Following the Columbia road through groves of brilliant maple and sombre pine, they arrived in due time on the banks of the river opposite an island, where men, canoes, and provisions were waiting for them. Their destination was the vicinity of a large cave at Wakefield, sometimes called the "mammoth cave," where they had arranged to camp for several days.
The party consisted of Lord Dalhousie, Colonel By, Colonel Durnford, the Chief, Bearie, Christie, a Frenchman named Joe Leclaire, an Irish cook named Michael O'Flanagan, and Ephraim Meyers, a Yankee, who had the reputation of being the best shot in the settlement.
The Governor was the life of the party, and related many amusing incidents connected with his varied experiences in the wilds of Canada, which kept the men in good-humor, notwithstanding the numerous and difficult portages.
On reaching the camp-ground all hands were soon at work pitching tents, building a fire and attending to other necessary preparations; after which they sat round the fire while Michael prepared the evening meal.
"Well, Mike," said Colonel By, "what do you think of this country? How does it compare with ould Oireland?"
"Och, sur," said Michael, respectfully touching his hat, "I niver seed the loike. Them skeeters bates all that iver I seen—the knaves!"—rubbing his hands and arms vigorously—"shure they drive me narely mad. I niver shall forgit the furst time they swarumed around me like a a swarum of bays, an' I tuk me blankits and ran down to the river an' roulled mesilf up and went to shlape on the rocks. Well, sur, d'ye think they'd lave a poor crathure alone? Not thim, the brutes! Shure as you're alive, sur, they came out with their lanterns an' ye'd see a flash here and a flash there; an' kill 'em? ye moight as well try to kill the divil himsilf, for soon as I could get nare them, out would go their light, an' they'd all cum buzzin' round tazin' and tormintin' me.
"Sez I to mesilf, 'Begorra, whin I get yez I'll finish yez; so I will, begorra, I will.' Well, sur, I'm tellin' yez the truth whin I say that they began pipin' out: 'Begorra! begorra! begorra!' and their mates cried out, 'Ye will? Ye will? Ye will?' till I cud shtand it no longer, so I put for the shanty as quick as me two legs could carry me."
By this time all the men round the camp-fire were in fits of laughter, in which the Irishman joined heartily. His superstitious dread of 'skeeters,' was modified when they explained to him that fire-flies, frogs and tree-crickets had contributed each a share to the tragic drama.
"Could you not give us a few suggestions which will assist us in becoming successful moose-hunters?" said Lord Dalhousie, addressing Meyers, who stood bare-headed, sheltering with his hat a faint flickering flame on a piece of "punk," which had been kindled by a tiny spark from his flint and steel, while he tried to light his pipe.
"Wal," he said, "I reckon there's only two ways to shoot a moose: one is to coax him within range by imitating the call of his mate; the other way is to make a salt lick for him. At this time of the year the buck begins to harden his horns, and he lies on the sides of the hills in the sun and rubs his horns against the bushes to get off the bark or velvety skin. If you want to get a crack at him you'll have to be mighty sly and keep to leeward of him, for if the wind blows from you to him he will scent you. Always hunt against the wind, and when you sight one aim at the knee of the fore-leg. Then raise the muzzle slowly until you sight the body following up the leg. Don't hold your breath or it will make you tremble. Breathe freely until you are ready to pull the trigger."