Daniel Ott

Descendants of Daniel Ott will probably enjoy reading his story in his own words.  The following is the chapter written about him in the book, "A Pennsylvania Bison Hunt," by Henry W. Shoemaker, published in 1915 by the Middleburg Post Press, Middleburg, PA. I tried to copy the book's pages, but the quality was too poor, so I am transcribing it and will include some photos that I have of Daniel, my g-grandfather. I have kept the original writing style with no paragraphs and some interesting spellings and punctuation. I apologize to anyone who may be offended by Daniel's descriptions of his hunting excursions.  He lived in an era during which wildlife was not valued as it is today.

 Daniel Ott at home in Selin's Grove, PA.

This photo is labeled "Great-Grandma Long", so I assume it is Elizabeth's mother.

Top: Elizabeth Mae Good McCahan (my grandmother), Edgar L. McCahan (my father).

Front row L to R: Wesley McCahan (my uncle), Daniel Ott, and probably Elizabeth Long Ott.

Daniel Ott

Born May 27, 1820

A Pennsylvanian Who Has Killed Many Buffaloes in the West

Grandson of George Ott, one of the original buffalo hunters of Central Pennsylvania and himself a slayer of many hundreds of bison on the plains of the Great West, Daniel Ott of Selin's Grove, Snyder County, is one of the historically noteworthy personages of the Keystone State.  In company with Hon. George W. Wagenseller, editor of the Middleburg Post, and J. Herbert Walker, associate editor of the Lewisburg Journal, the writer recently visited the venerable nimrod at his cozy home on the outskirts of the quaint old town of Selin's Grove. Nimble and mentally alert, despite his 95 years, the old hunter, who is still a handsome man and has the aquiline nose and tight drawn lips which are usually signs of character, greeted his guests cordially, and unfolded to them the marvelous story of his life. Frequently during the narrative he told jokes, which convulsed his hearers, and his fine amber colored eyes, as clear as those of the poet Keats, were alive with keenness and humor.  Daniel Ott was born in Selin's Grove on May 27, 1820, being the son of Daniel Ott, Sr., (1784-1852) and grandson of George Ott, ( 1745-1814), one of the original pioneers on the Karoondinha, now known as Penn's Creek. George Ott, who was a native of Chester County, took up 400 acres of wild land in what is now Snyder County in 1796, when that region still abounded with wild beasts and roving Indians. In Daniel Ott's own words let him describe his thrilling life's pilgrimage.  "I was born in the house where I now reside, and am of Dutch and English ancestry.  My father and grandfather, the pioneers, were not hunters in the modern meaning of the word, as the game came up to their doors to be shot. Buffaloes and other game were plentiful north of Jack's Mountain when they came into this country.  When I was a boy wolves were numerous, and at night we could hear them howling from the summits of the Spangenberg and the Mahanoy Mountain, and they even howled from the top of the Blue Hill at the good people across the river at Sunbury.  In those early days, I killed and helped to kill many wolves, they were grayer in color than the ones I afterward met in the west.  I hunted all kinds of game in Pennsylvania and was a fisherman as well.  I have killed too many deer to count them, the first when I was a mere boy, and the last when I was eighty years old I brought down on Jack's Mountain.  The horns of that stag I still have.  I was a good-sized boy when Halley's comet appeared in 1834; I saw it again 76 years later in 1910.  I saw the famous falling stars one night in 1835. In the White Mountains, back of Jack's Mountain, I once killed a half deer half elk.  It had one horn like a deer and the other like an elk, and dressed over 200 pounds. In addition to wolves and deer I killed many bears, catamounts, and wild cats.  On two occasions, I came face to face with big panthers, but they eluded me. The flights of wild pigeons which used to come to Selin's Grove darkened the sun.  I have trapped 1300 pigeons in one day.  The nesting grounds of the wild pigeons were arranged with military precision.  Sometimes they were in the shape of squares, other times circles.  The trees marking the boundary had no nests on the branches outside the line. It was strange to see trees full of nests on one side and with none on the other. I remember when the Susquehanna River and Penn's Creek were alive with shad.  That was before the days of pollution from the tanneries and paper mills.  I have caught 500 shad in a single haul.  When I was a boy, there were still a few Indians in this country; they used to travel along the river bank, and rest under the big trees in the shade.  In 1841 I came to the conclusion that I would like to visit the big game regions of the west.  As there were no railroads and stage traveling was expensive I resolved to set out on foot.  The stages and freighters which crossed the Alleghanies were drawn by now extinct Conestoga horses.  The Conestoga horses were better looking than any draft animals of the present day.  They were chunky built, with full necks, short heads, and fine full eyes. Although they would weigh on the average 1200 pounds they did not stand over 15-2 hands. They had particularly good hoofs much like those of the fast traveling Percherons.  I walked from Selin's Grove to the Big Valley, to Bedford, to Wheeling, to Columbus, to Dayton, across the Black Swamp on the Coduroy Road to Indianapolis.  The Indiana capital then consisted of a few wooden houses and was surrounded by magnificent hardwood forests.  Deer, wolves, and coyotes abounded.  Raccoons were a nuisance to the settlers.  One night with several friends I was out hunting 'coons along the White River, when we became lost in the woods.  We got in a hollow buttonwood tree for safety, and none too soon, for we were surrounded by a yelping pack of coyotes, which kept us prisoners until daylight.  West of Indianapolis was a wild prairie country, where wolves roamed, and where there were millions of prairie chickens.  I decided to walk to Springfield, which I found to be a small village like Indianapolis.  Abe Linclon was there, carelessly dressed and ungainly, a familiar figure about the streets.  The inaccessability of the country between Indianapolis and Springfield led me to say to my companion 'Nobody will ever live in this region, it is too hard to reach with supplies.'  West of Springfield in Missouri, there were still great herds of buffaloes and antelopes.  I decided to walk to Chicago, through the wild prairie region.  Each night I trusted to reach some settler's cabin, as I hated to sleep out on the plains on account of the wolves and coyotes.  I saw coyotes and prairie chickens on the outskirts of the Windy City. When I got there I found only a single line of frame houses, one story and one story and a half high, facing the Lake on what is now Michigan Avenue.  It was a dreary place, so I struck out for Indianapolis, which town I liked very much. I traveled through the West for a number of years, my experiences would fill a book, meeting Indians, traders and hunters and killing much game myself.  In the height of the buffalo excitement I organized a hide hunting expedition to go to the Panhandle district of Texas, where herds of hundreds of thousands of these noble animals roamed the plains.  Our outfit left Dodge City, which is in Ford County, Kansas, and headed South.   Dodge City was in those days (in the early seventies) one of the headquarters of the buffalo trade.  Piles of hides a hundred feet high were stacked in all parts of the town.  Only the choicest hides, those from cows and heifers were used for robes, the tough hides of the old bulls went for belting.  We were soon in the buffalo country, as the plains were covered with the carcasses of dead bison.  Some were killed for 'fun' and never even skinned, others had their hides stripped off and left for the wolves.  We could see where they had been killed in former years, as where they laid the buffalo grass died, and the weeds sprang up, and the skulls and horns were mournful relics of man's wastefulness.  When we camped at night bands of noisy coyotes came close to our camps, and I shot many of them.  When they barked, the large gray wolves often answered them, but the big wolves were shy and we seldom saw them.  In Indian territory now Oklahoma, near the Cimarron River, I saw a herd of wild horses.  They were the most beautiful animals I have ever seen.  They were blood bays, with black manes and tails.  Their heads were small, their ears short, and they stood higher in front than in back.  My companions wanted to shoot them, but I told them not to, as it would be a shame to kill such handsome creatures for no good purpose.  Meanwhile the grand stallion which had led them, sighted us and snorted, which was the signal to the herd to make off, and they started away in single file at a trot.  Buffaloes always run with the wind, nothing can turn them.  The aim of the hunters is to get them off the wind approach close and shoot them.  The first herd we surprised was given the signal by a big bull, and started for us.  We waved our hats as they came near, but they would not turn from their course.  Fearing that they would run us down, we took to our heels.  As the big brutes passed, my companion, George Harrison, fired a dozen shots into them.  I asked him why he fired at them when he knew he could not kill them. He said he did it because they kicked so funny when hit.  I told him that the buffaloes so wounded would die a lingering death on the prairie, would be eaten by the wolves and their hides wasted.  Harrison said he had never thought of that before.  Ever after I made it the rule of our expedition only to kill such buffaloes as we could use the hides, or in self defense.  As for arms, our expedition used Sharp's Needle Guns, which were calculated to carry a one ounce ball 1000 yards.  Some hunters used breech loading U.S. Muskets or Winchester rifles.  In the fall of the year when we did most of our killing the small family groups of buffaloes were beginning to come together in the vaste herds which assembled during the winter months for mutual protection.  In the Summer they separated into parties of about one hundred animals each, and slept, pastured and travelled in such groups.  Every party of buffaloes had their watchers, which gave the signal of the approach of human or animal foes, while the others rested or munched on the sweet buffalo grass.  We stalked our buffaloes, crawling along through the grass until we got near them, then before we could be seen, as we approached 'off' the wind, we selected our victims and fired.  We always carried five skinners to one killer, as it took a great amount of care to scrape all the fat off the hides, and unless it was done, they were hard to keep.  The air in the buffalo country was so dry that no odor emanated from the carcasses which strewed the plains, looking in the distance like hillocks.  At nightfall, the hordes of wolves drawn to the neighborhood by the food, feasted and fought over the remains.  At our camps we made our fires with buffalo chips which furnished a clean and very hot fire.  We usually selected a hole in the turf made by the buffalo's hoofs, laid a sheet of newspaper at the bottom of the hole, and placed the chips on top.  Then we touched a match to the paper,  soon having a splendid blaze.  The size of the buffalo bulls was enormous.  They would average over a thousand pounds, and some weighed close to a ton.  They were covered with layer after layer of thick fat.  When we collected as many hides as we could transport on our wagons, we started for Dodge City, where we sold the hides at an average price of two dollars apiece.  We generally took a ton of selected buffalo meat with us on our northern journeys.  On our trips we met many Indians, Comanches, Cherokees, Arapahoes, Cheyennes, and so on.  They all chided us for our wholesale killing of what they called their cattle.  They were particularly upset over the white man's wasteful methods of killing the bison.  {My note: I would have been upset, too!} They only killed what they absolutely needed, they maintained.Many persons have wondered why the United States Government made no effort to stop the killing of the buffaloes on Uncle Sam's Farm as the boundless plains were called.  The Government in those days could not control the Indians, had its hands full there, consequently, a 'side issue' like game protection was out of the question.  But it was a great pity, as the buffaloes might have become the cattle of the West, as they were hardier than any of the varieties brought there.  I saw many long-horned Texas steers.  They were wonderful animals, and adapted themselves to local conditions; it is a pity their stock has been allowed to die out.  On the plains with the buffaloes were vast herds of prog-horned antelopes.  We killed many of these as their flesh was good and their hides were of some value. Many hunters killed them for sport, firing into the herds at random, and letting the poor creatures die lingering deaths.  I am glad I hunted buffaloes, and while I killed a great number, i do not have it on my soul that I killed a single one for sport.  All I killed were used as much as possible.  I cut out the best meat, and saved and sold the hides.  I tried to induce the other hunters to be less wasteful, and think I had influence with some of them.  I had an experience that I would not exchange with anyone in the world.  As I sit here, looking down the river to the towering Mahanoy, I think how things have changed.  All the big timber which covered the Mahanoy Range is gone, and there is no game here any more worthy of the name.  There are few ducks in the river, no flights of wil pigeons darken the sun, an Indian is a curiosity, rafting is done, there are no more arks, gone is the canal which I saw built, everything is becoming tame and commonplace.  I have lived a long while - ninety-five years, but I would like to live longer in this beautiful world if I can retain my faculties and not become a burden to my family.  I can read without glasses, have my own teeth and have a good head of hair.  Last week i chopped down a dead apple tree, you can see the pile of stove wood I made from it if you look out the back door.  Yesterday I butchered a big hog, and shot the head off a rooster.  Up to a few years ago, I often walked to Middleburg, ten miles; I take some pretty long walks still.  Lots of people come to see me, i have a loving considerate family.  Over in the next room I keep my hunting trophies, in the evenings when the wind howls about the old house I go in and sit beside them, the heads and horns of buffaloes, deer and antelopes shot in the old days.  Then I feel myself back in the wilds of Jack's Mountain, or in Clearfield County, or in the endless plains.  I hear the tramp of the bison herds, the shouts of the victorious hunters, or maybe the blood curdling cry of the panther.  Then my mind goes back even further, and i hear my father tell how his father took part in the hunting of ther last herds of bison in old Pennsylvania, of Indian massacres, of pioneer hardships and I feel proud to be the scion of such sturdy stock.  Yes indeed, I have much to be thankful for in this grand world; I have lived, I have struggled, I have harmed no one, in my advanced age I am at peace, I am content."