This is an excerpt from an article that originally appeared in the August 1910 issue of Outing magazine.
So often have I heard the tales of hunters being attacked by moose, bears, etc., that with every trip I looked for some similar adventure to befall me. With the passing of the seasons, however, aside from fighting among themselves, I had seen no indications that any of the game we hunted was looking for trouble. Then, all unexpectedly, I had my experience.
It happened up in the barrens in Newfoundland. From our camp we could look across a moss-covered, boggy land dotted with small clumps of spruce that appeared like little islands. All day long the caribou were in sight, in small bunches or larger herds, and the manner of getting game or heads was far from a sporting proposition.
I confined my operations to drawing and photography.
There was a huge rock in the midst of the barren, which afforded a shade on the only day when the sun shone, and in its shelter I could paint with some satisfaction. Now a bull caribou with a prize set of antlers came briskly into view and stopped suddenly on seeing me. He viewed me from several angles, then came closer. Suddenly he discovered it was only an artist and, without warning, charged.
I believe I have mentioned that on occasion I can be quite nimble on my feet. Well, my time around that rock would have made all records look like a canceled two-cent stamp. But it grew tiresome after twice around, and I looked for a place to climb—all I needed was time. Whoa! I had run right onto the caribou, so round we went in the other direction right merrily; never was I so devoted to running. And then all was quiet. I had lost my caribou!
Now, as I stood with both hands pressed against the bare face of the rock, my head turning quickly from side to side to see which way he might appear, I wasn’t comfortable; besides, I hadn’t come here to do this sort of thing. I shot a quick glance behind me and spotted a clump of half-naked spruce trees 50 yards away. But that trip was deferred, for with a rattle and a crash my pursuer came back around the end. This was my chance; I darted around the other side and scrambled to safety on top of the boulder. The caribou made another circle, then struck off in great strides as he drifted down the barren.
When you slip on the ice, your arms and legs flying in various violent directions, just after the final simultaneous jolt on your neck and spine and the gnashing of your teeth with rage, you fetch a quick, sheepish glance all about to see if anyone had observed your convolutions. True to my instincts, I swept the horizon, and from my point of vantage I could see my guide, who had been sitting on a rock a short distance from me, now rolling in the moss with laughter. It didn’t strike me as amusing, but they say the Scots have no sense of humor, so I let him laugh.
