e to look over the ruins, with the lonely feeling
always induced by a decayed, rotting camp, I struck due west and made
several miles before sundown.

I camped on a little rill, near a huge dry stub that would peel, made
the last of the meal into a Johnnycake, broiled the last slice of pork
and lay down with the notion that a ten days' tramp, where it took an
average of fifteen miles to make six, ought to end on the morrow. At
sunrise I was again on foot, and after three hours of steady tramping,
saw a smoky opening ahead. In five minutes I was standing on the left
bank of the Muskegon.

And the Joe Davis camp--was it up stream or down? I decided on the
latter, and started slowly down stream, keeping an eye out for signs.
In less than an hour I struck a dim log road which led to the river and
there was a "landing," with the usual debris of skids, loose bark,
chocks and some pieces of broken boards. It did not take long to
construct an efficient log raft from the dry skids, and as I drifted
placidly down the deep, wild river, munching the last bit of
Johnnycake, I inwardly swore that my next wilderness cruise should be
by water.

It was in late afternoon that I heard--blessed sound--the eager clank,
clank, clank of the old-fashioned sawmill. It grew nearer and more
distinct; presently I could distinguish the rumble of machinery as the
carriage gigged back; then the raft rounded a gentle bend, and a mill,
with its long, log boarding-house, came full in sight.

As the raft swung into the landing the mill became silent; a
brown-bearded, red-shirted fellow came down to welcome me, a pair of
strong hands grasped both my own and the voice of Joe Davis said
earnestly, "Why, George! I never was so damned glad to see a man in
my life!"

The ten days' tramp was ended. It had been wearisome to a degree, but
interesting and instructive. I had seen more game birds and animals in
the time than I ever saw before or since in a whole season; and, though
I came out with clothes pretty well worn and torn off my back and legs,
I was a little disposed to plume myself on the achievement. Even at
this day I am a little proud of the fact that, with so many temptations
to slaughter, I only fired three shots on the route. Nothing but the
exceptionally fine, dry weather rendered such a trip possible in a
wilderness so cut up with swamps, lakes, marshes and streams. A week of
steady rain or a premature snow storm--either likely enough at that