The trip from St. Anthony to Jackson was without incident worth relating, except at the start. The pack horses, which, during their stay in town, had fared handsomely on oats and hay and been well sheltered, did not look forward to a trip back into the bleak and sterile mountains with the same pleasure that I did; their refractory souls yearned for the comfortable quarters they were just leaving with the same tenacity that the children of Israel in the wilderness “longed for the fleshpots of Egypt,” but here the comparison ends, for they had not a guide who was meek and gentle like Moses.
About a mile from St. Anthony the whole bunch turned off on a side road and went back to their former quarters. After some delay they were finally got in line again, and with the aid of a couple of Mormons, who, for a consideration, agreed to help them for several miles, we got the pack train properly started, and after that had no further trouble with them.
GUIDE EDWARD SHEFFIELD AND TWO ELK HEADS.
The journey was a fairly long one, but it became more interesting as we drew away from civilization and got closer to the place where we intended to make permanent camp. After the first day we passed the wide monotonous stretch of sage brush flats which lies between St. Anthony and Victor; after that the landscape grew more mountainous and wooded. The country became very picturesque as we proceeded; every mountain presented a view which was a panorama; every opening in the timber seemed a natural frame for an entrancing picture; the atmosphere so clear and bracing gave fine definition to objects in view; the winding river rushed fretting and foaming between the rocks in the valley below; large clumps of spruces clustered upon the mountain sides, and the rough crags were powdered with snow and sometimes glistening with rills which coursed down their rugged surfaces. After traveling along the Gros Ventre River for a considerable distance we at last came in view of Mt. Leidy, superbly situated between two rows of mountains on either side of a pleasant valley, at the head of which that peak stands. The ground was covered with a few inches of snow—enough to make good hunting. We made an early camp and had plenty of time to get everything arranged before it became dark. The location was ideal; plenty of timber nearby; a fine stream of clear, cold water, and good grazing for the horses. It was quite important to have a good range for the stock, because there were eleven pack horses and three riding horses—fourteen in all. To take care of these required the services of a horse wrangler. I had three men, my regular guide, Edward Sheffield; Charles Herdick, a Wyoming guide, and Marcus Imo, who cooked and turned his hand to anything else that had to be attended to.
The day being young when we arrived, I employed it in making a short hunting scout. Charles Herdick went with me, and I soon discovered how much my wind had deteriorated since I had last been out, for in the meantime I had lived a life of comparative ease. The general elevation in this section ranges from 7,000 to 10,000 feet, and it takes a few days to accustom your lungs to the rarified atmosphere. When one is not taking any vigorous exercise the climate feels exhilarating and inspires one with the belief that he is able to perform any kind of feat; a few minutes of real strenuous exercise and this delusion is destroyed. I soon discovered that Herdick was a good hand at mountain climbing, being wonderfully supple and possessed of the best pair of lungs of anyone I ever knew.
We finally caught sight of a small bunch of elk at a considerable distance. As they were moving over a crest of a hill it became necessary to travel with speed to get near enough for a shot, if by chance there should be a good head in the bunch. The elk had not seen us, but were moving and might get out of range. Completely exhausted I finally gained the summit of a hill overlooking the herd, which had halted. An old bull stood in the quaking aspens, not over sixty yards away. A glance at the head, and I saw that I had had my pains for nothing. I watched the animals for a few moments, and they seemed to me like old acquaintances, for it had been three years since I last hunted this kind of game. I do not believe they were as pleased to see me as I was to see them. They soon started to run directly from us in the direction of camp, which was quite near. My guide, Edward Sheffield, told me afterward that they came very near, and he was afraid they would run through camp. He gravely warned me against the danger of driving a large bunch of “Uncle Sam’s cattle” in that direction.
It was a pleasure after this little excitement to drop into a comfortable camp and find everything nicely arranged and a good meal provided. My quarters were supplied with every convenience that could be expected by one who travels with a pack outfit. It may, perhaps, interest those who have had no practical experience in Western hunting to know what can be furnished. We had folding chairs, a folding table, two tents, and in each a portable sheet-iron stove with a couple of lengths of pipe to take off the smoke. I had a pneumatic mattress to save my tired flesh from the hard ground, and whatever else was required which horses could pack in. When I was tired of hunting I could rest a day or so and read novels in a comfortable tent, no matter how cold the weather. This does not seem like roughing it. The frontiersman of former days would have thought such comfort with a hunting outfit impossible. Modern progress, however, has caused most of the inconveniences of camp life to disappear as if by magic. Would that its magic influence could restock the wilderness with the great herds of wild animals that have vanished.
VALLEY OF GROS VENTRE.