During the first two or three years of the Park’s legal existence the hunting of deer was prohibited, but bear-hunting was permitted, and Captain Wood, Lieut.  Davis and I devoted considerable time to the sport in the autumn of 1891.  The Captain and I learned to appreciate the distinction between bear-hunting and bear-killing very keenly during that season.  For example, I cut the trails of no less than thirteen bears in two days in the mountains north of Yosemite Valley and followed some of them, but although I succeeded in getting close enough to hustle two of the wanderers out of a leisurely walk into a lope, I never saw hair through my rifle sight.  Having no dogs, of course, it was all still-hunting and trailing, with the long-odds chance of jumping a bear in the brush by sheer accident.

Late in the tourist season, bears came down out of the high mountains into the Yosemite Valley and made tracks in the Bridal Veil Meadows and along the stage roads, which were pointed out to visitors for their entertainment.  The valley butcher reported bear sign at the place where he slaughtered beef for the hotel, and I tried roosting for bear in hope that it might prove better than still-hunting.  There was a platform in a tree at the slaughtering place and I sat there through one chilly night without hearing or seeing any bear sign.  The next night an eager tourist persuaded me to give him a share of the perch, and we roosted silently and patiently until after midnight.  Hearing a bear coming through the brush, I touched my companion gently to attract his attention.  He had fallen into a doze, and, awakening with a start at my touch he dropped his shotgun from the platform.  The stock was broken, one of the hammers struck upon a log and a load of buckshot went whistling through the leaves of our tree.  Then we went home.  It was an accident; the man meant well, and he was very sorry, and I held my tongue.

The next afternoon I was one of a small party on a drive over the roads at the lower end of the valley, and of course had no gun, A bear broke out of the brush, crossed the road fifty yards ahead of the team, and went down to the meadow.  It was not expedient to say all that occurred to me before comparative strangers; so I jumped from the buckboard, picked up a cudgel and lit out after that bear on a lope.  He had a good start and when he discovered that he was being followed he clawed dirt to increase his lead and beat me out to the bank of the Merced.  For a moment he hesitated about going into the swift water, but he decided that he would rather swim than listen to offensive personalities, and over the bank he plunged.

It was a relief to sit there, watching him swim the rapids, and feel free to say all the things I hadn’t said to the man who dropped the gun, with a few general observations on the perversity of bears and bear-hunters’ luck thrown in for good measure.