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During the winter of 1892-3 the snow was six feet deep around Quinault. Neil McCarthy came up and wanted to go hunting by boat. We figured if there were any elk feeding on willows along the shore we would shoot one and get him into the boat. There was a hunting house about four miles up river. We decided to stay there over night. That was a mistake.

The shack was two or three hundred feet back from the river. We didn't realize it was going to be such a job to get to it, or we would never have stopped. The snow was about six feet deep there, and we had to make ourselves a trail. Had no shovels either. One of us would start at the river, run up the beach, and plough into the snow bank. Then the other fellow would run and throw himself into it. It took us two hours to reach the cabin.

Luckily the door was slightly ajar, or we never would have gotten it open. We had our canoe paddles and took the snow away from the outside of the door. Then one squeezed through the crack and pushed, while the other pulled. Hunters always made it a point to leave a little dry wood for a fire. We built one in the middle of the room and the smoke went out the door. This cabin was built of alder logs with small alder poles across the ceiling. The poles were soggy and frozen when we started the fire. All of a sudden we heard, "Crack, bang", and the poles began to break under the weight of six feet of snow. we got out the door as fast as we could. Spent the night getting the snow off the roof. Got no rest at all.

Next day we shot at an elk. We tried to follow the bull's tracks, for perhaps a hundred feet. We would raise one foot up above the snow and put it down as far off as we could. Then the other foot up and repeat. It was very tiresome traveling. Finally, I said, "What are we following this bull for ? If we killed him, we couldn't pack him out."

So, we went on home.