Jack the Young Canoeman: An Eastern Boy's Voyage in a Chinook Canoe

by George Bird Grinnell

"Look at that goat!" cried Jack; and they turned their heads to look at the animal, which was still feeding on the very edge of the cliff in the same unconcerned manner as before the shots had been fired. Yet he could not have failed to hear them, for the Indians, who were much farther off, afterward spoke of hearing the reports.

The birds were not the white-tailed ptarmigan, as had been hoped. Besides that, they were in the last stage of moult; the plumage was worn and ragged, and they were hardly fit to skin, Fannin said. But it was interesting to Fannin and to Jack to have found them on these mountains.

Leaving the goat still enjoying his meal, our friends pushed on. They climbed a high peak from which the whole range was visible toward the north and the south, and far off to the south the two Indians were seen apparently approaching some game.

Before either had fired a shot, a heavy fog obscured the whole scene; but through it, a little later, came the sound of shot after shot until nine had been counted, and Hugh remarked: "Sounds like a battle down there." They learned later that Seammux had fired nine shots at one goat before getting it, and his expenditure of ammunition was the cause of more than one joke at his expense.

By this time having had all the hunting of goats that they wanted, they decided to return to the camp. Before reaching it they were joined by the two Indians, each carrying on his shoulders a heavy load of goat skins and meat. They had almost reached the camp, and were resting on the top of the highest knoll above it, when Seammux, whose eyes were constantly roving over the country, pointed in the direction of Seymour Creek and said: "I think that's a bear." In the bottom of the ravine, about three quarters of a mile from where they were, some dark objects were seen, and the glasses showed these to be a bear and three good-sized cubs. There were hills on either side of the animals, and to approach them was not difficult. Yet the very easiness of the hunting took away from its pleasure. The animals were unsuspicious; the cover good; there were three good rifles. A short stalk brought the hunters close to the bears.

Fannin said: "Jack, you kill the old one, and we'll take the cubs. I will whistle, and when she looks up, you shoot." It all happened according to schedule, and sooner than it takes to tell it the four bears lay dead. That night there was plenty of fresh meat in camp. A side of young bear ribs was roasted by Hugh, somewhat as they used to roast deer or buffalo ribs on the plains, and they were pronounced excellent by all hands. There was abundant broiled goat meat, which was deemed good by the Indians; but somewhat lacking in flavor by the white men. After the meal was over and the pipes were going, Mr. Fannin asked Jack his opinion of the day's sport.

"Well," said Jack, "there's lots of game here, it's a good hunting country, and it's full of interesting life, but the fault I have to find with it is that it's too easy to get your game. A man doesn't have to work hard enough. He's pretty sure that if he keeps his eyes open and uses ordinary precaution, he can approach close enough to these very gentle animals to get them every time. To my mind, half the fun of hunting anything is the uncertainty as to whether you are going to be successful or not. If every time you take your rifle and start out you are sure that you are going to get some game, there is no more interest in it than there is in killing a beef for food at the ranch, or in butchering hogs on a farm. Take away the element of uncertainty in hunting or fishing, and you have nothing left. An Indian who goes out to kill buffalo does not regard the getting of the meat as fun, but as hard work; just as you or I might feel that pitching hay or riding the range for wages was work."

"That's so, son; you've figured it out just right," said Hugh. "It is work. The Indian gets his pay in meat and the skins. The white man gets his pay in dollars and cents, so many of them a day or a month. Now, when the white man goes hunting, he does it with the idea that he is having fun, that he is doing something opposite from work; but when the Indian goes hunting he knows that he is working, and working hard. I suppose, maybe, it's just the difference between being a savage and being civilized."

"I agree with you, Jack," said Mr. Fannin, "that there's no fun whatever in hunting such as we've had to-day. Of course, if we were off on a trip and needed meat for food, we would be glad to kill game just for the purpose of eating it, but not for the fun of hunting. The more a man works for his game, the more difficult it is to get, the greater his satisfaction in his success.