Rensselaer Semi-Weekly Republican, Volume 41, Number 61, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 20 April 1909 — BRAVE FIGHT FOR LIFE. [ARTICLE]

BRAVE FIGHT FOR LIFE.

Comfort reigned around the little campfire that evening; pipes were smoked and tea was brewed, material accompaniments to chat and cheer. Then some one asked a question; just what, is immaterial; only the answer matters. —r “Boys,” said Puffle seriously, “I thought last winter I was out of it Close call, you ask? Well, pretty close, I had started out from Revelstoke with the usual outfit a 26 foot Peterboro loaded down to about the six-hundred-pound limit with allmy traps. I went away up Canoe River and had been having pretty good luck, when, boys, I played the fool. I got in a hurry. I took overlong hikes and ate cold grub to save time. We fellows don’t dare do that. No man in the winter woods can stand cold grub; he must cook well and take his rest. Then it doesn’t matter if he has to wade creeks and sleep wet and live wet days at a time; he can resist it, he’s got the fuel in him. We have a rule that when we get in a hurry, we must camp a whole day and think it over. When I found myself going, I did camp and think it over, but I guess I was a bit late about it. I dug Oregon grape and princess pine and boiled them down for blood tonic and was lucky enough to find some foxglove for my heart, which had begun to kick too hard when I climbed. Then I hurt my foot before the roots had put me in shape, and when I found a toe black one morning I knew I must pull for down river. I cached my stuff and started. I had to hurry then.

All day I snowshoed, biting hard on a bit of pine to forget the pain. Nights I’d find a hollow cedar log, cut holes in it about ten feat apart tor draft, kindle a fire at the end an d He down on the log. When the fire had burned up to the draft hole at my foot, I moved up another hole. When I couldn’t find a log; I’d dig a pit down in the snow, kindle a brush fire in it and sleep at the edge of the ashes. I reached Smith Creek all right, and by then my whole foot was black. Boys—may I live to forget it —I fell in crossing the creek: fell in over head and ears, in ice water, and nothing between me and Revelstoke to help me. If I stopped, besides the certainty of freezing, I knew my hurt would never let me start again; and I didn’t think I could keep on going. I felt I was gone, but I resolved I’d die hard and play the game through. Off I hiked on the raquettes; awful going it was, the pain killing me by inches and every rag on me frozen solid. Night came; I kept on like a’madman, for I dared not stop a ( second. If 1 drowsed an instant I was dead. I reached White’s cabin; all nature urged me to go in for a rest I had reason enough to know it would be my last rest, so I hit the trail steady with an awful limp. I prayed Kelly might be in his cabin, but it was cold and shut. When I reached Mosquito Landing I was dying, but the thought of only cix miles more kept me going. When I had been hiking steady for 42 hours. I fell into my own door and things swam and went dark. It was three months even to crutches. The sawbones all said I’d die; but didn’t I fool ’em? Going out again next winter! Sure. I’ve got to go back for that cache. A man must live, you know.”— Outing.