The guide was just pointing out to me the back track in the snow beyond, when old Bruin raised up on his hind quarters, opened his mouth, and let out two of the most awful growls one could imagine. At the same time the guide exclaimed, “Get to him, there he is!”—only his language was a little more forcible. With that the bear dropped on all fours, head advanced as though he was going to charge. Before I had time to take a shot he wheeled, disappeared for a second in a little depression beyond, reappeared on the other side at a distance of about forty yards, going down the mountain at a rapid gait. I fired my first shot from a “405,” but there was no indication that I had touched the mark. I pumped in another shell and fired again, with no better results; again I threw the gun to my shoulder, pulled the trigger, but there was no explosion. I must have been a little excited, for I did not push the lever far enough, consequently it did not throw the shell into the chamber. My guide by this time was very much excited and insisted upon taking a shot, while I demanded one more chance. All this time the bear was going down the mountain-side at a rapid pace. By the time he was a hundred yards away I fired the last shot and he made one headlong plunge into the snow.
Much to my surprise, although I had frequently heard of the remarkable vitality of the grizzly, we found upon examination that the first shot had passed through the heart and through the entire body, as indicated by the hole on the other side. The second time I fired I overshot and the last charge quartered through the lungs and came out at the left shoulder. Thus he had run at least fifty yards after receiving his death wound, and I have no doubt would have run a long way if it had not been for the last shot that brought him down. We left the bear where he fell in order to get a photograph, and it was necessary to make a special trip back with the kodak, which we did the following day.
Stretched Bear Skins
Working our way down the mountain trail to the valley we ate our lunch, and took a nap. On awakening we advanced toward the head of a beautiful little lake artistically located in a basin of half snow-clad hills. The silence, save for the crackling cry of the ptarmigan (Lagopus lagopus) as they left their snowy bed in great alarm, was awe-inspiring. A little beyond the head of the lake we were confronted with a mountain stream which to me looked impassable owing to the swiftness of the current. In a few seconds the guide stepped into the ice-cold water, at the same time commanding me to get on his back, and in this way he ferried me across with the water almost carrying him off his feet. Later in the afternoon our progress was again checked by a torrent, the sight of which caused me to say, “It’s impossible for us to cross this stream, we’ll have to go back the way we came.” My companion followed the stream up and down a short way until finally he came to a cottonwood tree about two feet in diameter. Taking his coat off and reaching for the small axe in his belt, in a short time he felled the tree right across the creek, and by this footbridge we passed over without any difficulty. About ten o’clock in the evening, as we worked our way down the precipitous chasm, we came upon an obstacle that we could not overcome. The gorge was perhaps ten feet wide and we were working our way along on the left of the stream. As we rounded a curve we found that just ahead the course of the torrent was deflected by a boulder on the right, so that it rushed to the left and point blank against a projecting rock directly in our path, effectually cutting off our progress. It was quite an undertaking to get out of the pocket we were in, and it required the alternate assistance of each to accomplish the undertaking. With occasionally a boost and then a pull, and so on, we finally climbed pretty well up to the top, where we could start anew down to the shore a little beyond the canyon. By this time the shadows cast by the midnight sun were lengthening fast. We began to realize our position, tired and hungry, without food, waiting around the camp fire for six hours for the ebb tide that we might get over to our boat. The guide could not content himself very long and started to work his way around a rock projection. In the undertaking he fell into the water, and instead of trying to get out, made a bold dash across the stream and pulled himself up on the rocks on the opposite side like a half-drowned rat. In a short time he returned with the boat and ferried your humble servant across. By this time it was getting quite cold and he was threatened with chills, so to keep up the circulation he applied the oars furiously to reach our tent, which fortunately was not far away. Hurriedly changing his clothing and wrapping himself up in blankets, he brought on the reaction about the time I had a pot of strong hot tea ready to administer.
Indian Barabara
On our wanderings around the island we frequently came upon an abandoned winter home of the natives. They fish and trap principally, for a livelihood. Early in the fall they take their families into some remote nook, build a barabara out of logs, thatch the entire outside surface with native red-top hay to keep out the cold, and pile large logs all over the hay to keep it from blowing away. They dry salmon, cod, and flounders for their winter supply. When the fur becomes prime they set their traps for fox, ermine, and land otter, and in this way eke out a miserable existence. It is said of them that in their early days they were honest to a fault, theft being punished by death, but on associating with the whites they acquired all the faults of the latter with none of the good.