The feat of killing
the bear the previous day sank into nothing compared with the feat of
making the bearskin ride properly as a pack on the following three days.
The reason why I was alone in the mountains on this occasion was
because, for the only time in all my experience, I had a difficulty with
my guide. He was a crippled old mountain man, with a profound contempt
for "tenderfeet," a contempt that in my case was accentuated by the
fact that I wore spectacles--which at that day and in that region were
usually held to indicate a defective moral character in the wearer. He
had never previously acted as guide, or, as he expressed it, "trundled
a tenderfoot," and though a good hunter, who showed me much game, our
experience together was not happy. He was very rheumatic and liked to
lie abed late, so that I usually had to get breakfast, and, in fact, do
most of the work around camp. Finally one day he declined to go out with
me, saying that he had a pain. When, that afternoon, I got back to
camp, I speedily found what the "pain" was. We were traveling very light
indeed, I having practically nothing but my buffalo sleeping-bag, my
wash kit, and a pair of socks. I had also taken a flask of whisky for
emergencies--although, as I found that the emergencies never arose
and that tea was better than whisky when a man was cold or done out, I
abandoned the practice of taking whisky on hunting trips twenty years
ago.
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