The morning of the 27th fulfilled the promise of the previous day. The weather had at last broken, and it was in a dense wetting mist that we crept north, bound for Alert Bay. We had no delay at the Seymour Narrows, which can only be navigated at a certain state of the tide. The whole force of the Pacific runs through these narrows—not more than half-a-mile broad—and the eddies and whirlpools that are formed are terrifying. There is one great rock in the middle of the passage—a special source of danger.

I had visited these narrows in a steam launch from the hotel, and had there seen the water at its worst—a wonderful sight; but the tide was now suitable, and as the Queen City passed through there was only a strong current.

The best guides and hunters are always snapped up early in the season, and before I left England, Mr. Bryan Williams had secured for me the services of Cecil Smith—better known in the local sporting world as "Cougar" Smith, from the number of cougars he had shot. As he lived at Quatiaski Cove, immediately opposite the Willows Hotel, I had frequently met him and discussed our plans together.

We had arranged to go from Alert Bay up the Nimquish River to the Nimquish Lake, from which we were to strike in north-west to some valleys in the interior where wapiti were reported as fairly plentiful. Cecil Smith did not know the ground personally, but his brother Eustace, who had been in that part of the country several times, was to meet us at Alert Bay and act as head guide. Unfortunately for us, at the last moment he was unable to come, and we had to find our way as best we could in an unknown and unmapped country. I had to find a man to replace Eustace Smith, and was fortunate in picking up Joe Thomson at Campbell River, and two better men than Smith and Thomson I could not have had.

Smith was to act as head hunter and guide and Thomson more particularly look after the cooking and camp generally. Thomson came on board with me and we picked up Smith at Quitiaski Cove at about 4 a.m.

Two other members of the party were even of more interest to me than the men. They were "Dick" and "Nigger," the latter generally known as "Satan." "Dick," who belonged to Smith, was a most adorable dog and celebrated throughout Vancouver for treeing cougars; indeed, as Smith himself acknowledged, he owed his reputation as a cougar hunter to Dick, who did everything except the actual shooting. It was difficult to say what Dick's breed was. He looked like a cross between a spaniel and a retriever. He was one of the most fascinating dog characters I have ever met. He adored his master, who returned his worship, but ingratiated himself with every one; soon discovering that I had a warm corner in my heart for all dogs, we at once became fast friends.

"Nigger," the property of Thomson, was a powerful, black, evil-looking bull terrier, but like many of his kind his character belied his looks, for he really was a soft-hearted, affectionate beast with a special ability for making himself comfortable under any circumstances. Thomson asserted that if there was no food, "Nigger" subsisted on berries, and he was an adept at catching fish for himself in the river. He had had some trouble with the authorities at Comox in a matter of sheep, and so a temporary absence from his native town was desirable, and he became, to his great joy, one of our party.

At 2 p.m. on the 27th we arrived at Alert Bay, which is situated on an island opposite where the Nimquish River discharges itself into the sea. Alert Bay is an important settlement of the Siwash Indians, and the village possesses one of the most remarkable collections of Totem Poles on the coast.

The question was, where to put up—hotels there were none. Mr. Chambers, the local merchant, had in the most generous manner built an annexe to his charming house, containing several bedrooms, but they were all occupied. Fortunately, I had been introduced to Mr. Halliday, the Alert Bay Indian Agent, at Campbell River, and he most kindly offered me a shakedown on a sofa in his drawing-room, which I gratefully accepted. I found Mr. Halliday was devoted to music, but seldom could find an accompanist—while to accompany was a pleasure to me, and we passed the evening going through many songs I had not heard for years, which recalled the Old Country and days long gone by.

Eustace Smith met us here and gave a rough sketch map to his brother Cecil, and indeed pointed out to us the peak on Vancouver Island under which we were to camp, and which only looked about fifteen miles off as the crow flies, and yet what difficulty we had afterwards to find our way through the impenetrable forest!

The morning of the 28th was spent in sorting out the kit we could take with us, which, as packing was our only means of transport, had to be cut down to nothing. Mine consisted of two flannel shirts, one change of underclothing, two pairs of socks, one sweater, one spare pair of boots, a few handkerchiefs, sponge, soap and towel. One Hudson Bay blanket, for it was not yet cold in the woods, and one waterproof ground sheet in which the pack was made up, completed my outfit. The men had a single fly to sleep under. My tent, which Mr. Williams had kindly ordered for me in Vancouver, was of the lean-to pattern, made with a flap which let down in front in bad weather, completely closing the tent. Being made of so-called silk, it weighed only five pounds. It measured 7 feet × 6 feet, was about 7 feet high in front and sloped back to about 2 feet high behind. It was most comfortable so long as one slept on the ground, but was not high enough behind to take even a small camp bedstead. It was quite waterproof, but should a spark from the fire fall on it, a hole was burnt rapidly. I understand that the following renders the silk almost fire-proof—

Dissolve half-a-pound of powdered alum in a bucket of soft boiling water. In another bucket half-a-pound sugar of lead; when dissolved and clear, pour first the alum solution, then the sugar of lead, into another vessel; after several hours pour off the water, letting any thick sediment remain, and soak the tent, kneading it well: wring out and hang up to dry.

Camp furniture I had none. A tin plate, knife, fork and spoon for each man; a nest of cooking pots which Thomson provided, a small tin basin in which we washed and which also served to mix our bread, and lastly the invaluable portable tin baker which will roast or bake anything. It was strange that the Hudson Bay Stores at Vancouver could not provide light cooking utensils suitable for packing. They had excellent blankets, waterproof sheets and the larger articles of camp equipment, but light cooking utensils there were none. Mr. Williams took infinite trouble to get a nest of cooking pots made for me, but on their arrival at Campbell River they were found impossible owing to their weight, so I made them a present to Smith.

We fitted out as regards provisions at Mr. Chambers' Store: the usual articles of food—bacon, pork, beans, tea, sugar, flour, baking powder, oatmeal, dried apples and peaches, a couple of tins of meat, a couple of tins of jam—one of which only sufficed for a meal—some butter as a great treat, and a few potatoes and onions on which I insisted.

No liquor could be purchased in Alert Bay; the sale was prohibited on account of the Indian Settlement. Fortunately, I had secured two bottles of rum from the Queen City, or otherwise I should have fared badly—as it was, I had to be content with about a dessertspoonful of rum each night before turning in. It is said that the Indians will do anything for liquor, and once they get hold of any, drink without any self-restraint. At Campbell River I had more than once seen an Indian lying on the side of the road hopelessly drunk and insensible. It is therefore a wise provision that the sale of liquor should be prohibited at Alert Bay. The settlement was full of Indians and their squaws, and a very unattractive lot the squaws were. Once having seen them, it was difficult to believe in the immorality with which they are credited. These Siwashes seemed a degraded race, and one heard of men who deliberately took their wives to logging camps to live on their earnings.

The provisions we laid in were supposed to last three men for twenty days, and I was assured we would be helped out with game, an occasional deer, ruffled grouse and plenty of fish once we got into the forest.

A man cannot carry a pack weighing more than eighty pounds in the country we had to traverse, and, having cut down everything to the absolute necessaries of life, we still had to make double trips to get our stuff into camp, wasting a day each time.

We got away in the afternoon and crossed the Straits to the mouth of the Nimquish River in an Indian canoe. About a mile up the river was the comfortable log house of B. Lansdown, a settler. We were lucky enough to find him at home and he agreed to be the third man of our party. At first the idea was that he should help to pack in about three marches to where we proposed to make a permanent camp, and then return; but subsequent events compelled us to keep him the whole time. He was a fourth mouth to feed and at all times had a most excellent appetite.

Having arranged with two Siwash Indians to take us up to the lake, a distance of about seven miles, the following morning, we accepted Lansdown's invitation to put up at his house, where we were most hospitably entertained.

After some food at 5 o'clock I had my first experience of a Vancouver forest. A cougar had been killing cattle in the immediate neighbourhood, and Smith's and Dick's services were requisitioned to bring him to book.

Crossing the river, we were soon in the densest and most impenetrable undergrowth I ever attempted to crawl through. We were shown the spot where the last kill had taken place, and though we spent till dusk scrambling over and under fallen trees and through a tangle of undergrowth, unable to see five yards ahead, Dick could find no trace of the cougar. It had been raining in the morning, so we were all wet to the skin, as forcing our way through the undergrowth was like taking a shower bath. Hunting the cougar is, in my opinion, unworthy of the name of sport. Success depends on having a good dog to follow up the cougar by scent and to drive him up a tree, when the hunter comes up and pots him. Why such a powerful animal—for he is as big as a panther—should be such a coward, I cannot understand. I never heard while on the coast of a single case where the cougar attacked a man. The dog he sometimes goes for, and Dick had been once severely mauled.

I confess my first attempt at hunting in the Vancouver forest was most disappointing, as I had formed no idea of the nature of the forest we were to hunt in. Several people at the Campbell River Hotel had asked me if I knew what I was "up against" in deciding to try for a wapiti. Some, including my men, took a brighter view, and assured me that the dense undergrowth was only on the coast, and that as one got inland the forest became more open. Had I known what I was really "up against," I think I would have turned back, for never have I endured greater discomfort.