CAMP AND TRAIL

From a painting by Fernand Lungren The Home of the "Red Gods"

CAMP AND TRAIL

BY

STEWART EDWARD WHITE

Author of "The Blazed Trail," "The Pass," etc.
Frontispiece in color by Fernand Lungren
and many other illustrations
from photographs, etc.
Garden City New York
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
1911

Copyright, 1906, 1907, by
THE OUTING PUBLISHING COMPANY
Entered at Stationers' Hall, London, England.
All rights reserved.

PREFACE

AFTER considerable weighing of the pros and cons I have decided to include the names of firms where certain supplies may be bought. I realize that this sort of free advertisement is eminently unjust to other worthy houses handling the same lines of goods, but the case is one of self-defense. In The Forest I rashly offered to send to inquirers the name of the firm making a certain kind of tent. At this writing I have received and answered over eleven hundred inquiries. Since the publication of these papers in The Outing Magazine, I have received hundreds of requests for information as to where this, that, or the other thing may be had. I have tried to answer them all, but to do so has been a tax on time I would not care to repeat. Therefore I shall try in the following pages to give the reader all the practical information I possess, even though, as stated, I may seem unduly to advertise the certain few business houses with which I have had satisfactory dealings. It is needless to remark that I am interested in none of these firms, and have received no especial favors from them.

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

CHAPTER I

THE WILDERNESS TRAVELER

The First Qualification

MANY people have asked me what, all things considered, is the most valuable quality a wilderness traveler can possess. Always I have replied unhesitatingly; for no matter how useful or desirable such attributes as patience, courage, strength, endurance, good nature, and ingenuity, may prove to be, undoubtedly a man with them but without the sense of direction, is practically helpless in the wilds.

The Sense of Direction

A sense of direction, therefore, I should name as the prime requisite for him who would become a true woodsman, depending on himself rather than on guides. The faculty is largely developed, of course, by much practice; but it must be inborn. Some men possess it; others do not—just as some men have a mathematical bent while to others figures are always a despair. It is a sort of extra, having nothing to do with criterions of intelligence or mental development, like the repeater movement in a watch. A highly educated or cultured man may lack it; the roughest possess it. Some who have never been in the woods or mountains acquire in the space of a vacation a fair facility at picking a way; and I have met a few who have spent their lives on the prospect trail, and who were still, and always would be, as helpless as the newest city dweller. It is a gift, a talent. If you have its germ, you can become a traveler of the wide and lonely places. If you have it not, you may as well resign yourself to guides.

The Sense of Direction

The sense of direction in its simplest and most elementary phase, of course, leads a man back to camp, or over a half-forgotten trail. The tenderfoot finds his way by little landmarks, and an attempt to remember details. A woodsman adds to this the general "lay" of the country, the direction its streams ought to flow, the course the hills must take, the dip of strata, the growth of trees. So if the tenderfoot forgets whether he turns to right or left at a certain half-remembered burnt stub, he is lost. But if at the same point the woodsman's memory fails him, he turns unhesitatingly to the left, because he knows by all the logic of nature's signboards that the way must be to the left. A good mountaineer follows the half-obliterated trails as much by his knowledge of where a trail must go, as by the sparse indications that men have passed that way. I have traveled all day in the Sierras over apparently virgin country. Yet every few hours we would come on the traces of an old trail. We were running in and out of it all day; and at night we camped by it.

That is, as I have said, elementary. It has to do with a country over which your woodsman has already traveled, or about which he knows something. In the last analysis, however, it means something more.

The sense of direction will take a man through a country of which he knows nothing whatever. He travels by the feel of it, he will tell you. This means that his experience subconsciously arranges certain factors from which the sixth sense we are discussing draws certain deductions. A mountaineer, for example, recognizes the altitude by the vegetation. Knowing the altitude he knows also the country formation, and so he can tell at once whether the cañon before him will narrow to an impassable gorge, or remain open enough to admit of passage. This in turn determines whether he shall choose the ravines or ridges in crossing a certain divide, and exactly how he can descend on the other side. The example is one of the simpler. A good man thus noses his way through a difficult country with considerable accuracy where a tenderfoot would become speedily lost.

Thoroughness

Be Sure You Are Right

But if a sense of direction is the prime requisite, thoroughness presses it close. It is sometimes very difficult to command the necessary patience. At the end of a hard day, with the almost moral certainty that the objective point is just ahead, it is easy, fatally easy, when the next dim blaze does not immediately appear, to say to oneself—"Oh, it's near enough"—and to plunge ahead. And then, nine times out of ten, you are in trouble. "I guess this is all right" has lost many a man; and the haste too great to be sure—and then again sure—has had many fatal results. If it is a trail, then be certain you see indications before proceeding. Should they fail, then go back to the last indication and start over again. If it is new country, then pick up every consideration in your power, and balance them carefully before making the smallest decision. And all the time keep figuring. Once having decided on a route, do not let the matter there rest. As you proceed keep your eyes and mind busy, weighing each bit of evidence. And if you become suspicious that you are on the wrong tack, turn back unhesitatingly, no matter how time presses.

A recent expedition with a fatal termination illustrates this point completely. At first sight it may seem invidious to call attention to the mistakes of a man who has laid down his life in payment for them. But it seems to me that the chief value of such sad accidents—beyond the lessons of courage, endurance, comradeship, devotion, and beautiful faith—lies in the lesson and warning to those likely to fall into the same blunders. I knew Hubbard, both at college and later, and admire and like him. I am sure he would be the first to warn others from repeating his error.

Fatal Result of not Being Sure

The expedition of which I speak started out with the purpose of exploring Labrador. As the season is short some haste was necessary. The party proceeded to the head of a certain lake into which they had been told they would find a river flowing. They found a river, ascended it, were conquered by the extreme difficulties of the stream, one of the party perished, and the others came near to it.

As for the facts so far: The first thought to occur to a man entirely accustomed to wilderness travel would be, is there perhaps another stream? another river flowing into that lake? Encountering difficulties he would become more and more uneasy as to that point, until at last he would have detached a scout to make sure.

But mark this further: The party's informants had told Hubbard that he would find the river easily navigable for eighteen miles. As a matter of fact the expedition ran into shallows and rapids within a half mile of the lake.

What Should Have Been Done

To a woodsman the answer would have stood out as plain as print. He would have retraced his way, explored farther, found the right river, and continued. But poor Hubbard was in a hurry, and moreover possessed that optimistic temperament that so endeared him to all who knew him. "They must have made a mistake in the distance. I guess this is all right," said he, and pushed on against difficulties that eventually killed him.

To a man accustomed to exploration such a mistake is inconceivable. Labrador is not more dangerous than other wooded northern countries; not so dangerous as the big mountains; much safer than the desert. A wrong turn in any of these wildernesses may mean death. Forty men succumbed to the desert last summer. Do not make that wrong turn. Be sure. Take nothing for granted—either that "they made a mistake in the distance," or that "it's probably all right." One of the greatest of American wilderness travelers knew this—as all wilderness travelers must—and phrased it in an epigram that has become classic. "Be sure you are right, and then go ahead," advised Daniel Boone.

Alertness

So you do not get lost—barring accidents—you are safe enough. But to travel well you must add to your minor affairs the same quality, slightly diluted, perhaps, that I have endeavored to describe above. In this application it becomes thoroughness and smartness. A great many people object while camping to keeping things in trim, to getting up in the morning, to moving with expedition and precision. "Oh, what's the use in being so particular!" they grumble, "this is supposed to be a pleasure trip."

Discipline

Outside the fact that a certain amount of discipline brings efficiency, there is no doubt that a slack camp means trouble sooner or later. Where things are not picked up, something important will sooner or later be lost or left behind. Where the beginning of the day's journey hangs fire, sooner or later night will catch you in a very bad place indeed. Where men get in the habit of slouching, physically and mentally, they become in emergencies unable to summon presence of mind, and incapable of swift, effective movements. The morale is low; and exclusive of the fact that such things are an annoyance to the spirit, they may in some exceptional occasion give rise to serious trouble. Algernon is ten minutes slow in packing his horse; and Algernon gets well cursed. He is hurt as to the soul, and demands of himself aggrievedly how ten minutes can be valued so high. It is not the ten minutes as a space of time, but as a measure of incompetence. This pack train is ten minutes short of what a pack train should be; and if the leader's mind is properly constructed, he is proportionately annoyed.

Although not strictly germane to a discussion of equipments, I am tempted to hold up a horrible example.

A Horrible Example

One evening we were all sitting around a big after-dinner fire at the Forest Supervisor's summer camp in the mountains, when an outfit drifted in and made camp a few hundred yards down stream. After an interval the leader of the party came over and introduced himself.

A Horrible Example

He proved to be a youngish man, with curly hair, regular features, a good physique, and eyes handsome, but set too close together. A blue flannel shirt whose top button was unfastened, rolled back to show his neck; a handkerchief was knotted below that; in all his external appearance he leaned toward the foppish-picturesque. This was in itself harmless enough. Shortly he began to tell us things. He confided that his chief ambition was to rope a bear; he related adventures in the more southern mountains; he stated that he intended to travel up through the Minarets and over Agnew's Pass, and by way of Tuolumne. This was to consume two weeks! Finally he became more personal. He told us how President Roosevelt when on his Pacific Coast tour had spoken to him personally.

"When the train started," said he, "I ran after it as hard as I could with a lot of others, but I ran a lot faster and got ahead, so the President spoke directly to me—not to the crowd, but to me!"

He left us suitably impressed. Next morning his camp was astir at five o'clock—as was proper considering the strenuous programme he had outlined. About seven our friend came over to get his animals, which he had turned out in the Supervisor's pasture over night—ten animals in another man's mountain pasture! We had a shooting match, and talked Reserve matters for just one hour and twenty minutes. Then somebody waked up.

"I wonder what's become of Jones; let's go see."

We went. Jones was standing dusty in the middle of the corral. In his hand he held a short loop not over three feet across. This he whirled forward and overhand. Occasionally he would cast it at a horse. Of course the outraged and astounded animal was stricken about the knees, whereupon he circulated the confines of the corral at speed.

Jones and the Mule

And the animals! At the moment of our arrival Jones was bestowing attention on a dignified and gaunt mule some seventeen hands high. I never saw such a giraffe. Two about the size of jackasses hovered near. One horse's lower lip wabbled abjectly below a Roman nose.

We watched a few moments; then offered mildly to "help." Jones, somewhat heated and cross, accepted. The first horse I roped I noticed was barefoot. So were the others. And the route was over a rough granite and snow country. Thus we formed a procession, each leading some sort of equine freak. It was by now nearly nine o'clock.

Camp we found about half picked up. The other members of the party were nice, well-meaning people, but absolutely inexperienced in the ways of the wilderness. They had innocently intrusted themselves to Jones on the strength of his self-made reputation; and now undoubtedly were taking all this fuss and discomfit quite as part of "roughing it."

Helping the Tenderfeet

When we saw them we were stricken with pity and a kindly feeling which Jones had failed to arouse, so we turned in to help them saddle up.

Jones was occupied with a small mule which he claimed was "bad." He hitched said mule to a tree, then proceeded to elevate one hind leg by means of a rope thrown over a limb. Why he did not simply blindfold the animal no one could tell. We looked forward with some joy to the throwing of the pack-hitches.

On the Trail

A Forest Fire

But at this moment a Ranger dashed up with news of a forest fire over in the Rock Creek country. The Rangers present immediately scattered for their saddle horses, while I took a pack and went in search of supplies.

Shortly after one o'clock I was organized, and departed on the trail of the Rangers. They had struck over the ridge, and down the other side of the mountains. Their tracks were easy to follow, and once atop the divide I could see the flames and smoke of the fire over the next mountain system. Desiring to arrive before dark, I pushed ahead as rapidly as possible. About half way down the mountain I made out dust ahead.

"A messenger coming back for something," thought I.

In ten minutes I was stricken dumb to overtake the Jones party plodding trustingly along in the tracks made by the Rangers.

"Well," I greeted them, "what are you doing over here? A little off your beat, aren't you?"

The members of the party glanced at each other, while Jones turned a dull red.

"Wrong trail, eh?" said he easily; "where does this one go to?"

Jones and the Trail

"Why, this isn't a trail!" I cried. "Can't you see it's just fresh tracks made since morning? This will take you to the fire, and that's about all. Your trail is miles to the north of here."

For the moment he was crushed. It was now too late to think of going back; a short cut was impossible on account of the nature of the country. Finally I gave him a direction which would cut another trail—not where he had intended to go, but at least leading to horse feed. Then I bade him farewell, and rode on to the fire.

We Put Them Right

Long after dark, when hunting for the place the boys had camped, I met that deluded outfit moving supperless, homeless, lost, like ghosts in the glow of the fire line. Jones was cross and snapped at me when I asked him if he wasn't seeing a good deal of country. But I looked at the tired faces of the other members of the party, and my heart relented, and I headed them for a meadow.

"How far beyond is Squaw Dome?" asked Jones as he started.

"Sixteen miles—about," said I.

"About eight hours the way you and I travel, then," said he.

"About eight weeks the way you travel," amended a Ranger standing near.

Two days later a shakemaker came to help us fight fire.

"Oh, yes, they passed my place," said he. "I went out and tried to tell him he was off'n the trail, but he waved me aside. 'We have our maps,' says he, very lofty."

Twelve days subsequently I rode a day and a half to Jackass Meadow. They told us the Jones party just passed! I wonder what became of them, and how soon their barefooted horses got tender.

Now the tenderfoot one helps out, nor makes fun of, for he is merely inexperienced and will learn. But this man is in the mountains every summer. He likewise wishes to rope bears.

An Object Lesson

No better example could be instanced as to the value of camp alertness, efficiency, the use of one's head, and the willingness to take advice. I had with me at the time a younger brother whom I was putting through his first paces; and Jones was to me invaluable as an object lesson.

The purpose of this chapter is not to tell you how to do things, but how to go at them. If you can keep from getting lost, and if you can keep awake, you will at least reach home safe. Other items of mental and moral equipment you may need will come to you by natural development in the environment to which the wild life brings you.

CHAPTER II

COMMON SENSE IN THE WILDERNESS

Overburdening

THERE is more danger that a man take too much than too little into the wilderness. No matter how good his intentions may be, how conscientiously he may follow advice, or how carefully he may examine and re-examine his equipment, he will surely find that he is carrying a great many pounds more than his companions, the professionals at the business. At first this may affect him but little. He argues that he is constructed on a different pattern from these men, that his training and education are such as to have developed in him needs and habits such as they have never known. Preconceived notions, especially when one is fairly brought up in their influence, are most difficult to shake off. Since we have worn coats all our lives, we include a coat in our list of personal apparel just as unquestionably—even as unthinkingly—as we should include in our calculations air to breathe and water to drink. The coat is an institution so absolutely one of man's invariable garments that it never even occurs to him to examine into its use or uselessness. In like manner no city dweller brought up in proximity to laundries and on the firm belief that washing should be done all at once and at stated intervals can be convinced that he can keep clean and happy with but one shirt; or that more than one handkerchief is a superfluity.

Elimination

Yet in time, if he is a woodsman, and really thinks about such affairs instead of taking them for granted, he will inevitably gravitate toward the correct view of these things. Some day he will wake up to the fact that he never wears a coat when working or traveling; that about camp his sweater is more comfortable; and that in sober fact he uses that rather bulky garment as little as any article in his outfit. So he leaves it home, and is by so much disencumbered. In a similar manner he will realize that with the aid of cold-water soap the shirt he wears may be washed in one half hour and dried in the next. Meanwhile he dons his sweater, A handkerchief is laundered complete in a quarter of an hour. Why carry extras, then, merely from a recollection of full bureau drawers?

Essentials

In this matter it is exceedingly difficult to be honest with oneself. The best test is that of experience. What I have found to be of no use to me, may measure the difference between comfort and unhappiness to another man. Carry only essentials: but the definition of the word is not so easy. An essential is that which, by each man's individual experience, he has found he cannot do without.

How to Determine Essentials

How to determine that? I have elsewhere indicated[1] a practical expedient, which will however, bear repetition here. When you have reached home after your trip, turn your duffle bag upside down on the floor. Separate the contents into three piles. Let pile No. 1 include those articles you have used every day—or nearly that often; let pile No. 2 comprise those you have used but once; and pile No. 3 those you have not used at all. Now, no matter how your heart may yearn over the Patent Dingbat in No. 3, shut your eyes and resolutely discard the two latter piles.

Naturally, if you are strong-minded, pile No. 1 will be a synonym for your equipment. As a matter of fact you will probably not be as strong-minded as that. You will argue to yourself somewhat in this fashion:

"Yes, that is all very well; but it was only a matter of sheer chance that the Patent Dingbat is not in pile No. 1. To be sure, I did not use it on this particular trip; but in other conditions I might need it every day."

The Philosophy of Duffle

So you take it, and keep on taking it, and once in a great while you use it. Then some day you wake up to two more bits of camp philosophy which you formulate to yourself about as follows: An article must pay in convenience or comfort for the trouble of its transportation; and Substitution, even imperfect, is better than the carrying of special conveniences. Then he hurls said Patent Dingbat into the nearest pool.

Patent Dingbats

That hits directly at the weak point of the sporting catalogues. Every once in a while an enthusiast writes me of some new and handy kink he is ready to swear by. It is indeed handy; and if one could pluck it from the nearest bush when occasion for its use arose, it would be a joy and a delight. But carrying it four hundred miles to that occasion for its use is a very different matter. The sporting catalogues are full of very handy kinks. They are good to fool with and think about, and plan over in the off season; but when you pack your duffle bag you'd better put them on a shelf.

Occasionally, but mighty seldom, you will find that something you need very much has gone into pile No. 3. Make a note of it. But do not be too hasty to write it down as part of your permanent equipment.

You Must Not Mind Getting Wet Sometimes

The first summer I spent in the Sierras I discovered that small noon showers needed neither tent nor slicker. So next year I left them home, and was, off and on, plenty wet and cold. Immediately I jumped to the conclusion that I had made a mistake. It has not rained since. So I decided that sporadic heavy rains do not justify the transportation of two cumbersome articles. Now when it rains in daytime I don't mind getting a little wet—for it is soon over; and at night an adequate shelter can be built of the tarpaulin and a saddle blanket. In other words the waterproofs could not pay, in the course of say three-days' rain in a summer, for the trouble of their transportation during four months.

As I have said, the average man, with the best intentions, will not go too light, and so I have laid especial emphasis on the necessity of discarding the unessential. But there exists a smaller class who rush to the opposite extreme.

Another Sort of Tenderfoot

We all know the type. He professes an inordinate scorn for comfort of all sorts. If you are out with him you soon discover that he has a vast pride in being able to sleep on cobblestones—and does so at the edge of yellow pines with their long needles. He eats badly cooked food. He stands—or perhaps I should say poses—indifferent to a downpour when every one else has sought shelter. In a cold climate he brings a single thin blanket. His slogan seems to be: "This is good enough for me!" with the unspoken conclusion, "if it isn't good enough for you fellows, you're pretty soft."

The Tough Youth

The queer part of it is he usually manages to bully sensible men into his point of view. They accept his bleak camps and voluntary hardships because they are ashamed to be less tough than he is. And in town they are abashed before him when with a superior, good-natured, and tolerant laugh he tells the company in glee of how you brought with you a little pillow-case to stuff with moss. "Bootleg is good enough for me!" he cries; and every one marvels at his woodsmanship.

As a plain matter of fact this man is the worse of two types of tenderfoot. The greenhorn does not know better; but this man should. He has mistaken utterly the problem of the wilderness. The wild life is not to test how much the human frame can endure—although that often enough happens—but to test how well the human wits, backed by an enduring body, can answer the question of comfort. Comfort means minimum equipment; comfort means bodily ease. The task is to balance, to reconcile these apparently opposing ideas.

The Logic of Woodcraft

A man is skillful at woodcraft just in proportion as he approaches this balance. Knowing the wilderness he can be comfortable when a less experienced man would endure hardships. Conversely, if a man endures hardships where a woodsman could be comfortable, it argues not his toughness, but his ignorance or foolishness, which is exactly the case with our blatant friend of the drawing-room reputation.

Probably no men endure more hardships than do those whose professions call them out of doors. But they are unavoidable hardships. The cowboy travels with a tin cup and a slicker; the cruiser with a twenty-pound pack; the prospector with a half blanket and a sack of pilot bread—when he has to. But on round-up, when the chuck wagon goes along, the cow-puncher has his "roll"; on drive with the wangan the cruiser sends his ample "turkey"; and the prospector with a burro train takes plenty to keep him comfortable. Surely even the Tough Youth could hardly accuse these men of being "soft."

The author doing a little washing on his own account

Outfit Should Correspond to Means of Transportation

You must in this matter consider what your means of transportation are to be. It would be as foolish to confine your outfit for pack horses to the equipment you would carry on your own back in the forests, as it would be to limit yourself to a pack horse outfit when traveling across country in a Pullman car. When you have horses it is good to carry a few—a very few—canned goods. The corners of the kyacks will accommodate them; and once in a blue moon a single item of luxury chirks you up wonderfully and gives you quite a new outlook on life. So you chuck them in, and are no more bothered by them until the psychological moment.

On a walking trip, however, the affair is different. You can take canned goods, if you want to. But their transportation would require another Indian; another Indian means more grub and more equipment; and so at the last you find yourself at the head of an unwieldy caravan. You find it much pleasanter to cut the canned goods, and to strike out with a single companion.

Common Sense Should Rule

After all, it is an affair of common sense; but even common sense when confronted by a new problem, needs a certain directing. The province of these articles is to offer that direction; I do not claim that my way is the only way, nor am I rash enough to claim it is the best way. But it is my way, and if any one will follow it, he will be as comfortable and as well suited as I am, which is at least better than going it blind.

FOOTNOTE:

[1] The Forest.

CHAPTER III

PERSONAL EQUIPMENT

IN discussion of the details of equipment, I shall first of all take up in turn each and every item you could possibly need, whether you intend to travel by horse, by canoe, or on your own two feet. Of course you will not carry all of these things on any one trip. What is permissible for horse traveling would be absurd for a walking trip; and some things—such as a waterproof duffle bag—which you would need on a foot tramp, would be useless where you have kyacks and a tarpaulin to protect your belongings. Therefore I shall first enumerate all articles of all three classes of equipment; and then in a final summary segregate them into their proper categories.

Concerning Hats

Stetson Hat the Best

Long experience by men practically concerned seems to prove that a rather heavy felt hat is the best for all around use. Even in hot sun it seems to be the most satisfactory, as, with proper ventilation, it turns the sun's rays better even than light straw. Witness the Arizona cowboy on his desert ranges. You will want a good hat, the best in material that money can buy. A cheap article sags in the brim, tears in the crown, and wets through like blotting paper the first time it rains. I have found the Stetson, of the five to seven dollar grade, the most satisfactory. If it is intended for woods travel where you are likely to encounter much brush, get it of medium brim. In those circumstances I find it handy to buy a size smaller than usual, and then to rip out the sweat band. The friction of the felt directly against the forehead and the hair will hold it on in spite of pretty sharp tugs by thorns and wind. In the mountains or on the plains, you can indulge in a wider and stiffer brim. Two buckskin thongs sewn on either side and to tie under the "back hair" will hold it on, even against a head wind. A test will show you how this can be. A leather band and buckle—or miniature cinch and latigos—gives added security. I generally cut ample holes for ventilation. In case of too many mosquitoes I stuff my handkerchief in the crown.

Kerchiefs

About your neck you will want to wear a silk kerchief. This is to keep out dust, and to prevent your neck from becoming reddened and chapped. It, too, should be of the best quality. The poorer grades go to pieces soon, and their colors are not fast. Get it big enough. At night you will make a cap of it to sleep in; and if ever you happen to be caught without extra clothes where it is very cold, you will find that the kerchief tied around your middle, and next the skin, will help surprisingly.

Coats

A coat is useless absolutely. A sweater is better as far as warmth goes; a waistcoat beats it for pockets. You will not wear it during the day; it wads up too much to be of much use at night. Even your trousers rolled up make a better temporary pillow. Leave it home; and you will neither regret it nor miss it.

Sweaters

For warmth, as I have said, you will have your sweater. In this case, too, I would impress the desirability of purchasing the best you can buy. And let it be a heavy one, of gray or a neutral brown.

Buckskin Shirts

But to my mind the best extra garment is a good ample buckskin shirt. It is less bulky than the sweater, of less weight, and much warmer, especially in a wind, while for getting through brush noiselessly it cannot be improved upon. I do not know where you can buy one; but in any case get it ample in length and breadth, and without the fringe. The latter used to possess some significance beside ornamentation, for in case of need the wilderness hunter could cut from it thongs and strings as he needed them. Nowadays a man in a fringed buckskin shirt is generally a fake built to deceive tourists. On the other hand a plain woodsmanlike garment, worn loose and belted at the waist, looks always at once comfortable and appropriate. Be sure that the skins of which it is made are smoke tanned. The smoke tanned article will dry soft, while the ordinary skin is hardening to almost the consistency of rawhide. Good buckskins are difficult to get hold of—and it will take five to make you a good shirt—but for this use they last practically forever.

Overshirts

Of course such a garment is distinctly an extra or outside garment. You would find it too warm for ordinary wear. The outer shirt of your daily habit is best made of rather a light weight of gray flannel. Most new campers indulge in a very thick navy blue shirt, mainly, I believe, because it contrasts picturesquely with a bandana around the neck. Such a shirt almost always crocks, is sure to fade, shows dirt, and is altogether too hot. A lighter weight furnishes all the protection you need to your underclothes and turns sun quite as well. Gray is a neutral color, and seems less often than any other to shame you to the wash soap. A great many wear an ordinary cotton work shirt, relying for warmth on the underclothes. There is no great objection to this, except that flannel is better should you get rained on.

Underclothes

The true point of comfort is, however, your underwear. It should be of wool. I know that a great deal has been printed against it, and a great many hygienic principles are invoked to prove that linen, cotton, or silk are better. But experience with all of them merely leads back to the starting point. If one were certain never to sweat freely, and never to get wet, the theories might hold. But once let linen or cotton or silk undergarments get thoroughly moistened, the first chilly little wind is your undoing. You will shiver and shake before the hottest fire, and nothing short of a complete change and a rub-down will do you any good.

Now, of course in the wilderness you expect to undergo extremes of temperature, and occasionally to pass unprotected through a rainstorm or a stream. Then you will discover that wool dries quickly; that even when damp it soon warms comfortably to the body. I have waded all day in early spring freshet water with no positive discomfort except for the cold ring around my legs which marked the surface of the water.

Wear Woolen Underclothes Always

And if you are wise, you will wear full long-sleeved woolen undershirts even on a summer trip. If it is a real trip, you are going to sweat anyway, no matter how you strip down to the work. And sooner or later the sun will dip behind a cloud or a hill; or a cool breezelet will wander to you resting on the slope; or the inevitable chill of evening will come out from the thickets to greet you—and you will be very glad of your woolen underwear.

A great many people go to the opposite extreme. They seem to think that because they are to live in the open air, they will probably freeze. As a consequence of this delusion, they purchase underclothes an inch thick. This is foolishness, not only because such a weight is unnecessary and unhealthful, but also—even if it were merely a question of warmth—because one suit of thick garments is not nearly so warm as two suits of thin. Whenever the weather turns very cold on you, just put on the extra undershirt over the one you are wearing, and you will be surprised to discover how much warmth two gauze tissues—with the minute air space between them—can give. Therefore, though you must not fail to get full length woolen underclothes, you need not buy them of great weight. The thinnest Jaeger is about right.

The Laundry Problem

Two undershirts and three pairs of drawers are all you ever will need on the most elaborate trip. You perhaps cannot believe that until you have gotten away from the idea that laundry must be done all at once. In the woods it is much handier to do it a little at a time. Soap your outershirt at night; rinse it in the morning; dry it on top of your pack during the first two hours. In the meantime wear your sweater; or, if it is warm enough, appear in your undershirt. When you change your underclothes—which should be one garment at a time—do the same thing. Thus always you will be possessed of a clean outfit without the necessity of carrying a lot of extras.

Trousers

The matter of trousers is an important one; for unless you are possessed of abundant means of transportation, those you have on will be all you will take. I used to include an extra pair, but got over it. Even when trout fishing I found that by the time I had finished standing around the fire cooking, or yarning, I might have to change the underdrawers, but the trousers themselves had dried well enough. And patches are not too difficult a maneuver.

Moleskin and Khaki

The almost universal wear in the West is the copper-riveted blue canvas overall. They are very good in that they wear well. Otherwise they are stiff and noisy in the brush. Kersey is excellent where much wading is to be done or much rainy weather encountered—in fact it is the favorite "driving" trousers with rivermen—but like all woven woolen materials it "picks out" in bad brush. Corduroy I would not have as a gift. It is very noisy, and each raindrop that hits it spreads at once to the size of a silver dollar. I verily believe an able pair of corduroys can, when feeling good, soak up ten pounds of water. Good moleskin dries well, and until it begins to give out is soft and tough. But it is like the one-hoss shay: when it starts to go, it does the job up completely in a few days. The difficulty is to guess when that moment is due to arrive. Anything but the best quality is worthless. Khaki has lately come into popularity. It wears remarkably well, dries quickly, and is excellent in all but one particular: it shows every spot of dirt. A pair of khakis three days along on the trail look as though they had been out a year. The new green khaki is a little better. Buckskin is all right until you get it wet, then you have—temporarily—enough material to make three pairs and one for the boy.

The best trousers I know of is a combination of the latter two materials. I bought a pair of the ordinary khaki army riding breeches, and had a tailor cover them completely—fore, aft, and sideways—with some good smoke-tanned buckskin I happened to have. It took a skin and a half. These I have worn now for three seasons, in all kinds of country, in all kinds of weather, and they are to-day as good as when I constructed them. In still hunting they are noiseless; horseback they do not chafe; in cold weather they are warm, and the hot sun they turn. The khaki holds the stretch of buckskin when wet—as they have been for a week at a time. Up to date the smoke tan has dried them soft. Altogether they are the most satisfactory garment of this kind I have experimented with.

There remains the equally important subject of footwear.

Socks

Get heavy woolen lumberman's socks, and wear them in and out of season. They are not one whit hotter on the feet than the thinnest you can buy, for the impervious leather of the shoe is really what keeps in the animal heat—the sock has little to do with it. You will find the soft thick wool an excellent cushion for a long tramp; and with proper care to avoid wrinkles, you will never become tender-footed nor chafed. At first it seems ridiculous to draw on such thick and apparently hot socks when the sun peeping over the rim of the desert promises you a scorching day. Nothing but actual experience will convince you; but I am sure that if you will give the matter a fair test, you will come inevitably to my conclusion.

The Ideal Footwear

If a man were limited to a choice between moccasins and shoes, it would be very difficult to decide wisely which he should take. Each has its manifest advantages over the other, and neither can entirely take the place of the other.

The ideal footwear should give security, be easy on the feet, wear well, and give absolute protection. These qualities I have named approximately in the order of their importance.

Security of footing

Security of footing depends on the nature of the ground over which you are traveling. Hobnails only will hold you on a slope covered with pine needles, for instance; both leather and buckskin there become as slippery as glass. In case of smooth rocks, however, your hobnails are positively dangerous, as they slide from under you with all the vicious force and suddenness of unaccustomed skates. Clean leather is much better, and buckskin is the best of all. Often in hunting deer along the ledges of the deep box cañons I, with my moccasins, have walked confidently up slants of smooth rock on which my hobnailed companion was actually forced to his hands and knees. Undoubtedly also a man carrying a pack through mixed forest is surer of his footing and less liable to turned ankles in moccasins than in boots. My experience has been that with the single exception mentioned, I have felt securer in the buckskin.

Ease

As for ease to the feet, that is of course a matter of opinion. Undoubtedly at first the moccasin novice is literally a tenderfoot. But after astonishingly few days of practice a man no longer notices the lack of a sole. I have always worn moccasins more or less in the woods, and now can walk over pebbles or knife-edge stones without the slightest discomfort. In fact the absence of rolling and slipping in that sort of shifting footing turns the scale quite the other way.

"Mountain on mountain towering high,
And a valley in between"

Wear

The matter of wear is not so important. It would seem at first glance that the one thin layer of buckskin would wear out before the several thick layers of a shoe's sole. Such is not always the case. A good deal depends on the sort of ground you cover. If you wet moccasins, and then walk down hill with them over granite shale, you can get holes to order. Boots wear rapidly in the same circumstances. On the other hand I have on at this moment a pair of mooseskin moccasins purchased three years ago at a Hudson's Bay Company's post, which have seen two summers' off and on service in the Sierras. Barring extraordinary conditions, I should say that each in its proper use, a pair of boots and a pair of moccasins would last about the same length of time. The moccasin, however, has this advantage: it can be readily patched, and even a half dozen extra pairs take up little room in the pack.

Waterproofing

Absolute protection must remain a tentative term. No footwear I have succeeded in discovering gives absolute protection. Where there is much work to be done in the water, I think boots are the warmest and most comfortable, though no leather is perfectly waterproof. Moccasins then become slimpsy, stretched, and loathsome. So likewise moccasins are not much good in damp snow, though in dry snow they are unexcelled.

In my own practice I wear boots on a horseback trip, and carry moccasins in my pack for general walking. In the woods I pack four pair of moccasins. In a canoe, moccasins of course.

About Boots

Do not make the common mistake of getting tremendously heavy boots. They are clumsy to place, burdensome to carry, and stiff and unpliable to the chafing point. The average amateur woodsman seems to think a pair of elephantine brogans is the proper thing—a sort of badge of identification in the craft. If he adds big hobnails to make tracks with, he is sure of himself. A medium weight boot, of medium height, with medium heavy soles armed only with the small Hungarian hobnail is about the proper thing. Get them eight inches high; supplied with very large eyelets part way, then the heaviest hooks, finishing with two more eyelets at the top. The latter will prevent the belt-lacing you will use as shoestrings from coming unhooked.

You will see many advertisements of waterproof leather boots. No such thing is made. Some with good care will exclude water for a while, if you stay in it but a few minutes at a time, but sooner or later as the fibers become loosened the water will penetrate. In the case of the show window exhibit of the shoe standing in a pan of water, pressure of the foot and ground against the leather is lacking, which of course makes all the difference. This porosity is really desirable. A shoe wholly waterproof would retain and condense the perspiration to such an extent that the feet would be as wet at the end of the day. Such is the case with rubber boots. All you want is a leather that will permit you to splash through a marsh, a pool, or a little stream, and will not seek to emulate blotting paper in its haste to become saturated.

The Most Durable Boots

Of the boots I have tried, and that means a good many, I think the Putman boot and the river driver's boot, made by A. A. Cutter of Eau Claire, Wis., are made of the most durable material. The Putman boot is the more expensive; and in the case of the three pairs I know of personally, the sewing has been defective. The material, however, wears remarkably well, and remains waterproof somewhat longer than any of the others. On the other hand the Cutter shoe is built primarily for rivermen and timber cruisers of the northern forests, and is at once cheap and durable. It has a brace of sole leather about the heel which keeps the latter upright and prevents it running over. It is an easier shoe on the foot than any of the others, but does not remain waterproof quite so long as the Putman. Although, undoubtedly, many other makes are as good, you will not go astray in purchasing one of these two.

Rubber

No shoe is waterproof for even a short time in wet snow. Rubber is then the only solution, usually in the shape of a shoe rubber with canvas tops. Truth to tell, melting snow is generally so very cold that you will be little troubled with interior condensation. Likewise many years' experience in grouse hunting through the thickets and swamps of Michigan drove me finally to light hip rubber boots. The time was always the autumn; the place was always more or less muddy and wet—in spots of course—and there was always the greater or lesser possibility of snow. My native town was a great grouse shooting center, and all hunters, old and young, came to the same conclusion.

But wet snow, such hunting, and of course the duck marsh, seem to me the only excuses for rubber. Trout fishing is more comfortable in woolen than in waders. The latter are clumsy and hot. I have known of two instances of drowning because the victims were weighted down by them. And I should much prefer getting wet from without than from within.

You will have your choice of three kinds of moccasin—the oil-tanned shoe pac, the deerhide, and the moosehide.

Shoe Pacs

The shoe pac is about as waterproof as the average waterproof shoe, and would be the best for all purposes were it not for the fact that its very imperviosity renders it too hot. In addition continuous wear affects the oil in the tanning process to produce rather an evil odor. The shoe pacs are very useful, however, and where I carry but two pairs of moccasins, one is of the oil tan. Shoe pacs can be purchased of any sporting goods dealer.

Moccasins

The deerhide moccasin, in spite of its thinner texture, wears about as well as the moosehide, is less bulky to carry, but stretches more when wet and is not as easy on the feet. I use either sort as I happen to get hold of them. Genuine buckskin or moose is rather scarce. Commercial moccasins with the porcupine quills and "Souvenir of Mackinaw" on them are made by machinery out of sheepskin. They are absolutely useless, and last about long enough to get out of sight of the shop. A great majority of the moccasins sold as sportsman's supplies are likewise very bogus. My own wear I have always purchased of Hudson's Bay posts. Undoubtedly many reliable firms carry them; but I happen to know by personal experience that the Putman Boot Company of Minneapolis have the real thing.

Waistcoats

Proceeding to more outer garments, a waistcoat is a handy affair. In warm weather you leave it open and hardly know you have it on; in cold weather you button it up, and it affords excellent protection. Likewise it possesses the advantage of numerous pockets. These you will have your women folk extend and deepen for you, until your compass, notebook, pipe, matches, and so forth fit nicely in them. As it is to be used as an outside garment, have the back lined. If you have shot enough deer to get around to waistcoats, nothing could be better by way of material than the ever-useful buckskin.

Waterproofs

I am no believer in waterproof garments. Once I owned a pantasote outer coat which I used to assume whenever it rained. Ordinarily when it is warm enough to rain, it is warm enough to cause you to perspire under the exertion of walking in a pantasote coat. This I discovered. Shortly I would get wet, and would be quite unable to decide whether the rain had soaked through from the outside or I had soaked through from the inside. After that I gave the coat away to a man who had not tried it, and was happy. If I must walk in the rain I prefer to put on a sweater—the rough wool of which will turn water for some time and the texture of which allows ventilation. Then the chances are that even if I soak through I do not get a reactionary chill from becoming overheated.

Ponchos

In camp you will know enough to go in when it rains. When you have to sally forth you will thrust your head through the hole in the middle of your rubber blanket. When thus equipped the rubber blanket is known as a poncho, and is most useful because it can be used for two purposes.

Slickers

Horseback in a rainy country is, however, a different matter. There transportation is not on your back, but another's; and sitting a horse is not violent exercise. Some people like a poncho. I have always found its lower edge cold, clumsy, and wet, much inclined to blow about, and apt to soak your knees and the seat of your saddle. The cowboy slicker cannot be improved upon. It is different in build from the ordinary oilskin. Call for a "pommel slicker," and be sure it is apparently about two sizes too large for you. Thus you will cover your legs. Should you be forced to walk, a belt around your waist will always enable you to tuck it up like a comic opera king. It is sure ludicrous to view, but that does not matter.

Chaparejos

Apropos of protecting your legs, there remains still the question of chaparejos or chaps. Unless you are likely to be called on to ride at some speed through thorny brush, or unless you expect to ride very wet indeed, they are a useless affectation. The cowboy needs them because he does a great deal of riding of the two kinds just mentioned. Probably you will not. I have had perhaps a dozen occasions to put them on. If you must have them, get either oil-tanned or hair chaps. Either of these sheds water like a tin roof. The hair chaps will not last long in a thorny country.

Gloves

You will need furthermore a pair of gloves of some sort, not for constant wear, nor merely for warmth, but to protect you in the handling of pack ropes, lead ropes, and cooking utensils. A good buckskin gauntlet is serviceable, as the cuffs keep the cold breezes from playing along your forearm to your shoulder, and exclude the dust. When you can get hold of the army gauntlet, as you sometimes can in the military stores, buy them. Lacking genuine buckskin, the lighter grades of "asbestos" yellow tan are the best. They cost about two dollars. To my notion a better rig is an ordinary pair of short gloves, supplemented by the close-fitting leather cuffs of a cowboy's outfit. The latter hold the wrist snugly, exclude absolutely chill and dirt, and in addition save wear and soiling of the shirt cuff. They do not pick up twigs, leaves, and rubbish funnel wise, as a gauntlet cuff is apt to do.

That, I think, completes your wearing apparel. Let us now take up the contents of your pockets, and your other personal belongings.

SUMMARY

CHAPTER IV

PERSONAL EQUIPMENT

(Continued)

Matches

MATCHES, knife, and a compass are the three indispensables. By way of ignition you will take a decided step backward from present-day civilization in that you will pin your faith to the old sulphur "eight-day" matches of your fathers. This for several reasons. In the first place they come in blocks, unseparated, which are easily carried without danger of rubbing one against the other. In the second place, they take up about a third the room the same number of wooden matches would require. In the third place, they are easier to light in a wind, for they do not flash up and out, but persist. And finally, if wet, they can be spread out and dried in the sun, which is the most important of all. So buy you a nickel's worth of sulphur matches.

One of the mishaps to be expected

Match Safes

The main supply you will pack in some sort of waterproof receptacle. I read a story recently in which a man was recognized as a true woodsman because he carried his matches in a bottle. He must have had good luck. The cardinal principle of packing is never to carry any glassware. Ninety and nine days it may pass safely, but the hundredth will smash it as sure as some people's shooting. And then you have jam, or chili powder, or syrup, or whiskey, all over the place—or else no matches. Any good screw top can—or better still, two telescoping tubes—is infinitely better.

The day's supply you will put in your pocket. A portion can go in a small waterproof match safe; but as it is a tremendous nuisance to be opening such a contrivance every time you want a smoke, I should advise you to stick a block in your waistcoat pocket, where you can get at them easily. If you are going a-wading, and pockets are precarious, you will find your hat band handy.

The waterproof pocket safe is numerous on the market. A ten-gauge brass shell will just chamber a twelve-gauge. Put your matches in the twelve-gauge, and telescope the ten over it. Abercrombie & Fitch, of New York, make a screw top safe of rubber, which has the great advantage of floating if dropped, but it is too bulky and the edges are too sharp. The Marble safe, made by the Marble Axe Company, is ingenious and certainly waterproof; but if it gets bent in the slightest degree, it jams, and you can no longer screw it shut. Therefore I consider it useless for this reason. A very convenient and cheap emergency contrivance is the flint and steel pocket cigar lighter to be had at most cigar stores. With it as a reserve you are sure of a fire no matter how wet the catastrophe.

Knives

Your knife should be a medium size two-bladed affair, of the best quality. Do not get it too large and heavy. You can skin and quarter a deer with an ordinary jackknife. Avoid the "kit" knives. They are mighty handy contraptions. I owned one with two blades, a thoroughly practicable can opener, an awl or punch, a combined reamer, nail pull and screwdriver, and a corkscrew. It was a delight for as long as it lasted. The trouble with such knives is that they are too round, so that sooner or later they are absolutely certain to roll out of your pocket and be lost. It makes no difference how your pockets are constructed, nor how careful you are, that result is inevitable. Then you will feel badly—and go back to your old flat two-bladed implement that you simply cannot lose.

Sheath Knives

A butcher knife of good make is one of the best and cheapest of sheath knives. The common mistake among amateur hunters is that of buying too heavy a knife with too thick a blade. Unless you expect to indulge in hand to hand conflicts, or cut brush, such a weapon is excessive. I myself have carried for the last seven years a rather thin and broad blade made by the Marble Axe Company on the butcher knife pattern. This company advertises in its catalogue a knife as used by myself. They are mistaken. The knife I mean is a longer bladed affair, called a "kitchen or camp knife." It is a most excellent piece of steel, holds an edge well, and is useful alike as a camp and hunting knife. The fact that I have killed some thirty-four wild boars with it shows that it is not to be despised as a weapon.

Compasses

Your compass should be large enough for accuracy, with a jewel movement. Such an instrument can be purchased for from one to two dollars. It is sheer extravagance to go in for anything more expensive unless you are a yachtsman or intend to run survey lines.

Concerning Guns

I have hesitated much before deciding to say anything whatever of the sporting outfit. The subject has been so thoroughly discussed by men so much more competent than myself; there are so many theories with which I confess myself not at all conversant, and my own experience has been so limited in the variety of weapons and tackle, that I hardly felt qualified to speak. However, I reflected that this whole series of articles does not pretend to be in any way authoritative, nor does it claim to present the only or the best equipment in any branch of wilderness travel, but only to set forth the results of my own twenty years more or less of pretty steady outdoor life. So likewise it may interest the reader to hear about the contents of my own gunrack, even though he himself would have chosen much more wisely.

My Rifle

My rifle is a .30-.40 box magazine Winchester, with Lyman sights. This I have heard is not a particularly accurate gun. Also it is stated that after a few hundred shots it becomes still more inaccurate because of a residue which only special process can remove from the rifling. This may be. I only know that my own rifle to-day, after ten years' service, will still shoot as closely as I know how to hold it, although it has sixty-four notches on its stock and has probably been fired first and last—at big game, small game, and targets—upward of a thousand times. I use the Lyman aperture sight except in the dusk of evening, when a folding bar sight takes its place. At the time I bought this rifle the .33 and .35 had not been issued, and I thought, and still think, the .30-.30 too light for sure work on any animal larger than a deer. I have never used the .35, but like the .33 very much. The old low-power guns I used to shoot a great deal, but have not for some years.

Pistol a Handy Weapon

The handiest weapon for a woods trip where small game is plentiful is a single-shot pistol. Mine is a Smith & Wesson, blued, six-inch barrel, shooting the .22 caliber long-rifle cartridge. An eight-inch barrel is commonly offered by the sporting dealers, but the six-inch is practically as accurate, and less cumbersome to carry. The ammunition is compact and light. With this little pistol I have killed in plenty ducks, geese, grouse, and squirrels, so that at times I have gone two or three months without the necessity of shooting a larger weapon. Such a pistol takes practice, however, and a certain knack. You must keep at it until you can get four out of five bullets in a three-inch bull's-eye at twenty yards before you can even hope to accomplish much in the field.

Revolver Experiences

My six-shooter is a .45 Colt, New Service model. It is fitted with Lyman revolver sights. Originally it was a self-cocker, but I took out the dog and converted it to single action. The trigger pull on the double action is too heavy for me, and when I came to file it down, I found the double action caused a double jerk disconcerting to steady holding. Now it goes off smoothly and almost at a touch—the only conditions under which I can do much with a revolver. It is a very reliable weapon indeed, balances better than the single-action model, and possesses great smashing power. I have killed three deer in their tracks with it, and much smaller game. This summer, however, I had the opportunity of shooting a good deal with two I like better. One is the Officer's Model Colt, chambered to shoot interchangeably either the .38 Colt long or short, or the .38 Smith & Wesson special. In finish it is a beautiful weapon, its grip fits the hand, its action is smooth, and it is wonderfully accurate. The other is the special target .44 Russian. The automatics I do not care for simply because I never learned to shoot with the heavier trigger pull necessary to their action.

Shot Guns

I have two shotguns. One I have shot twenty-one years. It has killed thousands of game birds, is a hard hitter, throws an excellent pattern, and is as strong and good as the day it was bought. I use it to-day for every sort of shooting except ducks, though often I have had it in the blinds lacking the heavier weapon. It is doubtful if there are in use to-day many guns with longer service, counting not so much the mere years of its performance, as the actual amount of hunting it has done. The time of its construction was before the days of the hammerless. It was made by W. & C. Scott & Sons, is 16 gauge, and cost $125. My other is a heavily choked Parker twelve. It I use for wild fowl, and occasionally at the trap.

The main point with guns, no matter what the kind, is to keep them in good shape. After shooting, clean them, no matter how tired you may be. It is no great labor. In the field a string cleaner will do the business, but at once when you get to permanent camp use a rod and elbow grease. In a damp country, oil them afresh every day; so they will give you good service. The barrels of my 16 are as bright as new. The cleaning rods you can put in your leather fishing-rod case.

Duffle Bags

Now all these things of which we have made mention must be transported. The duffle bag is the usual receptacle for them. It should be of some heavy material, waterproofed, and should not be too large. A good one is of pantasote, with double top to tie. One of these went the length of a rapids, and was fished out without having shipped a drop. On a horseback trip, however, such a contrivance is at once unnecessary and difficult to pack. It is too long and stiff to go easily in the kyacks, and does not agree well with the bedding on top.

This is really no great matter. The heavy kyacks, and the tarpaulin over everything, furnish all needed protection against wet and abrasion. A bag of some thinner and more pliable material is quite as good. Brown denim, unbleached cotton, or even a clean flour sack, are entirely adequate. You will find it handy to have them built with puckering strings. The strings so employed will not get lost, and can be used as a loop to hang the outfit from a branch when in camp.

Toilet Articles

A similar but smaller bag is useful to be reserved entirely as a toilet bag. Tar soap in a square—not round—celluloid case is the most cleansing. A heavy rubber band will hold the square case together.[2] The tooth brush should also have its case. Tooth wash comes in glass, which is taboo; tooth powder is sure sooner or later to leak out. I like best any tooth soap which is sold in handy flat tin boxes, and cannot spill. If you are sensible you will not be tenderfoot enough to go in for the discomfort of a new beard. Razors can be kept from rusting by wrapping them in a square of surgeon's oiled silk. Have your towel of brown crash—never of any white material. The latter is so closely woven that dirt gets into the very fiber of it, and cannot be washed out. Crash, however, is of looser texture, softens quickly, and does not show every speck of dust. If you have the room for it, a rough towel, while not absolutely necessary, is nevertheless a great luxury.

Medicines

By way of medicines, stick to the tablet form. A strong compact medicine case is not expensive. It should contain antiseptics, permanganate for snake bites, a laxative, cholera remedy, quinine, and morphine. In addition antiseptic bandages and rubber or surgeon's plaster should be wrapped in oiled silk and included in the duffle outfit.

The fly problem is serious in some sections of the country and at some times of year. A head net is sometimes useful about camp or riding in the open—never when walking in the woods. The ordinary mosquito bar is too fragile. One of bobbinet that fits ingeniously is very effective. This and gloves will hold you immune—but you cannot smoke, nor spit on the bait.

Fly Dopes

The two best fly dopes of the many I have tried are a commercial mixture called "lollacapop," and Nessmuk's formula. The lollacapop comes in tin boxes, and so is handy to carry, but does not wear quite as well as the other. Nessmuk's dope is:

Fly Dopes

It is most effective. A dab on each cheek and one behind each ear will repel the fly of average voracity, while a full coating will save you in the worst circumstances. A single dose will last until next wash time. It is best carried in the tiny "one drink" whiskey flasks, holding, I suppose, two or three ounces. One flask full will last you all summer. At first the pine tar smell will bother you, but in a short time you will get to like it. It will call up to your memory the reaches of trout streams, and the tall still aisles of the forests.

SUMMARY

FOOTNOTE:

[2] Kephart, in his excellent book on Camping and Woodcraft, suggests carrying soap in a rubber tobacco pouch. This is a good idea.

CHAPTER V

CAMP OUTFIT

Tents

IN many sections of the country you will need a tent, even when traveling afoot. Formerly a man had to make a choice between canvas, which is heavy but fairly waterproof, and drill, which is light but flimsy. A seven by seven duck tent weighs fully twenty-five pounds when dry, and a great many more when wet. It will shed rain as long as you do not hit against it. A touch on the inside, however, will often start a trickle at the point of contact. Altogether it is unsatisfactory, and one does not wonder than many men prefer to knock together bark shelters.

Tent Material

Nowadays, however, another and better material is to be had. It is the stuff balloons are made of, and is called balloon silk. I believe, for shelter purposes, it undergoes a further waterproofing process, but of this I am not certain. A tent of the size mentioned, instead of weighing twenty-five pounds, pulls the scales down at about eight. Furthermore, it does not absorb moisture, and is no heavier when wet than when dry. One can touch the inside all he wishes without rendering it pervious. The material is tough and enduring.

"Bed in the bush with stars to see"

"A" Tent Pitched as Shelter.

I have one which I have used hard for five years, not only as a tent, but as a canoe lining, a sod cloth, a tarpaulin, and a pack canvas. To-day it is as serviceable as ever, and excepting for inevitable soiling, two small patches represents its entire wear and tear.

"A" Tent Pitched Between Two Trees.

Don't Use a Tent Curtain

Abercrombie & Fitch, who make this tent, will try to persuade you, if you demand protection against mosquitoes, to let them sew on a sod-cloth of bobbinet and a loose long curtain of the same material to cover the entrance. Do not allow it. The rig is all right as long as there are plenty of flies. But suppose you want to use the tent in a flyless land? There still blocks your way that confounded curtain of bobbinet, fitting tightly enough so that you have almost to crawl when you enter, and so arranged that it is impossible to hang it up out of the way. The tent itself is all right, but its fly rigging is all wrong.

Best Tent Protection from Flies

I have found that a second tent built of cheesecloth, and without any opening whatever, is the best scheme. Tapes are sewn along its ridge. These you tie to the ridge pole or rope of the tent—on the inside of course. The cheesecloth structure thus hangs straight down. When not in use it is thrust to one side or the other. If flies get thick, you simply go inside and spread it out. It should be made somewhat larger in the wall than the tent so that you can weight its lower edge with fishing rods, rifles, boots, sticks, or rocks. Nothing can touch you.

"A" Tent Pitched on Treeless Ground.

Shape of Tent

The proper shape for a tent is a matter of some discussion. Undoubtedly the lean-to is the ideal shelter so far as warmth goes. You build your fire in front, the slanting wall reflects the heat down and you sleep warm even in winter weather. In practice, however, the lean-to is not always an undiluted joy. Flies can get in for one thing, and a heavy rainstorm can suck around the corner for another. In these circumstances four walls are highly desirable.

Method of Tightening Rope.

On the other hand a cold snap makes a wall tent into a cold storage vault. Tent stoves are little devils. They are either red hot or stone cold, and even when doing their best, there is always a northwest corner that declines to be thawed out. A man feels the need of a camp fire, properly constructed.

"A" Tent the Best

For three seasons I have come gradually to thinking that an A or wedge tent is about the proper thing. In event of that rainstorm or those flies its advantages are obvious. When a cold snap comes along, you simply pull up the stakes along one side, tie the loops of that wall to the same stakes that hold down the other wall—and there is your lean-to all ready for the fire.

When you get your tent made, have them insert grommets in each peak. Through these you will run a light line. By tying each end of the line to a tree or sapling, staking out the four corners of your tent, and then tightening the line by wedging under it (and outside the tent, of course) a forked pole, your tent is up in a jiffy. Where you cannot find two trees handily placed, poles crossed make good supports front and rear. The line passes over them and to a stake in the ground. These are quick pitches for a brief stop. By such methods an A tent is erected as quickly as a "pyramid," a miner's, or any of the others. In permanent camp, you will cut poles and do a shipshape job.

Tarpaulin, Open and Folded.

Tarpaulins

Uses of the Tarpaulin

Often, however, you will not need to burden yourself with even as light a tent as I have described. This is especially true on horseback trips in the mountains. There you will carry a tarpaulin. This is a strip of canvas or pantasote 6 x 16 or 17 feet. During the daytime it is folded and used to protect the top packs from dust, wet, and abrasion. At night you spread it, make your bed on one half of it, and fold the other half over the outside. This arrangement will fend quite a shower. In case of continued or heavy rain, you stretch a pack rope between two trees or crossed poles, and suspend the tarp over it tent wise, tying down the corners by means of lead ropes. Two tarps make a commodious tent. If you happen to be alone, a saddle blanket will supplement the tarp to give some sort of protection to your feet, and, provided it is stretched tightly, will shed quite a downpour.

The tarp, as I have said, should measure 6 x 16. If of canvas, do not get it too heavy, as then it will be stiff and hard to handle. About 10-ounce duck is the proper thing. After you have bought it, lay it out on the floor folded once, as it will be when you have made your bed in it. To the lower half and on both edges, as it lies there, sew a half dozen snap hooks. To the upper canvas, but about six inches in from the edge, sew corresponding rings for the snap hooks. Thus on a cold night you can bundle yourself in without leaving cracks along the edges to admit the chilly air.

Rubber Blankets

In the woods you will want furthermore a rubber blanket. This is unnecessary when the tarpaulin is used. Buy a good poncho. Poor quality sticks badly should it chance to become overheated by the sun.

Blankets

A six or seven pound blanket of the best quality is heavy enough. The gray army blanket, to be purchased sometimes at the military stores, is good, as is also the "three-point" blanket issued by the Hudson's Bay Company. The cost is from $6 to $8. One is enough. You will find that another suit of underwear is as warm as an extra blanket, and much easier to carry. Sleeping bags I do not care for. They cannot be drawn closely to the body, and the resulting air space is difficult to warm up. A blanket you can hug close to you, thus retaining all the animal heat. Beside which a sleeping bag is heavier and more of a bother to keep well aired. If you like the thing occasionally, a few horse blanket pins will make one of your blanket.

To Sleep Warm

It is the purpose of this book to deal with equipments rather than with methods. There are a great many very competent treatises telling you how to build your fire, pitch your tent, and all the rest of it. I have never seen described the woodsmen's method of using a blanket, however. Lie flat on your back. Spread the blanket over you. Now raise your legs rigid from the hip, the blanket of course draping over them. In two swift motions tuck first one edge under your legs from right to left, then the second edge under from left to right, and over the first edge. Lower your legs, wrap up your shoulders, and go to sleep. If you roll over, one edge will unwind but the other will tighten.