AFTER GOAT ON THE MAINLAND

CHAPTER X
AFTER GOAT ON THE MAINLAND

Having still a few days to spare, I decided to try for a Rocky Mountain goat on the Mainland.

Lansdown had lived for some years at the head of Kingcome Inlet, one of the great inlets running in to the Mainland, just behind the island on which the town of Alert Bay is situated.

He stated that goats were plentiful but that one would have to climb up to the tops of the mountains at this season of the year. He also pretended to an intimate knowledge of every turn and bend of the inlet, and the best campgrounds. I accordingly engaged him and his sixteen-feet rowing and sailing boat for the trip.

September 17th. We started early for Alert Bay and were fortunate in getting a tow across from the timber company's steam launch, and arrived at Alert Bay in the early forenoon. We laid in ample supplies of provisions at Mr. Chambers' store and with some difficulty I got the men to start at 3 p.m.

My two bottles of rum had long since been exhausted though only taken in homoeopathic doses. The difficulty was to get more. No spirits were allowed to be sold in Alert Bay, a passing steamer was the only chance, and fortunately one was due before we started.

My friend Mr. Halliday saved the situation. He as a magistrate gave me a certificate that the rum was required on medical grounds, without which the Captain of the steamer would have refused to part with any. I was the envy of the entire Indian population as I left the steamer's side with a bottle of rum sticking out of each of my coat pockets.

It was a lovely evening and though Mr. Chambers had offered us a tow with his steam launch, which runs to the head of the inlet once a fortnight, if we would wait two days, I preferred to get away rather than kick my heels about Alert Bay.

Rowing up to the mouth of the inlet with a flowing tide we made about seven miles, and camped at 6 o'clock on a rocky islet where we found an ideal camping ground, near which some Siwash Indians had settled for the summer fishing. The scenery was superb. A background of the snow-covered mountains of the Mainland, in the middle distance many islands clad with wood down to the foreshore, a sea like glass in which mountains, islands and forests were reflected and the surface only broken by the eddies of the flowing tide. The sunset was glorious and the colouring indescribable.

That evening, we saw a remarkable sight. Pilot whales in schools were common at the Campbell River, but here came a great whale all alone ploughing his way up the inlet and coming up every few minutes to blow—once he threw his entire body many feet out of the water and came down with a crash which echoed through the surrounding islands.

September 18th. After a hearty breakfast we got away about 9 a.m., but by 12.45 the appetites of the men called for a halt. Noon never passed without a spell for food being proposed.

Trolling with a spoon and a hand line, for I had left my rod at Alert Bay, I got a nice cohoe of about ten pounds, and strange to say quite good eating.

At 4 o'clock a halt for the night was suggested, but I would not have it, and as Lansdown said there was a good camping ground some four miles away, we pushed on.

The sides of the inlet were so steep that it was only in certain places that ground where a tent could be pitched was to be found.

Lansdown had lived twelve years on the inlet, but his bump of locality was sadly deficient, for it took us three and a half hours to cover that four miles which must have been nearer nine, and I had to take the oar for the last two hours.

At last we reached the cove with a shelving sandy beach, but it was pitch dark and the rain was coming down, so I fear I was rather short with poor Lansdown, who had kept promising the camping ground a few yards round every point we passed.

September 19th. The camping ground as seen in the daylight was an ideal one. There was no undergrowth, and a grassy glade in the shelter of the great trees was a perfect site for the tents. A head wind had got up and the rain was still pouring down, so the prospects were not very encouraging, but still by tacking and rowing we made about seven miles when we were picked up by Mr. Chambers' launch and taken on to the head of the inlet where the Kingcome River falls into the sea. The scenery all up the inlet was very fine. The hills got more and more perpendicular as the head of the inlet was approached, and were clothed with dense forest down to the water's edge. Down the ravines from the hill-tops 3,000 feet high poured great waterfalls, and rain-clouds and mist swept over the tops of the hills, giving from time to time a glimpse of distant snow-covered peaks some 6,000 feet high.

The evening was fine and by 6 o'clock we were anchored in the river opposite a few settlers' houses.

We found Lansdown's old house, somewhat dilapidated but habitable. There was abundance of sweet hay and it was a luxury to spread my blanket on a hay-strewn dry wooden floor with a rainproof roof over my head.

Most of the settlers, including Lansdown's strapping brother, came round to have a chat and to hear the news from the outside world. They seem to have a fairly easy time chiefly raising cattle, for the delta formed by the washed-down detritus from the hills was a rich white soil on which a fine crop of grass was raised. There were a good number of wild duck about, and the settlers were a sporting lot, so they amused themselves with the evening flighting and with occasional trips up Mount Kingcome, which overshadowed the valley, after goat, deer and bear.

September 20th. It was a fine morning and the snow-covered peaks of Mount Kingcome about 6,000 feet above us, where we hoped to find our goats, were glistening in the morning sun.

Smith was hors de combat—I had offered to send him home from Alert Bay, but he said he was quite fit to go on. I think he was a bit nervous when he saw the climb before him, for carrying a pack up the steep mountain was no joke.

I was fortunate enough to secure the services of Harry Kirby, one of the settlers who knew the country well and he was willing to take Smith's place; a better man after goat I could not wish to have. He was very deaf and somewhat outspoken. Looking me over he said, "You are too stout for goat," which I rather felt to be true, though the trip after wapiti had fined me down considerably. I was, however, in hard condition by this time, and half-way up when we stopped for a midday meal, he quietly remarked, "I think after all you will do," and so my character as a prospective goat-hunter was restored.

MORNING MISTS ON MOUNT KINGCOME
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Quite a good track was blazed and cleared for about half-way up the hill, and the path though very steep was not bad, only hard on the men carrying the packs, so spells for rest were fairly frequent. The last half where the track had not been cleared was real bad going. A great torrent swept down the bottom of the steep ravine we were ascending, and it had to be crossed many times, which meant a wetting.

The undergrowth was a dense tangle, fallen trees blocked the path and never had we met the accursed devil-club in such abundance.

All things must come to an end, and by 5 o'clock we were clear of the forest and entered a fairly open valley, shut in on all sides by steep cliffs. At the end of the valley rose the snow-covered summit of Mount Kingcome about three miles away.

We had been marching since 9.30 and had ascended about 4,000 feet. We pitched camp in the last clump of wood in the valley, and on the side of the hill.

Though the forest ceased, there were dense masses of impenetrable cover, consisting of salmon-berry, wine-berry and devil-club, for about a mile up the valley, after which the ground was quite open.

Large patches of snow were lying on the bare hills just above the cover—and while selecting our camping ground, I suddenly saw a black object moving across a snow patch about half-a-mile across the valley.

Leaving Kirby and Lansdown to pitch the camp I took Thomson with me, and getting within about 500 yards of the snow patch, saw what looked like a small bear, but as Thomson said, "I never saw a bear with a long tail." The animal was moving quickly over the snow and getting closer every minute to a patch of dense cover. No doubt it was a wolverine. I had a long shot at about 400 yards and knocked up the snow under his belly. In a moment he was in the cover and we never saw him again.

Further up towards the head of the valley we saw a bear moving across a patch of snow, but he, too, disappeared in the cover. Evening was now closing in, so we turned towards camp. About a mile away, just opposite the camp and on some almost precipitous rocks a goat suddenly came into view round a corner of the rock. He must have been lying down all the time out of sight, and it was bad luck not having seen him before, for though to climb the face of the cliff was impossible, we might have got a long shot from below; as it was, by the time we had got up to the foot of the cliff, it was too dark to shoot, so we decide to leave him till next day.

CAMP ON MOUNT KINGCOME.
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A ROCKY MOUNTAIN GOAT

THE GOAT COUNTRY
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At last I had reached a game country, having seen a wolverine, a bear and goat in one afternoon.

September 21st. It had rained all night but cleared up in the morning. Before I had turned out, Kirby reported the wolverine crossing the same patch of snow opposite the camp about half-a-mile away. Slipping on a pair of boots, I rushed out in my sleeping clothes. Getting the glass on to the beast, I found that this time it was a bear making tracks for the valley we had come up, and no doubt after the salmon which were rotting in thousands on the bank of the river below.

He was into the cover before anything could be done in the way of a stalk, and did not appear again.

Examining the ground, I found the valley extended up to the base of Mount Kingcome for about one and a half miles. The sides were precipitous cliffs quite impossible to climb. The slope up to their base was clothed with dense undergrowth, while a creek fed by the melting snow and the rain from the surrounding hills was tumbling noisily down below our camp.

The head of the valley narrowed rapidly until completely shut in by the mountains, the tops of which were covered with snow. Large patches of snow lay in the hollows of the hills all round, never melting even in the summer months.

The air was cold, but bracing, just the day for a stalk. Spying the valley carefully, I soon found a goat high up on the cliff to the right. I think it must have been our friend of last evening, who had fed along the side of the hill to his present position up in the valley. The ground did not look impossible, but Kirby pronounced against it as too dangerous.

Higher up on a hill-top at the far end and just on the edge of the snow, I picked up with the glass two more goats and we decided to go for them. It was easy going to the foot of the hill where the valley ended, but a really stiff climb of about one and a half hours to get up to the patch of snow close to which we had seen them, above the line of cover; the hill-side was covered with a sort of heather growing between the rocks and it was very slippery going.

As we arrived at the spot and were looking everywhere for the goats, I saw two goats, a nanny and a kid, moving away about 400 yards off and climbing steadily up the face of the cliff. We both thought they were the two we were after, who had seen us or got our wind.

We were now 6,000 feet up and it was quite cold enough without a blizzard which suddenly set in with a bitter wind, which drove the snow and sleet almost through one.

We were huddled under a sloping rock, trying to get a little shelter, when it struck me to send Kirby up and see if by any chance the goats were still where we had seen them first, as possibly the two we saw moving away were another lot. It was lucky I did so, for he was back in a few minutes with the good news that our goats were feeding quietly in a hollow behind a ridge not a hundred yards above us.

I never was so cold in my life, but leaving Kirby behind, I crawled up to the top of the ridge, and looking over saw to my delight a good billy and two nannies feeding a hundred yards away.

Getting into position for a careful shot, I proceeded to remove the caps of my telescope sight, which I had kept on up to the last moment on account of the rain and the snow.

At the critical moment the front cap jammed, and with my half-frozen hands it took me a couple of minutes, which seemed hours, to get it off. Peering over I saw the goats moving off, they may have got our wind, for heavy gales were eddying round the top of the hill.

The two nannies fortunately went first, the billy was moving on pretty quickly behind. I had just time to get a shot, another moment and he would have disappeared behind some rocks, and I heard the welcome thud of the bullet; he stood for a moment, and as the extraordinary vitality of the mountain goat had been impressed on me by Kirby, I gave him a second shot, and he came rolling down the hill like a rabbit, stone dead.

Had it not been for the jamming of the cap I would certainly have got one of the nannies as well. He was a fine beast, much heavier and bigger than I had expected.

The snow was still falling and we were both shivering with cold. While still undecided what to do a momentary break showed us two more goats, one a fine billy right across the valley and a little higher up, and as the day was young we decided to have a try for them. Climbing about 500 feet up, we arrived practically at the summit and were spying as to the best way to try a stalk, for the valley was now disturbed and the goats were on the alert and looking about in every direction.

Unfortunately, the snow set in worse than ever and blotted out any view of the hill. To attempt a stalk on such dangerous ground would have been madness, so we turned back and went down to where we had left the dead goat. The cold was now so intense we could not remain to skin the goat, so made straight for camp. The going on the way down was as bad as it could be. The newly-fallen snow lying on the heather had made it very slippery and almost dangerous. I had many a slip but generally landed sitting down, and arrived at the foot of the hill bruised but thankful, for after all I had got my goat. This was real sport: to find your game, mark him down and then an honest stalk, ending in a kill; but it was stiff work and a little too much for a man of my age.

We had come down about 2,000 feet, and the snow had turned into rain, which felt quite warm and comforting after the blizzard on the hill-top. Kirby was so cold, he asked leave to go ahead, and I soon saw him running down the valley and skipping like a goat from rock to rock. Taking it easier, I got to camp about 5 o'clock, fairly tired out.

September 22nd. It rained and snowed all night, and for the first time the little tent was not waterproof. The weather cleared about 8 a.m., and the morning sun broke through the rain clouds and mists which were sweeping away from the hill-tops; the effect was most beautiful.

The hills where we had been stalking yesterday were entirely covered with snow, and patches were lying far down in the valley. I sent Kirby and Lansdown up to skin the goat and bring in the head and skin, while I made preparations for striking the camp and going down the mountain on their return.

They returned about noon, and we were just preparing to start when I saw a bear—probably the same one we had seen before, moving rapidly up the valley at the foot of the cliff and across one of the numerous patches of snow. Seizing the rifle I dashed down, followed by Thomson, to try and get a shot. I left my coat, in which I always carried spare cartridges, behind.

By the time I had crossed the creek, the bear was well ahead and looked about 300 yards away. Putting up the 300 yards sight, I knelt down, rather breathless and shaky from my run, and fired. The bullet knocked up the snow in a good line but short. This started him off at a run and he was getting farther and farther away as I fired two more shots, which also struck low. My last chance was another shot before he reached the thick cover, and, aiming right over his back, I hit him, where I could not say. He must have been 400 yards away when I fired. On being hit, he stumbled forward and turned right down hill into some dense undergrowth which extended right down to the creek.

Having only one cartridge left, I sent Thomson back to camp for cartridges, and sat down behind the rock from which I had fired to await events. My impression was that he was badly hit and that we would have to follow him up in the cover. To my surprise, I suddenly saw him come out of the cover and come down to the creek. He was not more than 150 yards away and passing between a lot of big boulders, and it looked as if he were heading up the valley.

Thinking it was my last chance, I fired and saw the bullet hit a rock just over his back. To my horror, I then realized I had left the telescope sight screwed up to 300 yards. Worse luck was to follow, for the shot turned him and he came down the creek towards me, very slowly and looking very sick. There was I without a cartridge and a wounded bear apparently walking on top of me. I lay quite quietly behind my rock, and had the pleasure of seeing him come within thirty yards, when he turned slowly and, crossing the creek, entered the dense undergrowth on the other side just as Thomson came up with the cartridges. It was as bad a moment as I have ever experienced in my sporting life. At first we could trace his movements by the shaking of the bushes, and at one time, this ceasing, he apparently lay down.

I knew it was hopeless following him in such undergrowth, for not only was there the danger of being charged, but if even I could have made my way through the tangle, it would have been impossible to put the rifle to my shoulder. Thomson would not give him up, but begged I would lend him my rifle and he would follow him up.

I returned to camp utterly disgusted, and in about one hour Thomson returned, saying he had crawled through the cover, found lots of blood, saw the bear once in the distance, but could not get a shot. The worst of it was, it was now too late to start, and to make matters more depressing, rain and sleet fell all the afternoon and night.

September 23rd. The rain had now turned to snow, which was lying as low down as the level of the camp. Everything was sodden, and a wet march was before us.

We got away by 9 o'clock, and had a hard march as the creek was now a roaring torrent, which we had to cross and recross several times. Going on the rough boulders, over and round which the flood was pouring, was as bad as it well could be, and we were all wet through by the time we reached the cleared track. Our last view of the valley, before we entered the forest, was superb. The rain had cleared away, a bright sun was breaking through the heavy clouds, which were being swept away from the summits of the snow-clad hills and from the slopes of the valley, now dazzling white in the morning sun, while looking back through the forest we were just entering the trees stood out in black silhouette against a background of snow. It was with deep regret I turned my back on the Goat Valley, where I had seen more game in two days than in all the rest of my trip.

By 3 o'clock we reached the Kingcome River, but it was too late to make a start that night.

September 24th. We got away at 8.15. The morning was fine, and the inlet and snow-covered peaks behind looked very beautiful. The current always runs down this inlet irrespective of the tide, though it is, of course, stronger with the ebb. We made only one halt for lunch, and by 7.15 p.m. reached Quiesden—a deserted Indian village thirty miles from the head of the inlet; not a bad performance, as we had to row the whole way.

Here we found an empty mission house, and Lansdown somewhat burglariously effected an entrance through a window and opened the door from inside. We soon had a fire going in the dilapidated stove, and settled down comfortably for the night on the bare boards. They were at least dry and we had a roof over our heads. The walls of the sitting-room were mostly decorated with texts, but a coloured illustration representing a young naval officer making violent love to an extremely pretty girl showed that even missionaries have a human side to their nature.

The village was entirely deserted, all the inhabitants being away fishing. There were some fine totem poles, and the woods all round were the cemetery of the neighbourhood—the bodies of many departed Siwashes, packed in boxes or bundles, being slung up in the forks of the trees—the Siwash method of burial.

September 25th. Leaving Quiesden at 8.15, we had a fine sailing breeze which before night had increased to half a gale, and on arrival at Alert Bay, about 3 o'clock in the afternoon, Mr. Chambers most hospitably put me up till my old friend the Queen City, due at 1 a.m., should arrive.

September 26th. The Queen City did not arrive till noon, and bidding good-bye to my kind friends at Alert Bay and to Lansdown, who was returning to his farm on the Nimquish, we were soon on our way to Vancouver.

Accounts had to be made up and good-bye said to Smith and Thomson and my dear friends "Dick" and "Nigger," for they were all to be landed at some unearthly hour in the morning at Quatiaski Cove. All the roughing was over, and the comforts of civilization were before me, yet it was with sincere regret that I saw the last of my friends and companions. The discomforts were forgotten, the sodden forest, the rain, the indifferent food, and the poor sport, but the impressive scenery of the vast Vancouver forest, the still lakes and rushing creeks, and the beauty of the Kingcome inlet, with its setting of snow-covered mountains, will remain indelibly impressed on my memory, and as the prospect of future trips becomes more remote, the recollections of those days will always be with me. The call of the wild may be as strong as ever, but the capacity to respond to it must diminish as years roll on. The man who has not a love for the solitudes of nature and the simple life in camp, misses experiences which to me at least have been amongst the keenest enjoyments of my life.

September 27th. We arrived at Vancouver about 5 p.m. That day I saw Mr. Williams, just returned from inspection and sport in the Kootenay district. He reported game plentiful and brought back two fine sheep heads which he had secured after hard work and stiff climbing.

I left Vancouver on the 29th and, changing trains at Winnipeg, arrived at Toronto on October 3rd—four hours late from Winnipeg.

Leaving Toronto the next morning, I spent that evening and the following day at Niagara Falls, arriving in New York in the early morning of the 6th. Through the kindness of Mr. Griswold, I had been made an honorary member of the Knickerbocker and Union Clubs. More luxurious and better-managed clubs could not be found in any capital of Europe.

At 10 a.m. I was once more steaming out of New York on the Blücher, one of the slower steamers of the Hamburg-Amerika Line, and after a most comfortable voyage, with charming fellow-passengers, I disembarked at Southampton on the 17th—just three months and seven days from leaving England.