American Big Game in Its Haunts - Various
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The magpie, on the other hand, seemed to have a warm feeling for his big
friend, and once at least we saw him flying about an eagle's nest and
warning the old birds of our approach with his harsh cry.
One good day among many bad ones showed no more bear signs, so we soaped
the seams of the otter boat, which leaked badly, and set sail for Three
Saints Bay, named after Shelikoff's ship. This proved to be a narrow
piece of water running far inland, with snow-covered mountain sides, and
by far the most beautiful fjord on the island.
There were no bear signs, however, and a favorable wind carried us
eastward toward Kaluda Bay, where Kidder and Blake were hunting. On our
way we stopped at Steragowan, an interesting little village, bought a
few stores, and secured some interesting stone lamps, and whale spears,
with throwing sticks.
Once in Kaluda Bay, we found Kidder's and Blake's barabara where they
made headquarters, and their cook informed us that both sportsmen were
many miles up the bay after bear.
Several years ago there was a flourishing colony of natives at the
entrance to Kaluda Bay, but now there are only two hunting barabaras, a
broken down chapel, and a good-sized graveyard. The village prospered
until one day a dead whale was reported not far from land. All the
inhabitants gorged themselves on the putrid blubber, and they died
almost to a man.
The Kadiakers show a good deal of courage in whale hunting. With nothing
but their whale spears tipped with slate, two men will run close up to a
whale, drive two spears home with a throwing stick, and make off
again. The slate is believed in some way to poison the animal, and he
often dies within a short time. The natives go home, return in a few
days, and, if lucky, find the whale in the same bay. Whales are plenty,
and were sometimes annoying to us, playing too near our otter boat. On
one occasion we tried a shot at one that was paying us too much
attention, and persuaded the big chap to leave us in peace.
Bad weather held us fast several days, but we finally made the southeast
corner of the island, and from there had good wind to Kadiak. On our way
we passed Uyak, one of the blue fox islands. Raising these animals for
their fur has become a regular business, and when furs are high it pays
well. The blue fox has been found to be the only one that multiplies
well in comparative captivity, and he thrives on salmon flesh.
At Wood Island, news came to us through prospectors, of a bear in
English Bay, south of Kadiak village. This bay is well known as a good
bear ground, and at the end of the bay there are some huge iron cages
weighing tons which were used as bear traps, some years ago, by men
working for the Smithsonian Institution.
We found bear tracks coming into the valley, down one mountain side, and
leading out over the opposite mountain, and were obliged to return to
Wood Island empty handed.
Merriam now decided to return home on the next boat, and after a few
days I started off for the north side of Kadiak in an otter boat fitted
with sail, picking up on the way a white man, Jack Robinson, and a
native hunter, Vacille, at Ozinka, a small village on Spruce Island. My
men proved a good combination, but we were all obliged to work hard for
two months before a bear was finally secured.
We tried bay after bay, and were often held up, and for days at a time
kept from good grounds by stormy weather and bad winds. The inability to
do anything for long periods made these months the most wearing I have
ever passed. Our little open boat went well only before the wind, but,
as somebody has said, the prevailing winds in Alaska are head winds, and
we spent many long hours at the oars.
Although we had a good tent with us, we used, for the most part, the
native hunting barabara for shelter. These are fairly clean and
comfortable, and are found in every bay of any size.
The natives inherit their hunting grounds, and are apparently scrupulous
in observing each other's rights. In fact, it is dangerous to invade
another man's trapping country, as one may spring a Klipse trap set for
fox and otter, and receive a dangerous gash from the blade that makes
these contrivances so deadly.
On the way to the hunting grounds Vacille pointed out to us a cliff
where he once had an exciting bear hunt.
There were two hunters, and they were fortunate enough to locate an
inhabited den in early spring. Two bears were killed through crevices in
the rocks, but the men suspected there was still one inside, and Vacille
crawled in to make sure. He found himself in a fair sized chamber with
a bear at the other end, and a lucky shot tumbled the animal at his
feet.
This story brought up others of bear hunting with the lance. Before
firearms came into common use, boys were given lessons in fighting the
bear with the lance, and became very expert at it. Their method was to
approach a bear as closely as possible, without being seen, then show
themselves suddenly, and as the bear reared strike home. The lance was
held fast by the native, and the bear was often mortally wounded by
forcing the lance into himself in his struggles to reach his enemy.
This class of native no longer exists on Kadiak, but it is said there is
one famous old Aleut near Iliamna Lake on the mainland who scorns any
but this method of hunting.
High above the den where the three bears were killed was a scoop out of
the cliff called the shaman's barabara. Here, before Russian times, the
shamans or witches were buried, and here also were kept the masks used
in certain ceremonial rites. The Russians removed the mummies and masks
long ago.
The shamans were considered oracles. It was claimed they could prevent a
whale from swimming out of a bay by dragging a bag of fat, extracted
from the dead body of a newly born infant, across the entrance. Their
instructions were unfailingly obeyed, as it was supposed they could
cause death as a punishment for their enemies.
One evening at our first halting place beyond Ozinka, we found tracks in
the snow on one side of our valley, and early in the morning came upon a
two-year-old bear, not far from camp. The bear was grubbing about on the
hillside, and we took our position so that he crossed us under a hundred
yards. Unbeknown to me, and just as I was about to fire, my native gave
the caw of a raven to hold the bear up. He whipped around and faced us,
my bullet entering the brush on one side of him. Off he rushed into the
woods with the dog after him. I followed, and on coming out into a
clearing saw the dog being left far behind on the mountain side. Old
Tchort was not in condition. This was sad and illustrated the fact that
it is sometimes best to be alone.
[Illustration: BEAR PATHS, KODIAK ISLAND.]
We next tried Kaguiac Bay and here spent many days. Two bears had been
killed by the natives near the barabara where we camped, and there was
plenty of sign.
Before sunrise we were watching from a good position, and it was
scarcely light when Vacille made out a big bear, two miles or more
away. He was traveling the snow arete of the mountain opposite, and
trying to find a good descent into our valley. One could see the huge
body and head plainly with the naked eye against the sky-line as he made
his way rapidly through the deep snow. Finally he found a place
somewhat bare of snow and gave us a splendid exhibition of rock
climbing. It took little time for him to get down into the alders,
where he apparently dropped asleep. To our astonishment he woke up about
10 o'clock and worked down toward the bottom land. We stalked him in the
woods and alders, which were very thick, within 300 yards, and here I
should have risked a shot at his hindquarters showing up brown against
the hillside, and seemingly as large as a horse.
We chanced a nearer approach, though the wind was treacherous, and
coming up to a spot where we could have viewed him found the monster had
decamped. All attempts to locate him again were fruitless.
The bear paths around this bay were a very interesting study. They are
hammered deep into the earth, and afford as good means of traveling as
the New Brunswick moose paths.
Sometimes instead of a single road we have a double one, the bear using
one path for the legs of each side of his body. Again, on soft mossy
side hills, instead of paths we find single footprints which have been
used over and over, and made into huge saucers, it being the custom of
the bear to take long strides on the side hills, and to step into the
impressions made by other animals which had traveled ahead of it.
The red salmon were beginning to run, and some fishermen in another part
of the bay supplied us, from time to time, from their nets. Especially
good were the salmon heads roasted.
Bear sign failed, and Afognak Island, where Vacille shot and trapped,
had been so much talked about, that I determined to see it for myself,
and with a good wind we rowed across the straits and sailed twelve miles
into the island by Kofikoski Bay.
[Illustration: BEAR PATHS, KODIAK ISLAND.]
Scattered along up the bay were small islands, and these furnished us
with a good supply of gulls' eggs, which lasted many days.
The Afognak coast is heavily wooded with spruce, while a large plateau
in the interior is almost barren, and gave good opportunity for using
the glasses.
During several days at the head of Kofikoski Bay nothing was seen, so we
packed up and crossed a large piece of the island by portages and a
chain of lakes, where our Osgood boat was indispensable. The country
crossed was like a beautiful park of meadows, groves and lakes, and one
could scarcely believe it was uncultivated.
The Red Salmon River of Seal Harbor, to which we were headed, could not
fail us, for bear could scoop out the salmon in armfuls below the lower
falls, so Vacille said, and he was honest, and now as keen as anything
while traveling his own hunting grounds.
For a whole week a northeast storm blew directly toward the bay, and
kept us in camp. It was fishing weather, however, and my fly-rod, with a
Parmachenee belle, kept us well supplied with steelheads and speckled
trout, which were plentiful in the clear waters of a wandering trout
brook running through a meadow below the camp.
A calm evening came finally, and we paddled down the last lake, some
three miles, to the famous pool.
There were the salmon swarming below the fall, and many constantly in
the air on their upward journey, but the eagles perched high on the dark
spruces, closing in the swirling water, were all they had to fear. There
were no bears and no fresh bear signs. It was an ideal spot, this salmon
pool, but a feast for the eyes only, as the red salmon will not rise to
a fly. Even Tchort looked disconsolate on our track back to Ozinka.
About July 10 there is usually a run of dog salmon, and not much later
another of humpbacks. The dog salmon grow to be about twice as large as
the red salmon, and often weigh 12 pounds. They are much more sluggish
than the red fish, and as they prefer the small shallow streams, become
an easy prey for the bear. The humpback fish are fatter and better
eating even than the red salmon, but are somewhat smaller.
The red fish never ascend a stream which has not a lake on its upper
waters for spawning. The dog and humpback, on the contrary, are not so
particular, and are found almost everywhere. In September there is a run
of silver salmon, which, like the red salmon, will only swim a stream
with a lake at its head. They run up to 40 pounds, and the bears grow
fat on them before turning into winter quarters. The skeletons of this
big fish, cleaned by bear, are found along every small stream running
from the lakes.
The large canneries, like the one at Karluk, on Karluk River, near the
western end of Kadiak, put up only the red salmon. They are not nearly
as good eating as the humpback or silver salmon, but are red, and this
color distinction the market demands. The catches at Karluk run up into
the tens of thousands, and one thinks of this with many misgivings,
remembering the fate of the sea otter and bear. Good hatcheries are
constantly busy, keeping up the supply, but it appears that though one
in every ten thousand of these fish is marked before being set free, so
far as known no marked fish have ever been captured.
On our return to Kadiak Island, we found the streams still free of
salmon, and the vegetation had become so rank as to interfere a good
deal with traveling and sighting game. The whole party looked serious,
and the strain was beginning to tell, no game having been seen for seven
long weeks. This, with the swarms of gnats and mosquitoes, made time
pass heavily.
Other places proving barren, we finally brought up at Wesnoi Leide, half
an hour's row from Ozinka, and found the dog fish just beginning to run
up stream, at the head of the bay. Better still, there were fresh bear
tracks.
The wind was favorable, and we stationed ourselves the first evening on
a bluff overlooking a long meadow, on the lower part of the stream.
Hardly had we sat down, when Vacille said: "If that brown spot on the
hillside were not so large, I would take it for a bear." The brown spot
promptly walked into the woods, half a mile away. We were keen enough
again, but our watching proved fruitless, as nothing came down on the
meadow, showing that there was good fishing well up the stream.
We rowed back to Ozinka, and left the country undisturbed, determined to
get well into the woods the following night, before the bear came down
to feed.
The next evening we made an early start, and walking up the stream into
the woods found plenty of fresh tracks, and finally halted by some big
trees. The men placed themselves on some high limbs, where they could
watch, and I stood in deep grass, some six or eight feet from a
well-traveled path used by the bear in fishing the stream. The magpies
were calling all about, and seemed to be saying, _Midwit, midwit_,
Aleut for bear. The air was dead calm. Hardly were the men on their
perches, before they saw a bear walk into the brush on one side of the
valley. We waited quietly, in the midst of mosquitoes, but nothing came
in sight. It was already after 10 o'clock, and so dark that the men
gave up their watch, and came down to join me. Suddenly we heard a sharp
screech up the stream, and when it was repeated, Vacille said it must be
a young bear crying because its mother would not feed it fast
enough. Here Vacille did some good work.
We walked rapidly up stream, through the thick brush, and before we had
gone 100 yards heard a large animal, just ahead, moving about in the
brush, and making a good deal of noise. I started ahead to get a view,
thinking we had disturbed the bear, but Vacille held me back. We walked
on noiselessly to a little bare point in the stream, and just then the
bear appeared, bent on fishing, thirty feet away. She lumbered down into
the stream, and when I fired fell into the water, the ball just missing
her shoulder. She was up again, and this time I shot hurriedly, and a
little behind the ribs. She ran, crossing up about forty feet away, and
a trial with the .30-40 scored, but made no impression.
Tchort caught up with her just as she fell, after running a hundred feet
or more, and gave us to understand that he was the responsible party. We
tried immediately to capture the cub, which would have been a rare
prize, but had no success at all in the thicket. The old one, though of
considerable age, was not a large specimen, and, with the exception of
the head, the hair was in bad condition. Length about 6 feet 4 inches;
height at shoulder 44 inches; weight 500 pounds. The stomach was full of
salmon, gleaned from the fishing beds made all along the stream. The
Ozinka people did not enjoy my killing a bear just outside the village.
I caught the boat about a week later, after a few pleasant days with
Kidder and Blake, who had turned up at Wood Island, after a very
successful hunt on the mainland.
A word in regard to the Kadiak bear. Dr. Merriam has proved that he is
distinct from other bear. That he ever reached 2,000 pounds is doubtful
in my mind, but, by comparing measurements of skins, we can be sure he
comes up to 1,200, or a little over. Whether the Kadiak bear is bigger
than the big brown bear of the mainland is doubtful. At present the
growth of these bears is badly interfered with by the natives, and they
rarely reach the old bear age, when these brutes become massive in their
bony structure, and accumulate a vast amount of fat, just before denning
up.
_W. Lord Smith_.
The Mountain Sheep and its Range
The mountain sheep is, in my estimation, the finest of all our American
big game. Many men have killed it and sheep heads are trophies almost as
common as moose heads, and yet among those who have hunted it most and
know it best, but little is really understood as to the life of the
mountain sheep, and many erroneous ideas prevail with regard to it. It
is generally supposed to be an animal found only among the tops of the
loftiest and most rugged mountains, and never to be seen on the lower
ground, and there are still people interested in big game who now and
then ask one confidentially whether there really is anything in the
story that the sheep throw themselves down from great heights, and,
striking on their horns, rebound to their feet without injury.
Each one of us individually knows but little about the mountain sheep,
yet each who has hunted them has observed something of their ways, and
each can contribute some share to an accumulation of facts which some
time may be of assistance to the naturalist who shall write the life
history of this noble species. But unless that naturalist has already
been in the field and has there gathered much material, he is likely to
be hard put to it when the time comes for his story to be written, since
then there may be no mountain sheep to observe or to write of. The sheep
is not likely to be so happy in its biographer as was the buffalo, for
Dr. Allen's monograph on the American bison is a classic among North
American natural history works.
The mountain sheep is an inhabitant of western America, and the books
tell us that it inhabits the Rocky Mountains from southern California to
Alaska. This is sufficiently vague, and I shall endeavor a little
further on to indicate a few places where this species may still be
found, though even so I am unable to assign their ranges to the various
forms that have been described.
For this species seems to have become differentiated into several
species and sub-species, some of which are well marked, and all of which
we do not as yet know much about. These as described are the common
sheep of the Rocky Mountains _(Ovis canadensis_); the white sheep
of Alaska _(Ovis dalli)_, and its near relative, _O. dalli
kenaiensis_; the so-called black sheep of northern British Columbia
(_O. stonei_), described by Dr. Allen; Nelson's sheep of the
southwest (_O. nelsoni_) and _O. mexicanus_, both described by
Dr. Merriam. Besides these, Mr. Hornaday has described _Ovis
fannini_ of Yukon Territory, about which little is known, and
Dr. Merriam has given the sheep of the Missouri River bad lands
sub-specific rank under the title _O.c. auduboni_. Recently
Dr. Elliot has described the Lower California sheep as a sub-species of
the Rocky Mountain form under the name _O.c. cremnobates_. For
twenty-five years I heard of a black sheep-like animal in the central
range of the Rocky Mountains far to the north, said to be not only black
in color, but with black horns, something like those of an antelope, but
in shape and ringed like a female mountain sheep. From specimens
recently examined at the American Museum of Natural History, I now know
this to be the young female of _Ovis stonei_. That several species
of sheep should have been described within the last three or four years
shows, perhaps as well as anything, how very little we know about the
animals of this group.
The sheep of the Rocky Mountains and of the bad lands
(_O. canadensis_ and _O. canadensis auduboni_) are those with
which we are most familiar. Both forms are called the Rocky Mountain
sheep, and from this it is commonly inferred that they are confined to
the mountains, and live solely among the rocks. In a measure this belief
is true today, but it was not invariably so in old times. As in Asia,
so in America, the wild sheep is an inhabitant of the high grass land
plateaus. It delights in the elevated prairies, but near these prairies
it must have rough or broken country to which it may retreat when
pursued by its enemies. Before the days of the railroad and the
settlements in the West, the sheep was often found on the prairie. It
was then abundant in many localities where to-day farmers have their
wheat fields, and to some extent shared the feeding ground of the
antelope and the buffalo. Many and many a time while riding over the
prairie, I have seen among the antelope that loped carelessly out of the
way of the wagon before which I was riding, a few sheep, which would
finally separate themselves from the antelope and run up to rising
ground, there to stand and call until we had come too near them, when
they would lope off and finally be seen climbing some steep butte or
bluff, and there pausing for a last look, would disappear.
Those were the days when if a man had a deer, a sheep, an antelope, or
the bosse ribs of a buffalo cow on his pack or in his wagon, it did not
occur to him to shoot at the game among which he rode. I have seen sheep
feeding on the prairies with antelope, and in little groups by
themselves in North Dakota, Montana, and Wyoming, and men whose
experience extends much further back than mine--men, too, whose life was
largely devoted to observing the wild animals among which they
lived--unite in telling me that they were commonly found in such
situations. Personally I never saw sheep among buffalo, but knowing as I
do the situations that both inhabited and the ways of life of each, I am
confident that sheep were often found with the buffalo, just as were
antelope.
The country of northwestern Montana, where high prairie is broken now
and then by steep buttes rising to a height of several hundred feet, and
by little ranges of volcanic uplifts like the Sweet Grass Hills, the
Bear Paw Mountains, the Little Rockies, the Judith, and many others, was
a favorite locality for sheep, and so, no doubt, was the butte country
of western North Dakota, South Dakota and Nebraska, this being roughly
the eastern limit of the species. In general it may be said that the
plains sheep preferred plateaus much like those inhabited by the mule
deer, a prairie country where there were rough broken hills or buttes,
to which they could retreat when disturbed. That this habit was taken
advantage of to destroy them will be shown further on.
To-day, if one can climb above timber line in summer to the beautiful
green alpine meadows just below the frowning snow-clad peaks in regions
where sheep may still be found, his eye may yet be gladdened by the
sight of a little group resting on the soft grass far from any cover
that might shelter an enemy. If disturbed, the sheep get up
deliberately, take a long careful look, and walking slowly toward the
rocks, clamber out of harm's way. It will be labor wasted to follow
them.
Such sights may be witnessed still in portions of Montana and British
Columbia, Idaho, Wyoming and Colorado, where bald, rolling mountains,
showing little or no rock, are frequented by the sheep, which graze over
the uplands, descending at midday to the valleys to drink, and then
slowly working their way up the hills again to their illimitable
pastures.
Of Dall's sheep, the white Alaskan form, we are told that its favorite
feeding grounds are bald hills and elevated plateaus, and although when
pursued and wounded it takes to precipitous cliffs, and perhaps even to
tall mountain peaks, the land of its choice appears to be not rough
rocks, but rather the level or rolling upland.
The sheep formerly was a gentle, unsuspicious animal, curious and
confiding rather than shy; now it is noted in many regions for its
alertness, wariness, and ability to take care of itself.
Richardson, in his "Fauni-Boreali Americana," says: "Mr. Drummond
informs me that in the retired part of the mountains, where hunters had
seldom penetrated, he found no difficulty in approaching the Rocky
Mountain sheep, which there exhibited the simplicity of character so
remarkable in the domestic species; but that where they had been often
fired at they were exceedingly wild, alarmed their companions on the
approach of danger by a hissing noise, and scaled the rocks with a speed
and agility that baffled pursuit." The mountain men of early days tell
precisely the same thing of the sheep. Fifty or sixty years ago they
were regarded as the gentlest and most unsuspicious animal of all the
prairie, excepting, of course, the buffalo. They did not understand that
the sound of a gun meant danger, and, when shot at, often merely jumped
about and stared, acting much as in later times the elk and the mule
deer acted.