 
camp in the morning, it was very cold, with a 
high wind blowing. A couple of miles more 
through the brush, and then we turned north 
and scrambled up the mountain side, hanging 
on to our horses’ tails, with the chance of the 
horse tumbling over backward. This was the 
steepest place I ever saw horses climb, but a 
couple of thousand feet brought us to timber 
line, where we camped in the shelter of a clump 
of trees. A level patch just large enough for 
the tents was found with a magnificent pano¬ 
rama spread out before us, though the cloudy 
weather prevented the full display of the view. 
Berries were remarkably numerous there, as 
they were along the lower slopes of most of the 
mountains we hunted. Their variety and lus¬ 
ciousness was remarkable, and we had many a 
feast off them. Among those which I recognized 
were red raspberries, service berries, blueberries, 
choke cherries, wild strawberries and red berries 
from which the Indians make a drink called 
“hoosham,” tasting something like sloe gin; 
other red berries with a bitter taste like quinine, 
and white waxy berries used for medicine by the 
Indians; also big blueberries growing on high 
bushes and very good to eat, though rather in¬ 
sipid. These and the raspberries were most 
numerous and most appreciated. 
From eanip we could see a bunch of seven 
goats near the top of the mountain, a little to 
our west, and after a hasty lunch we started 
after them. Climbing 2,006 feet, zig-zagging to 
lessen the steepness, we reached the top of the 
ridge and found that the goats had been travel¬ 
ing almost as fast as we, and were now a half 
mile or more further west, on another ridge 
which jutted out from that on which we were. 
Just then a small blizzard struck us, with a howl 
of wind that nearly carried us off the mountain, 
and a curtain of snow that blotted out every¬ 
thing beyond one’s nose. In a moment we were 
soaked through and thoroughly chilled, but we 
took advantage of the snow curtain to hurry to¬ 
ward the point where we had last seen the goats. 
Reaching it the storm let up, showing us that 
the goats had disappeared. Greatly disappointed 
we pushed on a little further to a rocky point 
jutting out from the ridge and saw, in an inter¬ 
val of the storm, a kid’s head showing above the 
rocks fifty yards away. As we needed fresh 
meat, Bill at once fired, but apparently without 
result. Wiping off the snow which continually 
obscured his sights, he fired again, and this time 
the kid dropped. Just then Bill cried, “Look, 
there’s another!” 
I turned and saw an old goat disappearing 
into the storm at about 300 yards. I fired twice 
at him, the bullet going just over him both times. 
My hands were so cold I could not for the 
moment reload, and while I was slapping them, 
Bill told me that he had not referred to the one 
at which I shot, but to a big one which had 
walked into view within twenty feet of us, and 
which I did not see at all. Of course at my 
first shot he disappeared, and we could not locate 
him again. Climbing over the wet, slippery rocks 
we found the place where the kid had been stand¬ 
ing, but no kid. Blood stains, however, showed 
us that he had dropped on a narrow shelf over¬ 
hanging the head of an immense rock slide which 
sloped down at an angle of 45 degrees till it met 
and merged into the slide from the main ridge 
in a clear sweep to the creek at the bottom of 
the valley three miles away and some 4,000 feet 
below us. There was nothing to show, however, 
that the kid had gone down the slide, and I feared 
he was only wounded and had got away. As it 
was possible he had fallen and rolled down the 
slide, and as moreover that was the quickest way 
to camp, we climbed down on to it and started 
to descend, watching for the kid. Soon we found 
a blood stain, and more encouraged, plunged 
down faster. The snow in the meantime had 
ceased falling, and shortly we saw through our 
glasses a patch of white far down the slide. 
Hoping it might prove to be our little goat, we 
hurried on, and at length got near enough to see 
that it actually was the kid, with its head jam¬ 
med under a large rock which had stopped its 
further tumbling. An examination showed that 
the first bullet had struck it just back of the 
jaw, tearing out the jugular and the wind pipe. 
In spite of this it had not displayed any signs 
of being injured, and Bill had, therefore, shot a 
second time, the bullet striking just back of the 
eye and blowing its brains out. It evidently died 
instantly, and had fallen and rolled all the way 
to the rock under which we had found it over a 
mile from where it was shot. It must have gone 
down that slide like a cannon ball, zig-zagging 
from rock to rock in immense bounds, as I after¬ 
ward watched another dead goat go. 
Wet and cold as we were, we quickly removed 
the entrails and headed for camp, carrying the 
kid. There a good big fire dried us and a cup 
of hot tea warmed us again. On skinning the 
kid we found that, beyond a few bruises, his 
awful journey had not injured him in any way. 
The lamb chops on which we dined, while not 
so delicious as the mule deer steaks, were a 
welcome addition to our menu, and none was 
wasted. Our little blizzard was of course only 
a heavy shower in the valleys, but on top of a 
9,500 foot mountain it. was quite real. It was un¬ 
pleasant enough at the time, but after all it was 
one of those experiences which go to make up 
an interesting outing. 
The weather cleared again and the night was 
fine, though cold. I was sleeping under three 
thicknesses of heavy Hudson Bay blankets and 
a canvas tarpaulin, but the cold mountain air 
made me quite willing to limit my undressing to 
the removal of shoes and suspenders. 
A Bear and a Clock 
Bv THOS. H. FRASER 
P .; - - ’ 
T HE writer of the following narrative de¬ 
clares that it is the relation of an actual 
personal experience, and although the 
style may bear with it a slight odor of fiction, 
it is not nearly so incredible as many stories 
that deal with the eccentricities of bruin. The 
author is a native of Nova Scotia, now residing 
in the United States, and was one of a quar¬ 
tette of sportsmen who, up to the year 1895, 
owned several hunting lodges in different parts 
of the Province and spent much of their vaca¬ 
tion time among its prolific hunting and fishing 
grounds. 
John Mackay, the “Earl Glencairn,” of the 
story, still resides at the old headquarters. He 
is a genuine sportsman and a man of truth and 
of admirable social qualities and will verify the cir¬ 
cumstances connected with the incident related. 
The old-fashioned story teller, who formu 
lated the phrase, “Once upon a time,” conferred 
a helpful boon upon the man of sluggish memory 
and lazy ideas. For ideas are like sheep in that 
the moment a leader is decoyed or driven through 
the gap, the whole drove follows, pell mell, into 
the field, and the story is soon told. 
Once upon a time, therefore, 1 found myself 
at a hunting lodge on the upper waters of the 
Stewiacke, in Nova Scotia, anciently Acadia, a 
land of song and story, and still a country where 
vast forests shelter moose and bear, and lakes 
and streams teem with trout and salmon. It 
was evening. I had come many miles past the 
last house and clearing, and to dispel that feel¬ 
ing of isolation and loneliness that betimes comes 
upon him who finds himself at nightfall alone 
in the forest and far from his kind, after eat¬ 
ing my evening meal. I prepared to find compan¬ 
ionship in translating the night language of the 
forest that at such times comes to the alert ear. 
