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Next day two of the boys went hunting up on the side of a mountain. The rest of us stayed in camp. They shot an elk. Hunters used to shoot them in the front leg if possible, when hunting on a mountainside. Elk couldn't run uphill with a broken leg, so they would drive them down to the foot of the hill and finish them at the bottom. They drove him down to the river and shot him again, but not in a vital spot. He went across the river and laid down, but he wouldn't die. So we slipped up to him and grabbed his horns and everybody held him whlie someone cut his throat. So, we got the elk, and were ready to come back home.

Then we had some more excitement. Phil Locke, who was then about fourteen years old, came into camp crying to beat the band. He and Angus McCloud were camping up above us. "My pard is gone, and I'll never see him again. He's lost in the mountains", he explained. We couldn't do anything that night, but we told him that next morning we would go with him and see if we could find him. When we got to their camp, there he was. He had just arrived. Had killed an elk and skinned it and wrapped himself in the hide and slept warm.

Clark Peeler once tipped over his canoe. In trying to show the fellows how he did it, he repeated the accident, and fell in again.


McCarthy and I started out from the Lake to attend a celebration at Ben Grigsby's on the beach. We went down river by canoe and walked to Copalis. There had been a little argument about their celebration and they had called it off. So, I suggested going on over to Hoquiam.

They had advertised a flying machine demonstration. We'd never seen one. They had water sports - canoe races, log rolling, swimming races. We stayed three days. The first night we had paid for a room at the Gamage Hotel. However, the dance halls were open and the saloons were running, and we were kept so busy we never went to bed at all. I said there wasn't any use paying for a room we didn't use, so we gave it up.