His brother, his cousin and himself were camping out for the first time in their lives. Their camp was located on Lake St. Regis. The other two boys went fishing. Roosevelt was not overly fond of this sport, so he went off on a deer hunt. With him went the two guides, Hank Martin and Mose Sawyer. The first day of the hunt he not only did not kill a deer--he failed to see one that stood within range; and, on the way home, shot in mistake for one a large owl that was perched on a log. The next day, goaded by the teasing of his camp mates, he started out again. This time he had better luck. As his canoe swung out from between forest-lined banks into a little bay, he saw, knee-deep among the water lilies that fringed the shore, a yearling buck. His first shot killed him. The youthful adventure helped to stimulate Roosevelt’s ardor for hunting. One of the reasons why he went West was that he hoped to find big game, and when he found himself upon the track of the grizzly he was in his element indeed. We find Roosevelt one day setting out from his ranch on a hunt for grizzly on the Big Horn Range. His eagerness to come in close contact with the grizzly was in no way dampened by the fact that a neighbor of his, while prospecting with two other men near the headwaters of the Little Missouri in the Black Hills country, had had a terrible experience with one. The neighbor and two other men were walking along the river. Two of them followed the edge of the stream. The third followed a game trail some distance away from them. Suddenly the second heard an agonized shout from the third man, intermingled with the growling of the bear. They rushed to the scene just in time to see their companion in close contact with a grizzly. The bear was so close to the man that he had no time to fire his rifle, but merely held it up as a guard to his head. The immensely muscular forearm of the grizzly, with nails as strong as steel hooks, descended upon the man, striking aside the rifle and crushing the man’s skull like an eggshell. Still another of the Colonel’s friends, while hunting in the Big Horn Mountains, had pursued a large bear and wounded him. The animal turned and rushed at the man, who fired at him and missed. The bear closed with him and passed on, striking only a single blow, yet that blow tore the man’s collarbone and snapped three or four ribs. The shock was so great that he died that night. With his interest stimulated by such accounts of grizzly hunting, Roosevelt set out. It was early in September. The weather was cool and frosty and the flurries of snow made it easy to track the bears. There were plenty of blacktail deer in the woods, as well as bands of cow and calf elk, or of young bull. There were no signs of grizzly however.