CHAPTER VII
TO THE SHOE HILL COUNTRY
The morning of the 15th was grey, and though the glass was falling, the weather looked like clearing. The men dawdled about and it was 11 before we all got away. Our plans were to take three good packs up to Shoe Hill Ridge and then send Joe back for what we wanted from time to time.
We had kippered all the big trout and very excellent they were later on, for no fish were to be had on the barrens.
We reached the top of the ridge about 1 o'clock, when heavy rain set in. As I could not walk in an oilskin, there was nothing for it but to get wet through, and very soon I was literally wet to the skin. We were all shivering with cold as a bitter wind was blowing over the open barrens, so at 2 o'clock we halted to boil the kettle under the shelter of a big rock. Though wet through, the men were as cheery as ever, and Steve challenged Joe to race him to the top of a small hill which was Millais' look-out when he was camped in the Shoe Hill Droke. They came back having seen nothing. We plodded along, a sorry crew, in the pouring rain, but somewhat refreshed by the hot tea.
As we came in sight of a big lake lying south of the Shoe Hill Droke for which we were bound, we saw a good stag lying on the far side of the lake. The head certainly looked the biggest I had seen, but it was hard to use the telescope in the rain and I could not make out the points. However, both Steve and I saw that he had very big frontals, though I could only make out two points on the tops.
The wind was all wrong and to get a stalk meant going right round the lake, about three miles. The other two men would have had to wait in the rain, and as we were all feeling pretty wretched, we decided to leave him and push on to camp. The decision was mine and I shall always regret it, for I believe he carried the best head we saw on the trip, but I thought as we were to hunt for a week on the Shoe Hill Ridge we had a fair chance of coming on him again, so we passed on to camp. He got our wind at least a mile away and cleared out over a ridge and never was seen again. We got to camp about 5 o'clock and were soon warming and drying ourselves before a roaring fire.
We were now in the Shoe Hill Droke, and in the centre of what Millais described as the finest caribou country he had seen in Newfoundland. There was, however, one great difference. He had been there the end of October, when all the stags had moved up. It was now only the 15th September, and it remained to be seen what our luck would be.
While getting everything shipshape I found my telescope sight was missing. Steve always carried it slung over his shoulder and must have left it behind at one of our halts. He assured me it would be "all right" and that he would go out at daybreak and bring it in, which he did. This was the first really uncomfortable day we had had—but our troubles were soon forgotten, and over a roaring camp fire and with a tot of rum each, we looked forward hopefully to our prospects for the next few days. The morning of the 16th was fine, the sun was shining brightly, the glass was rising, a fresh north-east wind was blowing, altogether a perfect stalking day.
The Shoe Hill Droke lay on a slight rise above the Shoe Hill Lake. The droke was a general camping ground for shooting and trapping parties, and the remains of many camps were scattered through the wood. To the north lay Mount Sylvester, some seven miles away, with a fine open country between; to the south the view was bounded by a ridge about three miles away. A similar ridge lay about the same distance to the east, while to the west lay the country we had crossed the day before. The whole country was undulating and there were scattered clumps of wood affording nice shelter for stags. We could hunt in every direction and could not possibly have been in a better centre. The ground was hard and dry, and it was certainly the best walking in the island.