Sport in Vancouver and Newfoundland

by Sir John Godfrey Rogers

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.