On the 24th day of April, 1909, at Seattle, Washington, a jolly crowd of hunters dragged, pushed or rolled their grips, guns and baggage up the gangplank and over the freight-strewn decks of the “SS. Ohio.” We emerged from our staterooms, where our effects had been securely stored, in time for the last blast of the whistle and the mate’s ringing cry of “All clear, sir,” telling us we were afloat and bound for our longplanned bear hunt on the far-off island of Kadiak, Alaska.
When the lights are burning lowly and the cares of day have flown, And I go and get my meersham from its shelf, When the house is dark and silent and I sit and smoke alone, I have often asked these questions of myself. Why are we forever chasing fleeting rainbows in the sky As we tread upon the blossoms of the flowers?
Reciting an adventuresome hunting and prospecting trip by pack in Montana, on which elk, goat and two kinds of bear were killed. The Terrors of a forest fire experienced. Face to face with a big grizzly bear.
H. M. RALSTON
In the autumn of 1906 three of us, Joe Ralston, William Harris and the author, started from the mouth of the Teton River Canon near the town of Choteau, in Northern Montana, for a six weeks’ outing. Our outfit consisted of a pack horse and saddle horse to each man, tent, bedding, arms, ammunition, an excellent camera, and sufficient food and other necessities to last for six weeks.
Once Bill an’ me, we took our gun, and went way down there by the crik, An’ pointed it at rocks and things,—by Jiminy! She went off quick! An’ all at once a big jack-rabbit jumped right at us through the air; Scared me so I pulled the trigger, and the rabbit died right there!
How that name brings back memories of the long ago—of my boyhood home away near the headwaters of the Delaware River, in the good old State of New York. I can see a bare-footed, rugged boy trailing along behind his larger brother with some trout on a willow string, watching with eager eyes while his brother carefully drops the hook, baited with a wriggling angleworm, over the bank, and watching with trembling eagerness as the trout “bit,” and then I can see the proud look of satisfaction as another speckled beauty is added to his string.
Did you think it possible? Eh? Neither did we. But it was worse than possible—it actually took place. What was it, you say? It was skees! Feet-sleds! Pedal-slippers! Bed-slats tied to the tootsie-wootsies! As an editor, we are expected to give advice—free, of course.
I am longing for the mountains of my Colorado home, As the setting sun is sinking out of sight behind the crest, And the dimmest blue-black shadows blacker grow about the dome, While the roseate hues of glory stain the clouds out in the West. I am longing for those mountains, as the night comes slipping down, And the darkness steals so swiftly, robbing all the light of day, When the hush of Nature’s silence telís the soul that night has come.
July 18, 1908, a company of “mountaineers*” left Seattle to climb Mount Baker. An ambitious undertaking, truly, but characteristic of the organization. The club’s summer outings are planned to get a maximum of joy and benefit at a minimum of expense and responsibility to individuals.
Sitting Bull (Tataanka Yotanka), the most talked of Indian that ever lived, was born on Willow Creek, Dakota, in the year 1837. From his boyhood days to the time of his death he showed by his actions and deeds that he had an unruly disposition and could never be trusted.
As has been our custom for several years, we gathered the family together on Christmas Day (two of whom, Carlton, our eldest son, and Carl, a halfbrother, had been in New York City attending Columbia University), and on Christmas night, after spending the day at home feasting on the good things, we boarded the I. & G. N. train at 9 o’clock, with bright hopes and anticipations of a good time for the next ten days, away from the things that annoy, and left for the wilds of the country, where we could get close to the heart of Nature, and enjoy ourselves among the wild animals and fowls.
Phil Oberlander (“Count Orlando”), some of whose big game stories have appeared in Outdoor Life, does not entertain a very elevated opinion of musk-ox hunting, as expressed in a late personal letter received by the editor from him.
Within the last years—a very few years, too—some far-sighted men, notably Jas. J. Hill, of the Great Northern Railway, have looked into the future and seen impending calamity in the wastefull, reckless way that America handles her natural resources.
Outdoor Life will be glad to receive information at any time of any infraction of the game laws of any state. Such information will always be immediately communicated to the game department of the state in which the infringement is alleged to have been committed, after which it will be our aim to exercise a stringent espionage over the carrying out of the game department’s duties in the premises.
P. M. W., Sterling, Kan.—There is some kind of an epidemic going the rounds here and many dogs are afflicted. Have observed these symptoms: Jerking of legs and body, scratching at mouth and throat, feverish, can’t eat or drink, throw head back and neck jerks, after a time dog dies.
Rapid Fire Work with Revolver—A Valuable Rifle Relic
A .50 Caliber Repeating Shotgun
For the Practical .22 Caliber Revolver
The 7 mm. Mauser
Information Wanted on Bolt Action
Headed Shells and Auto-Loading Guns
The New N. P. W. Bullet
Will Some One Please Answer
Prefers the .41 Colt S. A.
The Three-Barrel Gun
Colts' New Service Adopted
Arms and Ammunition Queries
A Re-Built Remington-Lee
Prefers It in .25 Stevens Rim Fire
More on the Same Subject
Some New Books
“Pistol,” I find by looking in the dictionary, means any small weapon of the cutting or shooting kind. The name originally was applied, apparently, to a small dagger, or knife, that was invented in an Italian city which gave it the name, much as Col.
This number will be the peer of all former issues in genuine goodness. It will contain another of those real big game hunting stories which have in the past few months marked our triumphant approach to the year 1910. These big game stories that have been appearing in Outdoor Life (and, by the way, which will continue to appear in as magnificent a manner as heretofore), our readers will note, are by sportsmen who have been there—not by the professional story writer who gets his data from a hunter or friend and then colors it up—but by the most eminent and best qualified sportsmen on this continent.
The Peters Cartridge Company calendar for 1910, while radically different from its forerunners, both as to subject and treatment, is fully up to the standard of artistic excellence maintained in the pictorial advertising of this company.