JUNE 16, 1906.] 

NOTICE TO NEWS STAND BUYERS 
Give Your Dealer an Order. 
After June 30 the Forest AND STREAM will be 
unreturnable by dealers, but will be supplied by 
them to regular customers and on order. Readers 
accustomed to buy at news stands and book 
stores should not fail to give their dealers a 
standing order in advance, so that they may not 
fail to. obtain the paper regularly. 
Camps of the Buckskin Club. 
“WELL, Clate, it’s over for this year, and it was 
a good hunt.” “Ye bet it was.” 
These were the last words, between the guide 
nearest the train and the last man to board it of 
the Buckskin Hunting Club, as they were leav- 
ing for the States and home. 
To begin at the start, or rather to start at the 
beginning, the Buckskin Club’ invades Canada 
annually, and has heretofore returned, and I trust 
always will, with a clean bill of health and a 
feeling of perfect contentment with their share of 
deer, moose, bear and small game. Nineteen 
hundred and five was no exception. 
The eight hunters, who comprised the party, 
were fit to fight for their lives when the hunt was 
over, and the total bag was fourteen deer, one 
bear and sufficient grouse to go around at the 
distributing point in Pennsylvania. 
Guides, dogs, tents, the cook and his supplies 
had been assembled at Parry Sound, Ontario, 
Canada, on the 28th of October. This outfitting 
had been attended to by the Major, a man of 
experience. It was well done. The only item of 
any consequence omitted was a cross-cut saw. 
The correspondence necessary to make complete 
arrangements for a well accoutered hunt is no 
small task. 
On the train leaving the P. & I. E. Depot at 
1r P. M. October 27 were the Major (Uncle 
Jim). He is the dean of the Buckskin Club, 
ambassador, representative, plenipotentiary ex- 
traordinary and umpire. 
Sam, the master of the hunt, an office gained 
by experience and ability—the only reason game 
is plentiful in this region is that Sam does not 
hunt all the time. 
Frank, the best dressed man on the job, when 
he was not out in the bush knocking the crown 
piece off large deer, he was attending to the office 
of entertainer, and the genial dispensation of good 
cheer at his hands is a happy memory. 
The three gentlemen just mentioned are repre- 
sentatives of the Buckskin Club for this year, the 
other five men of the party were invited and 
accepted the invitation to join the hunt. It was, 
in fact, a consolidation of two separate hunting 
parties, going into the same district in Canada 
from the same districts in the States. The ad- 
vantages to the five ignoramuses who composed 
the secondary outfit were incalculable, as the ex- 
perience of the older hunters was of great service. 
These five were tenderfeet, greenhorns; not one 
of them had ever shot amything larger than a 
turkey gobbler,. or fiercer than a jack-rabbit. 
However, “the battle is not always to the strong.” 
The cubs in the order of their importance 
were: Alf, a most unselfish, ready to laugh-or- 
lend-a-hand fellow, and one you could camp with 
forever and be contented; Jesse, slayer of one big 
buck; Tom, the explorer, who saw more country 
this trip than he thought was out of doors; Fred, 
disciple of Sherlock Holmes, who hunted deer on 
a book theory of undoubted reliability, and shot 
one dead, but sad to relate, he never could locate 
the spot; and Mike, I, who ate anything at any 
time and all he could, also was successful in 
slaying members of the infant class, a rabbit, of 

FOREST AND STREAM. 
AMD 
fair size, and given over to a great deal of talk 
relating to how hard he had nearly hit some 
regular game. Of the eight, take them by and 
larger, and we may say that if you never meet 
any more disagreeable folks in your meanderings 
through this vale of tears, you won’t cry more 
than the average. 
The train left the Lake Erie depot on time, 
say it again, for that is the last place we ever 
were on time. At Buffalo forty minutes late, 
at Niagara Falls fifty minutes late and Suspension 
Bridge fifty minutes to the bad. 
From Niagara Falls we were carried past the 
great Canadian locks, out through the well-kept, 
prosperous farming districts, the best in Canada, 
arriving at Toronto in time for dinner. We had 
about two hours to fuss around the town, see 
the House of Parliament and the very much 
Americanized English business houses, buy a few 
forgotte: items deemed necessary, and we are 
again on the Grand Trunk bound for Scotia 
Junction. A diner is attached and we have six 
o'clock dinner en route; trains all late; hunters 
getting on and off at every stop; most of them 
stay, going farther north. At Scotia Junction, 
we transfer to the Canadian Pacific line, one hour 
and forty minutes late, and come rolling into 
Rose Point with about that much time on the 
debit side of the account. Everything but hand 
baggage had been forwarded two days before and 
was across the ferry, in bond and under the care 
of the customs officer at Parry Sound. It was 
late, almost ten o’clock at night; we were obliged 
to take the boat early Sunday morning, the only 
boat going our way for one week. Right here 
1s where the Major shone fortli and demonstrated 
his right to titles and a few medals. Did he pull 
a gun, declare war and swear? Nay! Nay! He 
quietly located a telephone, called up the officer, 
and requested that gentleman to defer retiring 
long enough to discuss a little cracked ice with 
an old friend. The customs man was the real 
candy, and when the Major wac dore telling him 
how fine he was, everything belonging to us had 
been put on board the steamer Mazeppa. 
At the hotel in Parry Sound, we renewed old 
acquaintanceship with Mart Fenton, William and 
Charles Annis, guides, and met Mr. Boulanger, 
the boss of the string of lumber camps near the 
hunting grounds. 
Early Sunday morning we went aboard the 
boat .Mazeppa, Captain Oldfield, master, at the 
wheel, arranging our bones for a forty-five mile 
voyage to Point Aux Baril. 
The 20th day of October in this latitude was 
ideal—fair wind, care free, two weeks ahead of 
untrammeled liberty in the bush, the sun shining, 
and teals, mallards, black heads and loon along 
the shore, gulls sailing alongside the boat, good 
company and sound livers. Every one of the 
party enjoyed it—you would have enjoyed the 
trip yourself. You say you cannot afford it—my 
son, you cannot afford to miss it. 
We were welcomed to the Point by Mr. Old- 
field, Sr.; Dr. Fundenburg, of Pittsburg, and 
Jack McIntosh, who each offered us the keys to 
the city. Dr. Fundenburg congratulated us in 
that we had not attempted to come by way of 
Collingwood; he had been delayed two days; the 
storms were so severe that the boats would not 
venture to cross the open Georgian Bay. 
Our outfit was transferred to the tug Jolly 4; 
we piled on and were puffed ten or twelve miles 
up into Sturgeon Bay and dumped out on the 
shore and left to our own resources. 
In a very short time, the two 14x16 tents were 
erected, with floors of one-inch pine culls; and 
the cook, Barney Dion, a French Canadian, had 
prepared supper, bacon, canned toiiatoes, canned 
corn and fish; not quite enough of it, but a credit 
to the cook. One of the big things in outfitting 
a happy hunt is to get a good cook. 
At the place we landed, a staging had been 
built by a lumbering company to land supplies 
and wagon them over to Six Mile Lake to a 
similar landing, where they were loaded on a flat 
boat and distributed among the several camps of 
the company. We made good use of the wagons, 
both landings and the flat boat on Monday, and 
were rooted and grounded in Camp Magill, three 
miles up the lake on the north side at three 
o’clock in the afternoon. The tents were pitched 
on a timbered point, level and protected from 
storms, selected by T. M. H. (the master of the 
hunt) and Charlie. It was admirably suited for 
camping, with deer sign thick all over and about 
it; very probably, as was remarked, we were right 
on the Grand Trunk Runway. 
We left Alf at the point to wait for the re- 
mainder of the supplies, guides and dogs, coming’ 
from Waubaushene, carried and towed by a gaso- 
line boat. The sea had been running high, and 
Moose Point held them up. Alf was a natural 
volunteer, always insisting on carrying the heavy 
end; some girl is making a grave mistake by not 
putting her things in his trunk and living happy 
ever after. Clate, Fred Storms, three hounds, 
two tents and provisions, under command of Alf, 
came in in good order two days later. Everyone 
felt relieved when the rear guard did show up 
with every person well. 
It is not a digression to devote a line or two 
to those companionable, good fellows, the guides. 
William and Charles Annis; of Arilla, Ont., have 
been employed by the Buckskins for twenty years 
in their annual hunt, and their continuance in the 
service is all that need be said of their ability 
to give satisfaction. When not hunting or trap- 
ping, they are employed in the lumber camps or 
in the bush for the government or railroad sur- 
veyors. They each have had numerous adven- 
tures in this land of frozen lakes and bays that 
would cause an admirer of Gilbert Parker’s writ- 
ings to sit up and listen, and for physical strength 
and endurance they average up to anything I 
have ever come in contact with. 
Clayton Gillett says he is a fisherman, does not 
know anything about the woods, “That is, I can 
find my way like, tell some tracks and the like of 
that, but I never hunted much.’ However, if 
I were obliged to remain in the bush, it would suit 
me fine to have Clate along. He had been a guide 
and canoe man on the Magnetawan, Moon, Sev- 
ern and Muskosh Rivers; knows the rocks, 
eddies, drops and chutes of those waters and the 
steering course of the inside channel, of the north 
side of the Georgian Bay, as well as I do the way 
to the post office, and when in the bush, reads 
the mail of the wild animals like an open book. 
Mart Fenton, of Waubaushene, Clate’s partner, 
a wiry, tireless hunter, a fine cook and a good 
companion; he and Gillett have been working 
together for a number of years. 
Fred Storms, of Go Home Bay, Ont., a fine 
figure of a man, muscled like a race horse, well 
versed in the habits and haunts of the hunted— 
beast, bird or fish—and shoots a rifle that weighs 
eighteen pounds. 
Among the many enjoyable evenings spent in 
camp, I recall with great pleasure several that 
were passed around the camp stove in the guides’ 
tent, listening to their varied and interesting ex- 
periences. An adventure, which they all passed 
as an unimportant incident, yet by merest chance 
was not a fatality, happened on the way up. The 
gasoline boat, with Storms, Gillett and the owner 
of the boat, Dick Boyd, were crossing a broad 
bay near Shonegah, when Storms noticed the 
hounds were scrapping up in the bow and started 
forward to quiet them. In going around some 
boxes and bales of tenting, he lost his footing 
and fell overboard into the icy water, the wind 
blowing a gale and the sea running high. Clate, at 
the tiller, heard the splash, swung the helm hard 
aport and reached out and caught him as the 
stern came up to him and hauled him in. Had 
