The bear was my misfortune. Following the trail along the hillside we had come across a jamb pile. This was a whole forest of trees on the side of a hill, fallen down flat years and years ago, and now become thoroughly seasoned timber. Once we had to cut through a jamb pile owing to one of the horses having driven a willow stake through its chest, and in consequence being unable to lift its near foreleg, but one never attempts to cut through timber of this description, from choice. Although the hill resembled the roof of a house, it was going to be better to make the climb up, rather than try and cut our way through.
Old Rufus was easily the best pack horse, and, almost invariably, led the trail, as he was doing at this time. All the same, it seemed almost impossible for a horse to climb up that hill light, let alone with 250 lb. on his back. Whilst we were discussing the best plan, Rufus settled the matter by suddenly starting off up on his own, just as if he wanted to show what he could do when he wanted. I had no choice but to follow him, as I held his lariat in my hands, which if I had dropped it would have been bound to foul his feet. He went up that fifty or sixty feet like a lamplighter, and arrived on a little plateau, with me puffing and blowing at his side.
This little effort had been carried out in silence, and I suppose Mr. Bruin’s first intimation of anyone in the vicintity, was our arriving just outside his front door. Probably it was sheer curiosity that made him stick his head out within six feet of Rufus’ nose on the off side. I, being on the near side, could, of course, see nothing. The old chap made up his mind to go down again even more quickly than he had decided to come up. He just let out a squeal of indignant surprise, and swung round, smiting me a mighty crack on the side of the head with his nose, which laid me sprawling, whilst he sat on his hams, and slid down that hill, 250 lb. and all, with his tail streaming out behind. A more ridiculous sight I have never seen, and, despite the nearness of the bear, I had to roar with laughter. The hill was so steep that his hind legs were almost between the forelegs, as he tobogganed down the hillside. My rifle, which I had been carrying in the sling as usual over my back, had been flung clear in the tumble, and long before I could get hold of it, our one and only bear had vanished.
The porcupine I met whilst trying to find a draw out of the mountains.
All old timers warn tenderfeet “not to lose heart in the mountains.” I suppose it is the amazing solitude, the immensity of the spaces, and the seemingly utter futility of man that engenders the spirit of funk, when buried in these appalling masses and precipices of granite, known as the Rocky Mountains. I think there was more than a little evidence of funk in our camp, in fact it had even been suggested by someone that we should turn back. Not one of our original party, I am glad to say, but the poisonous suggestion was there, there could be no doubt. It was the mountains that had got everyone, so the best plan as far as we could see, was to get out of them. I was making my way along in glorious sunshine on a well fed animal, happy with the world, and confident of finding a way out for the party, then all would be well. At this juncture I saw an animal fifty yards in front of me, crossing my trail. It looked like nothing on earth; certainly nothing that I could recognise, never having seen a porcupine like this in my life before. It was truly the father of all porcupines; and looked as big as many a young donkey. Of course in the tall grass he was anything but clearly defined. However, I judged as best I could where the head of the beast should be, and where probably his fore-shoulder would come, and let drive. He sank down out of sight in the grass. I circled round, still on horseback, until I located him, and pumped in a couple more 44-56’s.
He was dead all right so I proceeded to skin him. Having completed this task, the next thing was to get him clear up off the ground, and out of reach of the coyotes. It was quite impossible to lift him, so I had to slip the lariat on to a hind leg, lead it over the bough of a tree, and hitch it on to the cinch of my horse. In this manner I hoisted him up and made him fast. I then cut off a fore-quarter, intending to cook it for a meal that night. I did, but I might as well have tried to feast off a cut of rhino hide; there was just about as much chance of getting my teeth in. I picked him up on my return and took him back to camp, where we boiled him three times a day for seven solid days before we could even get our teeth into him. I will admit that through lack of solid food, out teeth had become somewhat loose, but believe me, they hardened up before we had finished with our friend the porcupine. We remained in camp for several days, undecided whether to go ahead or go back. Meantime fierce arguments arose on the advisability of pushing on. By far the majority were in favour of going back.
It was undoubtedly a fact that we could only push on at a tremendous risk, as our supply of food would shortly give out for a certainty, and we should be compelled to depend on the country alone, which up to the present had proved a very poor source of supply. The point settled itself in the end, however, and it happened this way.
Bill and I would not saddle up to turn back, and the others could not cross the rivers without our help, so it was a sort of stalemate. Every day some of us went out prospecting to see what hopes there were of getting colours or finding a draw out of the mountains. On one occasion we came across a creek, though it would be termed a small river in England. It looked as thought this river passed between two fair sized ledges of a cliff a little further on, and then struck open country. In this case we knew there must be a bar, and on this bar we should find proof as to whether with this particular creek the water flowed at any time through a gold bearing area, by the colours obtained, also we might find a way out of the mountains.
We soon knocked a raft together, by cutting dry timber into lengths, boring holes with a one and a half inch auger, and pegging with green willow, the pegs going through one log and well into the next. Immediately the wood takes the water, it swells, and binds the whole far firmer than any rope could do, every bit as strong as if it were lashed with good stout wire. Not only that, but owing to the resiliency and bendability of the willow, a raft of this kind can go bumping over rocks without any danger of coming to pieces. In fact, it becomes literally impossible to separate the logs without either drying them out, or cutting thought the willow pegs with a saw. We launched our raft, and with gold pans and shovels a day’s provisions — or what we had in our straitened circumstances to allow ourselves for a day’s food — took to the river. We paddled out towards the centre, and let the current do the rest, which it did in short order and very effectively. She soon shot past the ledges we had seen, and then, instead of the ravine opening out as we fondly expected, the river took a sharp turn to the right (for which we had not bargained) and literally dived down between two solid walls of rock.
There was nothing for it but to hang on, and wait for whatever was going to happen. Everything was well secured to the raft, and this proved fortunate, for as the river narrowed down, it humped up so that quite reasonable sized breakers formed, curling up against the race of the stream. We had just time to fling ourselves flat on the raft, and hang on for dear life, while the thing plunged madly down the rapids. We had to chance hitting a rock and being shot off. Fortunately, the passage was short and sharp, but by no means sweet. Still one could not help noticing the difference between being struck with these freshwater breakers, and similar seas of salt water. You can knock a man down with a bucket of salt water, but not so by any means with fresh water. Every time we rushed at a breaker, each would yell to the other, “Hang on, Jack,” “Hang on, Bill,” and we would crash through the breaking water comparatively easily compared with meeting a similar breaker at sea.