“Roughing it” is an expression which we have long associated with various hardships undergone for the sake of sport. But modern enterprise has made that phrase a misnomer when taken in the sense in which it was formerly understood. A number of years’ experience in camping out and hunting in the West have convinced me that every reasonable comfort can be enjoyed without sacrificing the principal object which lies nearest the heart of a thorough sportsman—good hunting.
The last outing I had in the West, was in Wyoming, in the Jackson Hole country, and I realized then how thoroughly a guide, who enjoys the comforts of life himself and has the real love of sport, can contribute to the success of a hunting trip. A guide who likes to make himself comfortable will generally think of what is necessary for the comfort of those who engage his services.
Early in October I started out from St. Anthony, Idaho, with my guide, Ed. Sheffield, on one of the most pleasurable and successful hunts I have undertaken. A couple of days’ drive and we reached Shives’ ranch, at which place we made up the pack outfit. A short rest at this spot while things were being got in readiness was very pleasant, as it gave me a chance to stretch my limbs and to admire the grand perspective, which no words can describe in a way that would bring the natural picture to the eye. The Teton peaks, covered with perpetual snow and dazzling bright, furnished an attraction which never palled on the mind, and they were ever visible from the plain but tidy ranch. Flocks of ducks frequented the ice cold stream near by.
The horses having been corralled during the day’s wait, everything was arranged for the morning start. The next day I rose bright and early to commence the final stage of the journey. When the last pack had been “cinched” and everything was in readiness, we began our journey to the hunting grounds. It was a long, monotonous ride—much of it through thick timber with no stop for lunch or rest, because the heavily laden beasts could not lie down with their packs on, and we did not care to delay them. At length, after crossing a rocky ravine and a swift-running stream and climbing a steep ascent, we arrived at Two-Ocean Pass. There we found an ideal spot to camp. In a short time everything was unpacked, and the two tents were pitched. The tired beasts that had borne the brunt of the work tumbled over and rubbed their backs in the dust and snorted with delight.
The next morning I started out on horseback with Sheffield, while the ranchman, Shives, whom I had engaged as cook and general helper, remained behind and minded camp. We took with us several dogs, because they might be useful in rounding up lions or “cats,” as they frequently call the cougar or wildcats in that section. The day passed without result, except that I lost my Seitz spy-glasses, which hung on the pummel of my saddle by a leather strap; this had evidently caught on something and snapped. When the guide heard of the loss, he exclaimed with great confidence, “We must find them tomorrow.” I was somewhat inclined to be skeptical about his being able to recover the lost property, but I assented to his going out with a little dog he called Maiden, a cross of a black-and-tan foxhound and a bloodhound, as intelligent an animal as I ever saw. He came back in a few hours with the glasses, and I was curious to learn how he managed to discover them. While following our trail of the day before, he had stopped to call the dog, which had fallen behind and stood yelping at something which he had passed; upon going to the spot, he found the glasses. They were not immediately in the line of the trail, but had rolled down hill and were some dozen feet away from it. I wonder if that dog had overheard our previous conversation and knew what we wanted!
Although for a couple of weeks the weather had been cool and exhilarating, often freezing at night, still we had as yet no snow. Snow was wanted, because it makes the hunting good, and when traveling the impress of the foot is practically noiseless, and does not alarm the game. Moreover, when the snow accumulates in deep drifts it drives the elk and deer out of the higher elevations down into the lower country, where they collect in large numbers and become less shy.
One evening on the way back to camp the guide was explaining to me why he thought that we would be apt to find bull elk with the best heads separated from the bunch of cow elk. The old bulls, it would seem, after a time are driven off by the younger bulls, which in turn take charge of the herds of cow elk. The conversation was suddenly interrupted, for on a knoll about 300 yards distant, we saw two fine bulls all by themselves. To dismount and take aim with my Mauser after gauging the space, was a matter of a few seconds. The furthest of the two bulls was a stately monarch, and he had a set of antlers which tempted me as much as a crown could have tempted CÆsar. The first shot fortunately took effect behind the shoulders and made him sag on his knees, but he immediately recovered and started to run. The next shot was over him, and, before I could fire again, the other bull ran in between and blanketed him, receiving the ball. They stood for several seconds in that position, while two more messengers of death sang a doleful dirge on their errand of destruction, and they disappeared over the hill.
The atmosphere in that country is naturally blue; but there was a tinge of blueness in the air at that time which I am sure was not natural. Sheffield said he was not the cause of it, and I know that I was not to blame. I have heard of somebody swearing until the air became blue, but this does not seem to be one of those cases.
However, we were both convinced that the first bull was hit twice at least, and more than likely would not go a great ways. It was inexpedient to follow him up at that time, because he was still fresh and strong. It seemed best to go back to camp and come out the next day and track him, because he would be likely to run only a short distance, and lying down to rest, would become stiff, and incapable of running, in which case he could be found in the morning. On the other hand, if pursued, he might continue to run while his strength held.
With anxious hearts we returned to camp, noting with apprehension the lowering clouds that were beginning to darken the sky. The indications of a storm which would cover the ground with snow were not welcome now, as much as I had desired it previously. Fresh snow would conceal the tracks and destroy the scent on the ground. If that should happen, I had small expectation of securing my trophy. The next morning the guide looked into my tent, and said that everything was covered with snow. I immediately went out to see for myself. There, sure enough, it lay several inches deep. It covered the trees, bending the branches under their weight and transforming, as if by magic, the rugged landscape into a fairyland. It was beautiful—but it was disappointing.
After breakfast we set out, taking one of the dogs with us. When we reached the spot where the elk had been shot the keen-scented dog began to sniff the tops of the sage brush which stood about two feet high. We followed him as he confidently pursued his way through the sage brush and timber, until finally, ascending a small knoll, I espied, just over the crest, the tops of the antlers spread out like the branches of a tree. The elk was stretched out in beautiful repose, his neck supported against a fallen tree, which held up his antlers.
At last my trophy was won, and I had something to show to admiring friends.
For the present the keen edge was taken off my desire to kill, because I had something to take back as a memento of the trip. A fine trophy serves to identify most appropriately a hunting experience, and as the years roll by the memories of certain camps cluster about each head and revive thrilling scenes which might otherwise become dimmed amid an uncongenial environment.
A considerable portion of my remaining time I spent in easy life in camp. The meat was a welcome addition to the larder and was much appreciated by the dogs. When first killed, the flesh of the bull elk is not particularly toothsome; it should be allowed to hang for a time until it becomes tender.
It was an entertaining sight to see the dogs catch the large hunks of meat flung to them, which they often swallowed without masticating it, unless one or two bites could be exaggerated into an act of mastication. When hunger was appeased to the extent of a surfeit, the cunning animals would still continue to accept gifts of raw meat, which they would carefully cache in some favorite spot. Each dog knew where he had cached his own supplies, and expected every other dog to respect it. Occasional disputes arose among them, but—though with a bad grace—the dog with a guilty conscience generally yielded when detected in the act of violating the law which holds a cache sacred among dogs as among men.
There are certain very simple and rudimentary laws which the primitive life develops. The rule that the cache shall remain inviolate is well known. The absence of adequate protection for a cache beyond its secrecy, which is not always sufficient, makes it a point of honor among the rough denizens of the wilderness to respect property so deposited. In a primitive state of society, when recourse to such means of providing for emergency were more frequent, the frontier man was likely to regard as worthy of death any one who violated this law.
When I read of the ruthless slaughter which has been wrought among the elk, especially by the detestable tooth-hunter, I recall, with some degree of satisfaction, the forbearance which I exercised upon various occasions. One evening, while returning to camp, I saw in the waning light, about the space of three hundred and fifty yards removed from where I stood, three bull elk standing on the side of a hill, their forms fairly well defined against the white background which the snow afforded. The antlers were less distinct on account of the deadening effect of some spruce trees, whose branches reached below the spread of the antlers. I wanted another trophy, but was uncertain about the quality of any one of the heads in sight. Although I watched the bulls for some time, while they remained practically without motion, I was unable to make sure that there was a really first-class head in the bunch. I finally gave them the benefit of the doubt. If I made a mistake, I have the satisfaction of knowing that I erred on the right side.
The time arrived for breaking up camp. When the horses were packed, the guide and myself separated from the rest of the outfit, in order to secure better hunting. We had not traveled far, when one of the dogs stopped and growled. We both reined up, while I dismounted and approached the edge of a clearing just ahead. Across the clearing some eighty or ninety yards distant I saw a brown body disappearing amid the spruces. Aiming at the spot where the shoulder should be, concealed by the forest growth, a trifle in advance of the brown, which I recognized as the belly of the elk, I fired. Stunned by the bullet, the animal broke into another opening, when I emptied my magazine, which contained several additional cartridges. Fortunately the animal turned out to be a bull elk with a fairly good spread. I should not have taken the chance except that my hunting for this season was practically over, and I had not shot my full allowance. Having dressed the animal so as to keep its meat from spoiling, we left everything and followed the outfit. Shives was sent back with a pack horse to get the meat and the antlers.
At the Shives ranch a hearty welcome was given us. Mrs. Shives proved herself an admirable hostess. I shall never forget the repast specially prepared for us by which she proved herself an accomplished cook. One dish I approached with misgiving, for I could not guess what it was. I discovered in it a culinary gem which in my judgment will hold its own with anything ever prepared by the most accomplished chef to please a capricious palate—elk’s brain scrambled in eggs. My cup of happiness was filled to the brim, but the guide caused it to run over when he presented me with a pair of untanned cow skin shaps marked with red and white spots, which he wore when dressed up to have his picture taken in correct style.
BREAKING CAMP.
