Forest and Stream
Bryan Muche
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This Forest and Stream podcast will take you to the times, the people and the events that shaped America and Americans, our ideals, our values and our dreams.
We’ll seat you alongside the affluent and in the boots of everyday citizens to deliver a rare insight and an unfiltered view through a window into the past.
Discover how footprints made generations ago have worn a path to where our own outdoor experiences still intersect today, and affects you now.
As with many historical works from past era’s, there are phrases, terms, and descriptions that are inappropriate to our modern sensibilities. We in no way condone these offensive remarks or passages but may choose to read published work in its entirety for purposes of education and accurate historic context.
We hope you enjoy this show, perhaps finding a new understanding and even revealing a connection that moves you a little closer to touching our past.
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Feb 24, 2022
The Greatest Fish Story Ever Told!
The events that happened in Kekoskee, Wisconsin are so extraordinary and improbable that I always hesitate about telling the story.
The evidence is legal, convincing and overwhelming. In total it makes up the grandest fish story in the history of a lifetime.
It is really a story about bullheads, and of course it is a beautiful story, for the bullhead is naturally a romantic fish.
Every man in Mayville and Kekoskee knows this story, and without any hint or coaching will tell it to you exactly as his neighbor does. Everyone in town knows the horse too. You see, there was a horse in the story – which in time you will come to know.
It all happened way back in 1860, when the Horicon Marsh was Horicon Lake. Back then the Rock River ran into Horicon which was the largest man-made lake in the United States. Today, the river runs into the marsh at the same place where it used to run into the lake.
It’s the same river, and the people of Mayville will take you to the same place, and show you where the story happened. So you can’t possibly doubt the truth of the details of this story.
It was an awfully cold winter that year, and that has something to do with the story, too.
-EMERSON HOUGH
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Feb 11, 2022
A Greenhorn and Big John in the Wilds of Michigan - January 18, 1877
If the sketch which follows, depicting a general outline of incidents which entered into the experience of a "Greenhorn," on his first deer hunt in the wilds of Michigan, shall have the effect of driving the work-encumbered denizens of the city into some reasonable consideration for his own wellbeing, by taking for himself such recreation as will yield him the greatest possible benefit, the object of it will have been accomplished. After a fellow has spent say thirty years of his life with his nose at the grindstone, it is not astonishing that it comes to strike him at last as being somewhat monotonous, and then when he comes to look at the results and sees little but cavernous eyes, sunken cheeks, attenuated frame, and a general slaughter of the vital energies, it is well that he began to think, "What is to be the end of all this anyhow? Does it pay? and, if not, what is the remedy?"
When a man has reached this crisis, and asks himself seriously these questions, there is hope for him, and happy will it prove if he can profit by my experience, so he may enjoy himself to the full limit of his capacity; and his capacity will require no stinted draught, particularly if he has been a constant reader of Forest and Stream, for while yet in the toils his tastes and inclinations will have been so shaping and developing as to prepare him to receive the maximum amount of enjoyment and satisfaction the moment he breaks the monotony and enters upon the rejuvenating process.
In my case I went into early training. It commenced with the first issue of Forest and Stream, and it still continues. Thursday nights my watch is slow, and from the moment I take my seat before my wide open grate, with slippers and cigars until bed time, I let the world wag. I am drinking in new life, shaking hands with Thad. Norris, holding high carnival with Major Sarasota, and courting old Al. Fresco as I would my “Gum Drop”. Wife says we must make that “party call” tonight. "Not much," say I; "here's mettle more attractive!
Well, I read my Forest and Stream through; then turn again to your new title page on the outside of the cover, study that grand old head, which is the Daniel Webster of all mooses, then to the camp, the rods, the guns. 0h! I wish I were there; but then— not any of this for me. Oh! no, the delicious reality is too far beyond my reach. It is all very nice to know that there is such a fountain of perpetual youth, and that the mysteries of the Forest and the Stream can be enjoyed by some, so that we can read about them and get the crumbs as it were from the rich man's table, or to borrow a smile, we can look at the blackened frames next morning after the fireworks are over, and so enjoy the fireworks second-hand like.
Now, it so happens, that in one of these reveries, the post carrier brings a letter posted "Wild Cat," Michigan. Of course that's from Elisha ('Lish for short), lumberman, merchant, notary, constable, sportsman and brother-in-law. Let's see what he has to say; some patent business probably, as usual. What! do I read aright? Why, the boy says: "Dear Greenhorn, if you want some sport, come here at once; lots of deer, plenty of bear, clouds of turkey, wild cats quantum sufficit, and as for partridges, quail, jack rabbits, and all such small insects, they overrun the country, begging for a front seat in a pot-pie. Come quick. Bring "Bird" (that's my wife) and stay eighteen months. Gentle reader: (Original but not copyrighted) were you ever struck by lightning? If so, you can probably imagine the thrill that shivered my timbers the moment the full force of this thing struck me. Here was the grand opportunity of a life time; but how can I? Oh! The tantalizing cuss! he knows it's impossible. Of course it is. But the vision haunts me; like Banquo's ghost, it will not down. I imagine I see the handwriting on the wall — he "who hesitates is lost." Well, I hesitate! I am lost! I resolve. I will go. There ! It is done. I will telegraph so that I can't back out, and a message goes instantaneous. Are there any skeptics in your large family that don't believe in the virtue of a good resolution? Let them try it and see. My resolution is scarce an hour old, and here is a new man already. Why, the new life bursts out all over; the tension of a long strain is off; the whole frame springs upright; the true manhood steps forth and asserts the privilege of a hitherto imprisoned birthright, which else might have gone, like Esau of old, for a mere mess of pottage. So it is fixed. I go. Now to business.
Let's see; I must have a Winchester and a— well, never mind. I will tell you just what I did take, and then let you know in the end how the items respectively served my purpose, as follows, viz: A Winchester rifle, a heavy blue flannel shirt, a tightly knit cardigan jacket, a pair of rubber boots, a few pairs of extra heavy woolen socks, a Holabird shooting coat, an old soft felt hat, and a sheath knife, all together (except of course the rifle) filling not more than half an ordinary sized hand bag. I did not take a shot gun, as my ambition was for the "heavy weights" — no sparrows and wrens and sich, for my bag, this time. All these things provided, therefore, the most beautiful morning of the whole year (two month's since) saw me on the rear platform of a Pullman parlor, passing quietly out of the Erie depot, bound for sundown. The next morning found me at Port Huron, with a trip of thirty miles up the shore of Lake Huron yet before me, and no practicable way of making it but by boat. A boat of the regular line would not pass up until evening, but I must do better if possible, for I thought of that "Lordly Buck" that was waiting, and afraid lest Bergh might make a case against me if I taxed his patience too long; but it was no use. After hailing all sorts of craft, and trying to drive a bargain with numerous tug captains I gave it up, and it was ten o'clock at night before I set foot on the dock at Lexington, where was a pair of stalwart arms wide open to embrace, and they being clad in the shaggiest of Ulsters, it was no great stretch of the imagination in the hug that followed, to believe that I had found my own Grizzly, and that he had got the best of me. Five miles more inland in the pitchy darkness behind "Old John" (of whom more anon), brought us to our destination, and by midnight I was fast in the arms of Morpheus under a hospitable shelter, with warm hearts and true around me, and the "Lordly Buck" scarce five hundred yards away in "the bush," waiting to bid me good morning.
I was awakened betimes by the sound of voices under my window, and looking out, I saw in the faint grey of the early dawn the preparation on foot for the sport of the day; the boys were waiting for us with the hounds (splendid fellows), and a good backwoods team with hay, straw, robes, and other creature comforts filling the box, and into which, after a glorious breakfast of venison, fresh eggs, wafer-like buckwheat cakes, and the most fragrant and delicious of coffee, we all bundled. Then, amid a jolly outburst of orchestral music from some half-dozen fog horns we started, just as the streaks of grey in the east began to broaden and reflect a silver sheen on the frosty landscape. Now, while we are driving along gaily, but not rapidly (for the corderoy road forbids that), I will introduce my companions:
First, there is "'Lish," our brother-in-law, a thorough sportsman, "with all that that implies," a born gentleman in all his walks and conversation, the worthy head of the community, and the authority of an extended local district in all matters pertaining to the horse, the dog, or the gun— a mechanical genius of the first water— and a most genial and intelligent companion. Next comes Buxton, young in years, but old in wood craft; can scent a deer about as well as a hound; can thread the mazes of the forest without breaking a twig, or losing his locality for an instant; a m…
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Jan 11, 2022
Trout Fishing - January 1, 1874
TROUT FISHING
Give me a rod of the split bamboo,
A rainy day and a fly or two,
A mountain stream where the eddies play,
And mists hang low o'er the winding way.
Give me a haunt by the purling brook,
A hidden spot in a mossy nook,
No sound save hum of the drowsy bee,
Or lone bird's tap on the hollow tree.
The world may roll with its busy throng
And phantom scenes, on its way along;
It's stocks may rise, or it's stocks may fall—
Ah! what care I for its baubles all?
I cast my fly o'er the troubled rill,
Luring the beauties by magic skill,
With mind at rest and a heart at ease,
And drink delight from the balmy breeze .
As lusty trout to my glad surprise,
Speckled and bright, on the crest arise,
Then plash and plunge in a dazzling whirl,
Hope springs anew as the wavelets curl.
Gracefully swinging from left to right,
Action so gentle, motion so slight,
Tempting, enticing, on craft intent,
Till yielding tip by the game is bent.
Drawing in slowly, then letting go
Under the ripples where mosses grow,
Doubting my fortune, lost in a dream,
Blessing the land of Forest and Stream.
By Mrs. Eunice B. Lamberton
Rochester, N.Y., Dec. 15, 1873
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Jan 8, 2022
The Back Lakes of Canada - January 1, 1874
The Back Lakes of Canada
As was their custom, several young men of the town of Cobourg (a Canadian frontier town) met one evening in Frank Stalwart's rooms at the "North American." This was in the latter days of August, four years ago — yes, it must be four years ago, and yet how fresh in my memory, in spite of the many changes, some so gladly welcomed and others so ruthlessly bitter, which have since then transpired. On this particular evening the usual gossip was almost exhausted, when Ned Benton, a young, but not briefless, barrister, proposed we should settle upon the manner in which to take a couple of weeks' recreation.
Placing his pipe carefully against a book on the table, which I remember was Longfellow's Poems, my friend, Frank Stalwart, suggested a trip up the Back Lakes. Said he, "we can have a little deer hunting, a good deal of duck shooting, no end of fishing, and altogether a splendid outing." "Some prefer to 'ball it' at a watering place; what say you, Bob Bertram?" addressing myself, "and put down that novel and order in some claret and ice." "Well," I said, "I know not whether the claret will change my mind, but now I am for the Lakes. I have heard so much about their romantic scenery that I greatly desire to see them." So, it was settled that we should start on the following Monday, after having taken another evening to arrange the route and the requirements of our outfit.
Ned Benton and I, according to a previous understanding, met our companion, Frank Stalwart, at Peterborough, about thirty-five miles north of our starting point. This was done so that our friend could go by way of Rice Lake and bring over Thad. Fremont, an accomplished man in the way of dogs, canoes, and camp life on the lakes and in the woods. I may mention here that, besides his many other admirable qualifications, in all things culinary Thad. was a perfect success.
During the afternoon of the day of our arrival at Peterborough we proceeded to get together such things as are necessary for the hunter's outfit. Besides the tent, the sportsman, for two weeks of camping, must have buffalo skins and blankets, kettle, tin plates, cups, and such things, together with bacon and bread to last a few days. After that he should trust to his skill in killing to supply the board. Also, he requires a moderate quantity of tea. I believe some carry with them a small keg of whiskey; in fact, it is considered by many a necessary article on these occasions, as it is impossible to drink the lake water on account of the profuse vegetable growth of rice, lilies, and other plants and flowers, which are almost invariably present in these small lakes, and certainly add to their picturesque beauty. Having towards evening collected our necessaries, we began to look for Mr. Thad., who had, unnoticed, strayed from our path.
We had in prospect that night a drive of seven miles in a wagon to Bridgenorth, a village consisting of one small tavern and a boat-building shop. We wished to set out as early as possible, so as to obtain a good night's rest and be prepared for a long paddle the next day. Thaddeus, however, was not to be found, and after a diligent search we went without him, taking with us his rifle and cartridge box, and leaving word to have him taken out early in the morning in a buggy. It turned out that the young man could not refrain from visiting an acquaintance of the fair persuasion, and once in the charmer's fascinating presence he found, no doubt, it was impossible to resist the spell of her enchantments, and midnight had stolen in upon the happy lovers ere Thad. awoke to the slightest degree of consciousness.
Determined to start that evening, we loaded our wagon with two canoes, ammunition, and other supplies, and ourselves, three in number, besides the driver. The wagon that held all this was very moderate in size, with easy springs, but the canoes are carried in a peculiar way. Two poles are placed across the wagon above the box and nearly over the axles. The poles extend about three feet on each side of the wagon box. Across the poles the canoes are tied, one on each side parallel with the conveyance. Thus, the seats are left free. Away we went, singing merry songs, and it would, I am sure, be hard to find "three blyther lads" than we.
After breakfast the next morning at Bridgenorth, on Chemong Lake, having waited a short time for the delinquent Thad. , and upon the arrival of the repentant youth, about nine o'clock, we gaily proceeded to load and trim our canoes. Having arranged to follow this chain of lakes about forty or fifty miles before settling upon a permanent camping ground for our labors, we set out, Frank and I in a birch bark canoe well laden with our guns, ammunition, and camping utensils, besides the two hounds, Woodman and Harry, in the bow at my knees. The wind was pretty fresh, and blowing directly against us, making the paddling rather hard work, and also making the water so rough that a good deal of it was shipped over the bows. This disturbed the dogs considerably, and I was obliged when they would attempt to get up on the bow to keep them down by dint of a few sharp blows on the head with the paddle. The wise creatures, however, soon became accustomed to it, and, as if they knew for what purpose we had embarked, behaved like noble martyrs.
The roughness was so great that Frank and I, as well as Benton and Thad., in a broad canoe, were compelled to pull ahead as strongly as we could from island to island, and from time-to-time unload, empty out the water received over the sides of our light crafts, load up and off again. Thus, about nightfall, we got to the foot of the lake, where we pitched our tent and tarried for the night.
Chemong Lake is within the pale of civilization, the land on either side being cultivated, and some comfortable looking farm houses being within the view. The islands are numerous, and are covered with shrubs and small trees. Some of these islands are almost perfectly circular, and seem to rise out of the water like mounds, with the trees so thick and even that they often present the appearance of a beautiful green cone of foliage floating on the surface of the water.
We rose in the morning a little before dawn, and the industrious and enthusiastic sportsman, Ned Benton, sallied out in a canoe to make war upon grey-backs and mallards, while the rest of us remained to pack up and arrange for the morning meal, and as, occasionally, we heard the report of our companion’s gun, the light hearted Thad. would exclaim that should he get two or three brace of ducks he would give us a stew that would make us feel like princes. In a couple of hours Ned came in with five beauties. Thad. made good his boast, and as he danced around the fire preparing the savory meal he seemed to us (unaccomplished in the art — I was almost going to say the divine art — of cookery) clad in some mysterious power.
During the night the water had become quite smooth and we glide off. We send the canoes along with ease. Everything is calm and quiet. The sun bathes the woods that line the shore in the mellow light of morning. Fresh and soft and pure looks the foliage, as if it had sprung up like magic. Nothing is heard save our chatting voices and the musical ripple of the water, as the canoes shoot through it. Truly we feel like princes; if not as rich at least as independent.
Soon we arrived at a mill-dam, at the outlet from Chemong to Buckhorn Lake, owing to which we have to make a portage. Unloading, we carry our packs and canoes nearly half a mile, and then embark in another water. We did not go far before we came to the Buckhorn Rapids down which we ran in beautiful style, Thad. giving us a lead. Frank and I followed in the birch bark, and Benton brought up the rear. On the right is a large mass of rock which rises perpendicularly from the water about forty or fifty feet, and extends along the shore as many yards, sloping down like the r…
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Jan 2, 2022
Natures Invitation - August 14, 1873
NATURES INVITATION
On the fair face of Nature let us muse, and dream by lapsing stream and drooping wood;
Tread the dark forests whose primeval ranks, since the creation dawn have cast their shade;
Ponder by flowing stream and ocean tides, and note the varied forms of life they hold,
Mark the wild game so clear to hunter's heart, the swarming fowl that skim the salty deeps,
The birds that haunt the woodlands and the plains, The fish that swim the seas, the lakes, the streams,
And tempt the thoughtful angler to their marge;
Glance at the life that fills our native woods, and game of Asian plains, and Afric wilds.
When soft May breezes fan the early woods, and with her magic wand the blue-eye'd Spring
Quickens the swelling blossoms and the buds,
Then forth the russet partridge leads her brood, while on the fallen tree-trunk drums her mate ;
The quail her young in tangled thicket hides, the dun deer with their fawns the forests range,
The wild geese platoons hasten far in air, the wild ducks from their Southern lagoons pass,
And soaring high their Northward journeyings take, The dusky coot along the coast-line sweeps,
The piping snipe and plover that frequent,
The sandy bars and beaches, wing their flight, And all the grassy prairies of the West,
Team with the speckled younglings of the grouse, And all the budding forests and the streams
Are gay with beauty, joyous with young life.
Then swell the first bird melodies; the wren chirrups and perches on the garden rail,
The blue-bird twitters on the lilac hedge, or flits on azure wings from tree to tree;
The golden robin on the apple-bough, hovers, where last year's withered nest had been,
The darting swallows circle o'er the roof, the woodpeckers on trunk of gnarled trees
Tap their quick drum-beats with their horny beaks, the crow caws hoarsely from the blasted pine,
High in mid-air the sailing hawk is poised, while from the grove the purple pigeon-flocks,
Burst with loud flapping in the grain-sown fields.
Fair is the scene in Autumn, when the frosts from palettes rich, with prodigal, gorgeous brush
Color the nodding groves with brown and gold.
Then silvery-skied, and purple-hazed the dome of heaven's deep vault, and fair the earth below.
Far up, where sunny uplands scope their sides, shaggy with woods, prone to the brimming stream,
Where bowering beech trees shake their laden boughs, and oaks their varnished acorns high uplift,
Where the broad butter-nut its gummy fruit in russet husks slow-ripens day by day,
And where in crowded ranks the chestnut groves waves out their broad-leaved pennons to the air,
And from their prickly burs shake treasures down, there the quick clusterings of the squirrels sound.
The gentle valley with its belt of hills crowned to their tops with grand, primeval woods,
Glows with all forms and hues that nature loves.
Deep in its hollow stretch meadows brightly green, kept verdurous by the full o’erflowing stream ;
Yet the deep swamps and thickets that engird, the river-reaches, are resplendent all,
Their umbrage tinctur'd with imperial dyes.
The maples tall with blood-red foliage burn, the hickories clap their palms of burnish'd gold,
The poplar thrusts its yellow spire in air, the russet oaks and purpled dogwoods blend,
Their colors with the alder's sable green and scarlet sumacks; all contrasted rich
With sombre evergreens, and willows pale.
And when the winds autumnal, wailing strip the frosted foliage, like a host they stand,
With trailing banners and with drooping plumes.
Such be the scenes in wondrous forest-land
Such be the scenes by sea and lake and stream
That we would picture; wild romantic scenes,
Dear to the hunter's and the angler's soul.
-Isaac McLelllan
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Dec 30, 2021
Metaphysics of Deer Hunting - October 2, 1873
METAPHYSICS OF DEER HUNTING
When the financial panic was at its height last week, we visited a wealthy friend whose up-town mansion is palatial, his income from safe and judicious investments always ample and assured, and his bank account invariably showing a balance to his credit of many thousands. A gentleman who dabbles little in speculative risks; and whom cares of State and fluctuations of the market of late do not perplex ; one of those rare exceptions among men, content with sufficient and not ambitious for more. Surely, his was a case not, within the range of human probability, to be affected by any financial crash or monetary crisis.
And yet, so intricate and searching are the ramifications of disorder in times like these, when even the most provident and conservative find themselves suddenly cramped for means, that he was unable to command a dollar from ordinary or extraordinary resources. Said he: "I have a balance in bank of $20,000, but all the cash I can raise is a paltry two hundred dollars. It is just enough to take me to the Adirondacks. I am getting my guns and traps together, and tomorrow I start for Paul Smith's, to bury myself in the woods and seek oblivion until the storm is over!"
Happy the man who can thus drive dull care away at will, and turn aside the impending wave of trouble ! The bank to which he has confided his trusts may break in his absence and swallow all his surplus; the business, hitherto lucrative, in which he is a silent partner, may suspend and cut off his monthly income; dividend paying stocks may depreciate until they are quoted at half their value; bonds and mortgages may cease to be negotiable; still, like the ostrich with his head in the bush he may roam the forest in blissful ignorance of his misfortunes, and follow his quest for game with a blithesome heart and bounding step! Who would not be an ardent sportsman?
Such a man as this never allows business to interfere with his shooting. We wish the same were true of the herd of speculators who squeeze values, upset the market, and set the mercantile world at their wits end. Would that some good genius would inspire them to goof? For "a day's shooting," and stay until the panic subsides! Ah! there is some soothing influence in this going apart to commune with nature in her solitudes, that makes us forget the struggles of life and our worldly troubles. It banishes all inordinate desires, simplifies our tastes, and makes us contented with mere food, raiment and shelter, which, after all, constitute the sole necessaries of life.
This free existence among the woods, with heaven's canopy over us, the crisp and fallen leaves beneath our feet, and the pure untainted air to breathe: it gives us elasticity of step and expands the lungs; it enlarges the generous impulses of man; it dignifies his own self-respect; it makes him noble!
In this quiet unconcerned existence, he finds himself moving in a new world populous with strange creatures, with whom in time he learns to hold familiar converse. The little denizens of the stumps and hollow logs become accustomed to his presence at last. When the first sound of his coming footfall was heard, they all hid away. The first warning twig that snapped admonished them to be wary and lie perdu. All was silent as the grave, except when a rustling leaf dropped down, or a walnut slipped from its opening shell aloft. But presently the head of a little gopher popped from under a dry leaf, then his body crept stealthily out, and in a minute with a sharp squeak to show the coast was clear, he rustled away. Then a woodpecker peered cautiously from behind the trunk of a tree, and commenced to hammer, and from a neighboring limb a red squirrel sprung his sharp, shrill rattle. A garter snake glided noiselessly from under a stump and slid into a bog hole, from which an autumn frog already intoned his solemn staccato bass.
As we have said, one learns to comprehend the language of these little creatures, and understanding them thoroughly wonders how any man can be so unkind and thoughtless as to blow out their little lives with powder and shot. Even the deer begin to understand him at last, and if he is harmless and uses no gun, will repose such confidence in his honor that they will actually bring the rising generation of agile fawns to drink from the very spring that supplies his camp. Then when both have become better acquainted by closer contact, the sportsman will learn to look into their lustrous eyes as lovingly as did Don Juan into Donna Julia's; and all his conscience will rise up against him in reproof for his cruel slaughter in bygone years. His resentment will follow the hunter who dares to lay violent hands upon these innocent creatures whom he has learned to regard as his companions.
If his larder becomes empty, he will have to select another locality where the deer are wild. It is only when they are running, that he can make up his mind to shoot. If bucks and does would only walk gently up to the magnanimous hunter when they see him stalking in the distance, they would never get shot. Even the tiger seldom springs upon a creature that is not in motion. This is nature. We are a creation of pursuers and pursued, but not insatiable for that reason, by any means. If one will not run, there can be no pursuit. It is only human beings like the Neros, Herods, and Caligulas that butcher in cold blood.
These are the metaphysics of deer hunting. He who has studied the subject thoroughly, will find his thoughts yielding a responsive assent to their truthfulness.
Now is the time for enjoying the full fruition of the delights which a ramble in the forests affords. Whether it be in the eager pursuit of the chase, or in the simpler study of the gorgeous tints of autumn, in breathing the sharp, invigorating frosty air, or in seeking merely a temporary relaxation from business cares, the glorious month of October yields an appreciable reward which no other month affords.
Episode Part 2
THE WASTE OF TIMBER.
A Paragraph floating around states that the Indians upon the Leech Lake Reservation, in Minnesota, have become so enraged at the destruction of timber on their lands that they have taken the war path, and are burning the lumbermen's hay by way of reprisal.
Here is a lesson for the Hon. Joel T. Headley and those very few other gentlemen who deny that cutting away our forests will diminish our water supply, or work out climatic and organic changes that must prove detrimental.
Even the untutored savage can appreciate the value of our forests to the extent that, he not only implores that the "woodman spare that tree," but absolutely insists upon it in a way that is neither gentle nor kind. He realizes that the denudation of the earth is extermination to the red man, and that with the deep damnation of the taking off of its timber, food, fuel, shelter, navigable waters, and means of transportation all vanish.
Geology tells us that the mosses and ferns were the first vegetable products that grew upon the surface of the earth, and that, the pines and then the deciduous forest trees succeeded; and after them came animal life. By inversion, it is easy to determine that animal life must perish after the trees are destroyed.
It is the duty of man, by what he owes to his fellows, if not by the universal law of self-preservation, to prevent so sweeping a calamity. And man, when impelled to that sterner mood which horrible conviction brings, will not stop to "argify" the question with the Hon. J. T. Headley, et al, but, taking the ounce of prevention in his hands, make the advocates and defenders of timber-cutting "cut stick" in a fashion which will throw all the devices of the Minnesota redskins far in the shade.
Episode Part 3
Difference in Weights
Does a sportsman's full bag or basket ever feel heavy?
For the sensation of the strap over the shoulder is, doubtless, very different from what it would have been if, instead of beautifu…
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Dec 22, 2021
Caribou Hunting in Nova Scotia - September 25, 1873
Hunting Caribou in Nova Scotia
Cobequid Mountains, Near Westchester, Nova Scotia
September 8th, 1873.
Dear Editor Forest and Stream: —
Thanks to some instructions given by you to me, as to time and locality, while in your city in June last, I have had the satisfaction of killing my first caribou. As I had informed you, when last I had the pleasure of seeing you, I was not unfamiliar with hunting this animal, having killed three caribou in 1871, and two last year in New Brunswick.
My traps I had sent to a friend in Halifax about the middle of August, and I found them in good order on arrival. At Halifax I stayed a day, and bought a Hudson Bay frieze coat, an admirable protection for bad weather. This with two rubber blankets, a bag or so of buck shot, and a special kind of camp hatchet, made for me deftly by a clever Irish blacksmith, completed my list of purchases.
Early next morning after an admirable breakfast at the Halifax House, I took the Inter-Colonial railway to Truro, stopping there at the Prince of Wales Hotel, kept by the most jovial of hosts and Scots, Mr. McKenzie. Truro is a charming little village at the head of an arm of the Bay of Fundy, and is much visited, being the best place to see the wonderful tidal action of the water, known as the Bore.
Every fine day hundreds of people drawn from all parts of the world assemble on the bridge which spans the Salmon River, awaiting the coming of the huge tidal wave. Sometimes when wind and tide favor, it rises like a wall, ten feet high, and sweeps on up the Sound. I know of no phenomenon which impresses one more vividly with the idea of the grand, rhythmic power of nature, and I fancy if Herbert Spencer had ever seen it, he would have used it as an illustration. I took some pains to measure accurately the absolute rise of the tide. Taking my sea tackle and sinker, and letting it fall until it touched the bottom, at low water, landing the sinker fast in the mud, and marking the length of the line afterwards, where it was just on the top of the water, the difference I found to be sixty-four feet, eleven inches. Its approach is heralded by a deep, sullen roar.
At Truro I remained all day, having to make arrangements for the hiring of horse and buggy for a week or so, not only to carry me and my traps to Purdy's, some thirty-five miles distant, but to facilitate any movements I might desire to make. Next morning, with a very good horse, and a rough but strong vehicle, furnished me by McKenzie, I started on my way, my road having been quite thoroughly explained to me. The country I passed through was magnificent. Dark, umbrageous spruce woods, sombre in character, were relieved occasionally by the brighter colored maples. Sometimes gloomy gorges, hardly wide enough for the buggy to pass through, were almost sepulchral from the heavy shadows of the mountains.
In one place the road led along a mere shelf of rock, the Londonderry, a noble stream, rushing along below me. It was a rough road, so that it was almost nightfall before I reached Purdy's. There I found myself in admirable quarters. To the kindness of the host, Mr. Purdy, was added the more delicate attentions of the Misses Purdy, three very handsome and highly educated women. As Purdy's was to be my base of operations, I immediately commenced getting together my supplies, and the question of guides was paramount. I had the choice of several excellent men. Following the advice of my host, I chose George Beesewanger, a native of the place, and secured his services, agreeing to pay him $1.50 a day and to find him. My second guide I was instructed to find later.
At Purdy's I laid in the heavy rations, such as pork, tea, coffee, flour, Indian meal, etc...T here never was such a glorious view as I had from my window when I rose next morning. Far, far below me were interminable forests of spruce, huge billows of green leaves, surging to and fro with the breeze, and away beyond lay placidly the dark blue waters of the Bay of Fundy. I tarried here fully three days — days of delightful laziness, pure days of sensuous enjoyment pretending, it is true, to perfect my arrangements, just breathing in the fragrance of the glorious woods, perhaps a little indifferent as to caribou. At last Beese (the final "wanger" to his name I shall drop in the future as quite superfluous) said to me at dinner that "he thought matters were now in good trim, and that he felt it was caribou weather, and that it was time to go to Castlereagh. "
In Castlereagh dwelt John Gamble, a famous moose and caribou hunter, who tilled a farm there. Taking horse and buggy, well laden down with provisions, we left Purdy's, and reached Castlereagh, a sparsely peopled settlement, at about dusk. Gamble I found at prayers. There was something inexpressibly solemn in the picture I saw there. In the small rough house were assembled the family, and by the flickering fire Gamble was reading to them the prayers, in deep, sonorous language. I hesitated almost to tell my errand. The last amen was pronounced with unction, when I told him the purpose of my coming. "I was for caribou, and would he join me for ten days or so." He quickly assented, and seemed pleased to go.
A more wild place than Castlereagh, as to topography, I never saw. It is the ideal of a spot where civilization ends and a wilderness begins. The people who live here, some forty souls all told, are scattered over an area of about fifty miles. They are all Scotch-Irish, were among the early settlers of the island, and are strictly religious and trustworthy. Their honesty may be shown by the fact that a lock on a door is unknown. Their ideas are primitive, and their language Scotch-English, with a dialect of their own. With but few wants, ignorant of the world or its surroundings, many of them, perhaps, have never, save when hunting, gone out of the shadows of their woods. Everything was arranged for an early start.
My party had now an addition George Gamble, a highly intelligent lad of sixteen, with the pseudonym of "Dandy," going with us. Gamble had located a lodge for moose and caribou some six miles from the settlement, which was our objective point.
Next morning, before dawn, we started, dividing the buggy-load between us, the horse and vehicle remaining at Castlereagh. My battery consisted of a Remington, a Ballard, and a smooth bore No. 10. My guides told me that it would be a long and tedious tramp, uphill all the way, and so it proved to be. Bass river, quite a brawling stream, waist deep, was forded; no easy task for me, "heavily accoutred" as I was, and, after a scramble up its steep, rocky banks, at last we struck the woodlands. Here we visited what Dandy called Porcupine Den, when Dandy soon ousted a porcupine, which he slew. Here we halted, took a bite, and started again after some ten minutes' rest, and, skirting the woods, a half hour before sundown reached Gamble's lodge, just on the edge of the caribou barren.
The lodge was well built; three of the walls were of logs, the other made of piled stones. The floor had been well rammed down, and it was sweet and clean. Near it gurgled a limpid spring. What struck me most about these Nova Scotia woods was the intense, almost painful stillness. Nature must take her kief here, to awaken later, when, in a paroxysm of passion, with icy blasts she lays low the majestic trees.
Beese, Gamble, and Dandy in a trice had everything in military order. Of cooking paraphernalia, a kettle and a frying pan made up the catalogue. Of fragile china or stronger delf had we none. In a half hour, with pliant birch bark and threads of withewood, cups, dishes, and plates were improvised, quite as useful and more durable than those made by the potter's wheel. Fresh spruce boughs of aromatic fragrance, so excellent for consumptives, were spread on the floor. Dandy had killed four grouse as we left Castlereagh, and a good supper was assured us.
Gamble was desirous of having varie…
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Dec 16, 2021
Reminiscence of Lake Superior - February 26, 1874
REMINISCENCE OF LAKE SUPERIOR
BY THOMAS SEDGWICK STEELE
It was with a hearty laugh that Dr. W. bounded into my room one bright morning in the latter part of September, without waiting to knock or in any way announce his arrival. In almost the same breath he called out, “Why! you’re a pretty fellow to be housed here all day long, fussing over those feathers and wires ! Why are you not on the river trolling, or in the woods after partridges? Come, put up those tools and lets off for a day’s tramp. Peter has put up enough luncheon for two, so pick up your gun and come on.” The fact was, that for the past week I had spent a great portion of my time stuffing birds. I had collected some two dozen, peculiar to the Lake Superior region, and had packed them away preparatory to leaving on “the last boat of the season.” At the present time I had under consideration a Canada jay or “Whiskey Jack,”as they are sometimes called, and was manipulating it in the usual manner. I had just turned the skin of the bird to its natural position and was making a body of hemp as near the size of the original as possible, when the Doctor entered and accosted me with above salutation.
Doctor W. was an Englishman, but, instead of possessing the rotund figure which “John Bull” is always supposed to have, he was tall and slim, with that restless activity of manner and overflow of fun and jollity which are the proverbial dignity of an Englishman. He was “a hale fellow, well met” and consequently a favorite with all. His bright face alone brought relief and happiness to a sick room, and as a companion in the woods, he was everything that could be desired. All these attractive qualities were really the secret of his success as a physician—setting aside the fact of there being no other within a radius of thirteen miles. It would indeed have been a brave man who could venture to “hang out his shingle” in competition with Doctor W. Although loath to leave my bird half finished, I knew the Doctor’s company would well repay me, so I carefully smoothed down the plumage and depositing the skin in my drawer, looked about for my gun.
To most people, my room might not have been attractive, but to me, as a sportsman, it was perfection. The pegs around the room, not covered by wearing apparel, were decorated with fishing rods, creels, nets and all the paraphernalia of an angler, while in one corner, carefully packed in cotton, were skins of birds and jars of agates which I had collected during four month’s occupation of the premises. In one corner lay my game bag and a pair of deer’s antlers, while last but not least, stood my ever-faithful friend, my gun. To throw on my hunting coat, whose numerous pockets were made to contain everything from game to percussion caps, was the work of an instant, and shouldering my gun, I locked the door and followed the Doctor down stairs and out into the street.
It was a lovely morning, bright, clear and frosty, with but little wind to stir the waves of old Superior, in -whose mirror-like surface was reflected the deep blue of the sky. With one long lingering look down the Lake to see that no steamer was in sight, (as their arrival always made a holiday at Ontonagon,) we turned our backs on the scene, and passing through the town, followed the old corduroy road into the woods. Occasionally we stopped to pick a few berries, the last of the season, to snatch a few ferns from the wayside or to cut from some old stump a pretty bit of moss. It would have been better for me if, for once, I had let the “pretty mosses” go, for a favorite hunting knife mounted in ivory and silver, a relic of “our late unpleasantness” may, for aught I know, be still sticking in that old stump or some friendly Indian may have slipped it into his belt ere this. If so, I can safely assure him that he has secured a first-rate piece of cutlery.
Mile after mile we plodded up the road, our dogs working in the woods to the right and left, occasionally starting a partridge which fell by the Doctor’s unerring aim. Through the stillness of the woods came the sound of the great tree pecker or woodcock of the northern woods, his body of black and white feathers, almost as large as a partridge and a crest of Vermillion that would put a sunset to blush.
Soon we came to the thickest part of the woods where the great trees encroached on the road, and tossed their long branches into dangerous proximity to the stages for the mines. Although the morning was calm, not so had been the night previous, and across our path lay numerous mementoes of the gale, around which we had to work our way.
While passing through one of these thickets of fallen branches, our dogs came to a point. Cocking our guns, we made ready for whatever should be flushed. The next moment, whir-r r-r, that music so melodious to all sportsmen’s ears, and up sprang two partridges, the Doctor covering one and I the other. The smoke had hardly cleared away when up sprang another brace, followed almost immediately by a single bird. Being wholly unprepared for quite so many in one spot, we only knocked two, Dr.W. missing the last one. It was with great difficulty we could restrain the dogs and prevent them from rushing in, as we had not as yet retrieved a bird. But it was well we did, for a few feet further on Spot came to a point, backed by Hero in the most graceful manner possible. The undergrowth was very thick, long vines stretching from tree to tree, and across our path in every direction innumerable slippery branches covered the ground, but as Spot very seldom deceived us we pushed forward to where he stood.
The Doctor, who was a little in advance, had hardly reached the dogs when up sprang another brace of partridges which he dropped with his right and left barrel. Re-loading, we “quartered” the ground, but not another bird could be flushed, so, picking up those we had killed, we returned to the road, satisfied in bagging six out of a flock of seven. Where that seventh bird disappeared we never could discover; possibly into a swamp hard by, but we contented our minds with the thought that some other sportsman would retrieve him and that we ought to be generous. On we tramped along that corduroy road, every foot of which is so distinct in my memory, until we arrived at an old log house, a few rods back from the road, at whose door we knocked and were greeted with “come in” from a remarkably healthy pair of lungs.
The hut contained but two rooms, the latter of which could hardly be called a room, but rather a shed, and contained wood and various tubs arranged for the week’s washing. In the centre of the main room stood an old-fashioned iron box stove, while from the rafters above hung sundry ears of corn, aspargus branches and hams. The female members of the household were grouped around in various corners while the brawny head of the house sat resting one arm on the table and smoking an old clay pipe. To our request for a “glass of water” we received a decided “no,” but the “Lieut. Governor” of the family finally produced a cup of milk, saying that the well had given out and the spring was half a mile distant, but if we would accept of this, (holding forward the cup,) she would be pleased.
The cup was of stone china, had evidently seen better days, and been younger and prettier. The handle was gone and the edge looked as if it had withstood a charge of grape and cannister, while numerous dark spots confirmed the fact of there being no water in the house ! But we were wry thirsty and had a walk still of four long miles before we reached another house or the mining town of Rockland, towards which we were bending: our steps; so, shutting our eyes, we each in turn lifted the cup and it-was all over! Thanking them for their kindness, we were soon deep in the woods again, hoping that another bird or two might fall to our bag. We were not disappointed, for we soon f…
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