Odds and Ends--Where to go for an Outing--Why a Clinker?--Boughs
and Browse
INDEX 103
Illustrations
_Page_
"Nessmuk" _Frontispiece_
Knapsack and Ditty-Bag 7
Hatchet and Knives 8
Indian Camp 19
Shanty-Tent and Camp-Fire 24
Shanty-Tent Spread Out 26
Camp-Fire as it Should Be Made 33
Frog Bait 41
Three-Hook Gang 41
G. W. Hatchet 56
Out-Door Cooking-Range 58
Chapter I
OVERWORK AND RECREATION--OUTING AND OUTERS HOW TO DO IT, AND
WHY THEY MISS IT
It does not need that Herbert Spencer should cross the ocean to tell us
that we are an overworked nation; that our hair turns gray ten years
earlier than the Englishman's; or, "that we have had somewhat too much
of the gospel of work," and, "it is time to preach the gospel of
relaxation." It is all true. But we work harder, accomplish more in a
given time, and last quite as long as slower races. As to the gray
hair--perhaps gray hair is better than none; and it is a fact that the
average Briton becomes bald as early as the American turns gray. There
is, however, a sad significance in his words when he says: "In every
circle I have met men who had themselves suffered from nervous collapse
due to stress of business, or named friends who had either killed
themselves by overwork, or had been permanently incapacitated, or had
wasted long periods in endeavors to recover health." Too true. And it is
the constant strain, without let-up or relaxation, that, in nine cases
out of ten, snaps the cord and ends in what the doctors call "nervous
prostration"--something akin to paralysis--from which the sufferer
seldom wholly recovers.
Mr. Spencer quotes that quaint old chronicler, Froissart, as saying,
"The English take their pleasures sadly, after their fashion"; and
thinks if he lived now, he would say of Americans, "they take their
pleasures hurriedly, after their fashion." Perhaps.
It is an age of hurry and worry. Anything slower than steam is apt to
"get left." Fortunes are quickly made and freely spent. Nearly all
busy, hard-worked Americans have an intuitive sense of the need that
exists for at least one period of rest and relaxation during each year,
and all--or nearly all--are willing to pay liberally, too liberally in
fact, for anything that conduces to rest, recreation and sport. I am
sorry to say that we mostly get swindled. As an average, the summer
outer who goes to forest, lake or stream for health and sport, gets
about ten cents' worth for a dollar of outlay. A majority will admit--to
themselves at least--that after a month's vacation, they return to work
with an inward consciousness of being somewhat disappointed--and beaten.
We are free with our money when we have it. We are known throughout the
civilized world for our lavishness in paying for our pleasures; but it
humiliates us to know we have been beaten, and this is what the most of
us know at the end of a summer vacation. To the man of millions it makes
little difference. He is able to pay liberally for boats, buckboards and
"body service," if he chooses to spend a summer in the North Woods. He
has no need to study the questions of lightness and economy in a forest
and stream outing. Let his guides take care of him; and unto them and
the landlords he will give freely of his substance.
I do not write for him, and can do him little good. But there are
hundreds of thousands of practical, useful men, many of them far from
being rich; mechanics, artists, writers, merchants, clerks, business
men--workers, so to speak--who sorely need and well deserve a season of
rest and relaxation at least once a year. To these, and for these, I
write.
Perhaps more than fifty years of devotion to "woodcraft" may enable me
to give a few useful hints and suggestions to those whose dreams, during
the close season of work, are of camp-life by flood, field and forest.
I have found that nearly all who have a real love of nature and
out-of-door camp-life, spend a good deal of time and talk in planning
future trips, or discussing the trips and pleasures gone by, but still
dear to memory.
When the mountain streams are frozen and the Nor'land winds are out;
when the winter winds are drifting the bitter sleet and snow; when
winter rains are making out-of-door life unendurable; when season,
weather and law combine to make it "close time" for beast, bird and man,
it is well that a few congenial spirits should, at some favorite
trysting place, gather around the glowing stove and exchange yarns,
opinions and experiences. Perhaps no two will exactly agree on the best
ground for an outing, on the flies, rods, reels, guns, etc., or half a
dozen other points that may be discussed. But one thing all admit. Each
and every one has gone to his chosen ground with too much impedimenta,
too much duffle; and nearly all have used boats at least twice as heavy
as they need to have been. The temptation to buy this or that bit of
indispensable camp-kit has been too strong, and we have gone to the
blessed woods, handicapped with a load fit for a pack-mule. This is not
how to do it.
Go light; the lighter the better, so that you have the simplest material
for health, comfort and enjoyment.
Of course, if you intend to have a permanent camp, and can reach it by
boat or wagon, lightness is not so important, though even in that case
it is well to guard against taking a lot of stuff that is likely to
prove of more weight than worth--only to leave it behind when you come
out.
[Sidenote: Clothing]
As to clothing for the woods, a good deal of nonsense has been written
about "strong, coarse woolen clothes." You do not want coarse woolen
clothes. Fine woolen cassimere of medium thickness for coat, vest and
pantaloons, with no cotton lining. Color, slate gray or dead-leaf
(either is good). Two soft, thick woolen shirts; two pairs of fine, but
substantial, woolen drawers; two pairs of strong woolen socks or
stockings; these are what you need, and all you need in the way of
clothing for the woods, excepting hat and boots, or gaiters. Boots are
best--providing you do not let yourself be inveigled into wearing a pair
of long-legged heavy boots with thick soles, as has been often advised
by writers who knew no better. Heavy, long-legged boots are a weary,
tiresome incumbrance on a hard tramp through rough woods. Even moccasins
are better. Gaiters, all sorts of high shoes, in fact, are too
bothersome about fastening and unfastening. Light boots are best. Not
thin, unserviceable affairs, but light as to actual weight. The
following hints will give an idea for the best foot-gear for the woods;
let them be single soled, single backs and single fronts, except light,
short foot-linings. Back of solid "country kip"; fronts of substantial
French calf; heel one inch high, with steel nails; countered outside;
straps narrow, of fine French calf put on "astraddle," and set down to
the top of the back. The out-sole stout, Spanish oak, and pegged rather
than sewed, although either is good. They will weigh considerably less
than half as much as the clumsy, costly boots usually recommended for
the woods; and the added comfort must be tested to be understood.
The hat should be fine, soft felt with moderately low crown and wide
brim; color to match the clothing.
The proper covering for head and feet is no slight affair, and will be
found worth some attention. Be careful that the boots are not too tight,
or the hat too loose. The above rig will give the tourist one shirt, one
pair of drawers and a pair of socks to carry as extra clothing. A soft,
warm blanket-bag, open at the ends, and just long enough to cover the
sleeper, with an oblong square of water-proofed cotton cloth 6x8 feet,
will give warmth and shelter by night and will weigh together five or
six pounds. This, with the extra clothing, will make about eight pounds
of dry goods to pack over carries, which is enough. Probably, also, it
will be found little enough for comfort.
During a canoe cruise across the Northern Wilderness in the late summer,
I met many parties at different points in the woods, and the amount of
unnecessary duffle with which they encumbered themselves was simply
appalling. Why a shrewd business man, who goes through with a guide and
makes a forest hotel his camping ground nearly every night, should
handicap himself with a five-peck pack basket full of gray woolen and
gum blankets, extra clothing, pots, pans, and kettles, with a 9-pound
10-bore, and two rods--yes, and an extra pair of heavy boots hanging
astride of the gun--well, it is one of the things I shall never
understand. My own load, including canoe, extra clothing, blanket-bag,
two days' rations, pocket-axe, rod and knapsack, never exceeded 26
pounds; and I went prepared to camp out any and every night.
[Sidenote: Preparations]
People who contemplate an outing in the woods are pretty apt to commence
preparations a long way ahead, and to pick up many trifling articles
that suggest themselves as useful and handy in camp; all well enough in
their way, but making at least a too heavy load. It is better to
commence by studying to ascertain just how light one can go through
without especial discomfort. A good plan is to think over the trip
during leisure hours, and make out a list of indispensable articles,
securing them beforehand, and have them stowed in handy fashion, so that
nothing needful may be missing just when and where it cannot be
procured. The list will be longer than one would think, but need not be
cumbersome or heavy. As I am usually credited with making a cruise or a
long woods tramp with exceptionally light duffle, I will give a list of
the articles I take along--going on foot over carries or through the
woods.
Chapter II
KNAPSACK, HATCHET, KNIVES, TINWARE, RODS, FISHING TACKLE,
DITTY-BAG
The clothing, blanket-bag and shelter-cloth are all that need be
described in that line. The next articles that I look after are knapsack
(or pack basket), rod with reel, lines, flies, hooks, and all my fishing
gear, pocket-axe, knives and tinware. Firstly, the knapsack; as you are
apt to carry it a great many miles, it is well to have it right, and
easy-fitting at the start. Don't be induced to carry a pack basket. I am
aware that it is in high favor all through the Northern Wilderness, and
is also much used in other localities where guides and sportsmen most do
congregate. But I do not like it. I admit that it will carry a loaf of
bread, with tea, sugar, etc., without jamming; that bottles, crockery,
and other fragile duffle is safer from breakage than in an oil-cloth
knapsack. But it is by no means water-proof in a rain or a splashing
head sea, is more than twice as heavy--always growing heavier as it gets
wetter--and I had rather have bread, tea, sugar, etc., a little jammed
than water-soaked. Also, it may be remarked that man is a vertebrate
animal and ought to respect his backbone. The loaded pack basket on a
heavy carry never fails to get in on the most vulnerable knob of the
human vertebrae. The knapsack sits easy, and does not chafe. The one
shown in the engraving is of good form; and the original--which I have
carried for years--is satisfactory in every respect. It holds over half
a bushel, carries blanket-bag, shelter tent, hatchet, ditty-bag,
tinware, fishing tackle, clothes and two days' rations. It weighs,
empty, just twelve ounces.
[Sidenote: Hatchet and Knives]
[Illustration: KNAPSACK AND DITTY-BAG]
The hatchet and knives shown in the engraving will be found to fill the
bill satisfactorily so far as cutlery may be required. Each is good and
useful of its kind, the hatchet especially, being the best model I have
ever found for a "double-barreled" pocket-axe. And just here let me
digress for a little chat on the indispensable hatchet; for it is the
most difficult piece of camp kit to obtain in perfection of which I have
any knowledge. Before I was a dozen years old I came to realize that a
light hatchet was a sine qua non in woodcraft, and I also found it a
most difficult thing to get. I tried shingling hatchets, lathing
hatchets, and the small hatchets to be found in country hardware stores,
but none of them were satisfactory. I had quite a number made by
blacksmiths who professed skill in making edge tools, and these were
the worst of all, being like nothing on the earth or under
it--murderous-looking, clumsy, and all too heavy, with no balance or
proportion. I had hunted twelve years before I caught up with the
pocket-axe I was looking for. It was made in Rochester, by a surgical
instrument maker named Bushnell. It cost time and money to get it. I
worked one rainy Saturday fashioning the pattern in wood. Spoiled a day
going to Rochester, waited a day for the blade, paid $3.00 for it, and
lost a day coming home. Boat fare $1.00, and expenses $2.00, besides
three days lost time, with another rainy Sunday for making leather
sheath and hickory handle.
[Illustration: HATCHET AND KNIVES]
My witty friends, always willing to help me out in figuring the cost of
my hunting and fishing gear, made the following business-like estimate,
which they placed where I would be certain to see it the first thing in
the morning. Premising that of the five who assisted in that little
joke, all stronger, bigger fellows than myself, four have gone "where
they never see the sun," I will copy the statement as it stands today,
on paper yellow with age. For I have kept it over forty years.
A WOODSMAN,
_To getting up one limber-go-shiftless pocket-axe:_ DR.
Cost of blade $3.00
Fare on boat 1.00
Expenses for 3 days 3.00
Three days lost time at $1.25 per day 3.75
Two days making model, handle and sheath, say 2.00
--------
Total $12.75
Per contra, by actual value of axe 2.00
--------
Balance $10.75
Then they raised a horse laugh, and the cost of that hatchet became a
standing joke and a slur on my "business ability." What aggravated me
most was, that the rascals were not so far out in their calculation. And
was I so far wrong? That hatchet was my favorite for nearly thirty
years. It has been "upset" twice by skilled workmen; and, if my friend
"Bero" has not lost it, is still in service.
Would I have gone without it any year for one or two dollars? But I
prefer the double blade. I want one thick, stunt edge for knots, deers'
bones, etc., and a fine, keen edge for cutting clear timber.
A word as to knife, or knives. These are of prime necessity, and should
be of the best, both as to shape and temper. The "bowies" and "hunting
knives" usually kept on sale, are thick, clumsy affairs, with a sort of
ridge along the middle of the blade, murderous-looking, but of little
use; rather fitted to adorn a dime novel or the belt of "Billy the Kid,"
than the outfit of the hunter. The one shown in the cut is thin in the
blade, and handy for skinning, cutting meat, or eating with. The strong
double-bladed pocket knife is the best model I have yet found, and, in
connection with the sheath knife, is all sufficient for camp use. It is
not necessary to take table cutlery into the woods. A good fork may be
improvised from a beech or birch stick; and the half of a fresh-water
mussel shell, with a split stick by way of handle, makes an excellent
spoon.
[Sidenote: _Cooking Utensils_]
My entire outfit for cooking and eating dishes comprises five pieces of
tinware. This is when stopping in a permanent camp. When cruising and
tramping, I take just two pieces in the knapsack.
I get a skillful tinsmith to make one dish as follows: Six inches on
bottom, 6-3/4 inches on top, side 2 inches high. The bottom is of the
heaviest tin procurable, the sides of lighter tin, and seamed to be
water-tight without solder. The top simply turned, without wire. The
second dish to be made the same, but small enough to nest in the first,
and also to fit into it when inverted as a cover. Two other dishes made
from common pressed tinware, with the tops cut off and turned, also
without wire. They are fitted so that they all nest, taking no more room
than the largest dish alone, and each of the three smaller dishes makes
a perfect cover for the next larger. The other piece is a tin
camp-kettle, also of the heaviest tin, and seamed water-tight. It holds
two quarts, and the other dishes nest in it perfectly, so that when
packed the whole takes just as much room as the kettle alone. I should
mention that the strong ears are set below the rim of the kettle, and
the bale falls outside, so, as none of the dishes have any handle, there
are no aggravating "stickouts" to wear and abrade. The snug affair
weighs, all told, two pounds. I have met parties in the North Woods
whose one frying pan weighed more--with its handle three feet long. How
ever did they get through the brush with such a culinary terror?
It is only when I go into a very accessible camp that I take so much as
five pieces of tinware along. I once made a ten days' tramp through an
unbroken wilderness on foot, and all the dish I took was a ten-cent tin;
it was enough. I believe I will tell the story of that tramp before I
get through. For I saw more game in the ten days than I ever saw before
or since in a season; and I am told that the whole region is now a
thrifty farming country, with the deer nearly all gone. They were plenty
enough thirty-nine years ago this very month.
[Sidenote: _Rods_]
I feel more diffidence in speaking of rods than of any other matter
connected with out-door sports. The number and variety of rods and
makers; the enthusiasm of trout and fly "cranks"; the fact that angling
does not take precedence of all other sports with me, with the
humiliating confession that I am not above bucktail spinners, worms and
sinkers, minnow tails and white grubs--this and these constrain me to be
brief.
But, as I have been a fisher all my life, from my pinhook days to the
present time; as I have run the list pretty well up, from brook minnows
to 100-pound albacores, I may be pardoned for a few remarks on the rod
and the use thereof.
A rod may be a very high-toned, high-priced aesthetic plaything, costing
$50 to $75, or it may be--a rod. A serviceable and splendidly balanced
rod can be obtained from first class makers for less money. By all means
let the man of money indulge his fancy for the most costly rod that can
be procured. He might do worse. A practical every day sportsman whose
income is limited will find that a more modest product will drop his
flies on the water quite as attractively to _Salmo fontinalis_. My
little 8-1/2-foot, 4-3/4-ounce split bamboo which the editor of _Forest
and Stream_ had made for me cost $10.00. I have given it hard usage and
at times large trout have tested it severely, but it has never failed
me. The dimensions of my second rod are 9-1/2 feet long and 5-3/4 ounces
in weight. This rod will handle the bucktail spinners which I use for
trout and bass, when other things have failed. I used a rod of this
description for several summers both in Adirondack and western waters.
It had a hand-made reel seat, agate first guide, was satisfactory in
every respect, and I could see in balance, action, and appearance no
superiority in a rod costing $25.00, which one of my friends sported.
Charles Dudley Warner, who writes charmingly of woods life, has the
following in regard to trout fishing, which is so neatly humorous that
it will bear repeating:
"It is well known that no person who regards his reputation will ever
kill a trout with anything but a fly. It requires some training on the
part of the trout to take to this method. The uncultivated trout in
unfrequented waters prefers the bait; and the rural people, whose sole
object in going a-fishing appears to be to catch fish, indulge them in
their primitive state for the worm. No sportsman, however, will use
anything but a fly--except he happens to be alone." Speaking of rods, he
says: "The rod is a bamboo weighing seven ounces, which has to be
spliced with a winding of silk thread every time it is used. This is a
tedious process; but, by fastening the joints in this way, a uniform
spring is secured in the rod. No one devoted to high art would think of
using a socket joint."
One summer during a seven weeks' tour in the Northern Wilderness, my
only rod was a 7-1/2 foot Henshall. It came to hand with two bait-tips
only; but I added a fly-tip, and it made an excellent "general fishing
rod." With it I could handle a large bass or pickerel; it was a capital
bait-rod for brook trout; as fly rod it has pleased me well enough. It
is likely to go with me again. For reel casting, the 5-1/2 foot rod is
handier. But it is not yet decided which is best, and I leave every man
his own opinion. Only, I think one rod enough, but have always had more.
And don't neglect to take what sailors call a "ditty-bag." This may be
a little sack of chamois leather about 4 inches wide by 6 inches in
length. Mine is before me as I write. Emptying the contents, I find it
inventories as follows: A dozen hooks, running in size from small minnow
hooks to large Limericks; four lines of six yards each, varying from the
finest to a size sufficient for a ten-pound fish; three darning needles
and a few common sewing needles; a dozen buttons; sewing silk; thread,
and a small ball of strong yarn for darning socks; sticking salve; a bit
of shoemaker's wax; beeswax; sinkers, and a very fine file for
sharpening hooks. The ditty-bag weighs, with contents, 2-1/2 ounces; and
it goes in a small buckskin bullet pouch, which I wear almost as
constantly as my hat. The pouch has a sheath strongly sewed on the back
side of it, where the light hunting knife is always at hand, and it also
carries a two-ounce vial of fly medicine, a vial of "pain killer," and
two or three gangs of hooks on brass wire snells--of which, more in
another place. I can always go down into that pouch for a water-proof
match safe, strings, compass, bits of linen and scarlet flannel (for
frogging), copper tacks, and other light duffle. It is about as handy a
piece of woods-kit as I carry.
I hope no aesthetic devotee of the fly-rod will lay down the book in
disgust when I confess to a weakness for frogging. I admit that it is
not high-toned sport; and yet I have got a good deal of amusement out of
it. The persistence with which a large batrachian will snap at a bit of
red flannel after being several times hooked on the same lure, and the
comical way in which he will scuttle off with a quick succession of
short jumps after each release; the cheerful manner in which, after each
bout, he will tune up his deep, bass pipe--ready for another greedy snap
at an ibis fly or red rag--is rather funny. And his hind legs, rolled in
meal and nicely browned, are preferable to trout or venison.
Chapter III
GETTING LOST--CAMPING OUT--ROUGHING IT OR SMOOTHING
IT--INSECTS--CAMPS, AND HOW TO MAKE THEM
With a large majority of prospective tourists and outers, "camping out"
is a leading factor in the summer vacation. And during the long winter
months they are prone to collect in little knots and talk much of camps,
fishing, hunting, and "roughing it." The last phrase is very popular and
always cropping out in the talks on matters pertaining to a vacation in
the woods. I dislike the phrase. We do not go to the green woods and
crystal waters to rough it, we go to smooth it. We get it rough enough
at home; in towns and cities; in shops, offices, stores, banks--anywhere
that we may be placed--with the necessity always present of being on
time and up to our work; of providing for the dependent ones; of keeping
up, catching up, or getting left. "Alas for the life-long battle, whose
bravest slogan is bread."
As for the few fortunate ones who have no call to take a hand in any
strife or struggle, who not only have all the time there is, but a great
deal that they cannot dispose of with any satisfaction to themselves or
anybody else--I am not writing for them; but only to those of the
world's workers who go, or would like to go, every summer to the woods.
And to these I would say, don't rough it; make it as smooth, as restful
and pleasurable as you can.
To this end you need pleasant days and peaceful nights. You cannot
afford to be tormented and poisoned by insects, nor kept awake at night
by cold and damp, nor to exhaust your strength by hard tramps and heavy
loads. Take it easy, and always keep cool. Nine men out of ten, on
finding themselves lost in the woods, fly into a panic, and quarrel with
the compass. Never do that. The compass is always right, or nearly so.
It is not many years since an able-bodied man--sportsman of course--lost
his way in the North Woods, and took fright, as might be expected. He
was well armed and well found for a week in the woods. What ought to
have been only an interesting adventure, became a tragedy. He tore
through thickets and swamps in his senseless panic, until he dropped and
died through fright, hunger and exhaustion.
A well authenticated story is told of a guide in the Oswegatchie region,
who perished in the same way. Guides are not infallible; I have known
more than one to get lost. Wherefore, should you be tramping through a
pathless forest on a cloudy day, and should the sun suddenly break from
under a cloud in the northwest about noon, don't be scared. The last day
is not at hand, and the planets have not become mixed; only, you are
turned. You have gradually swung around, until you are facing northwest
when you meant to travel south. It has a muddling effect on the
mind--this getting lost in the woods. But, if you can collect and
arrange your gray brain matter, and suppress all panicky feeling, it is
easily got along with. For instance; it is morally certain that you
commenced swinging to southwest, then west, to northwest. Had you kept
on until you were heading directly north, you could rectify your course
simply by following a true south course. But, as you have varied
three-eighths of the circle, set your compass and travel by it to the
southeast, until, in your judgment, you have about made up the
deviation; then go straight south, and you will not be far wrong. Carry
the compass in your hand and look at it every few minutes; for the
tendency to swerve from a straight course when a man is once lost--and
nearly always to the right--is a thing past understanding.
[Sidenote: Insect Pests]
As regards poisonous insects, it may be said that, to the man with
clean, bleached, tender skin, they are, at the start, an unendurable
torment. No one can enjoy life with a smarting, burning, swollen face,
while the attacks on every exposed inch of skin are persistent and
constant. I have seen a young man after two days' exposure to these
pests come out of the woods with one eye entirely closed and the brow
hanging over it like a clam shell, while face and hands were almost
hideous from inflammation and puffiness. The St. Regis and St. Francis
Indians, although born and reared in the woods, by no means make light
of the black fly.
It took the man who could shoot Phantom Falls to find out, "Its bite is
not severe, nor is it ordinarily poisonous. There may be an occasional
exception to this rule; but beside the bite of the mosquito, it is
comparatively mild and harmless." And again: "Gnats ... in my way of
thinking, are much worse than the black fly or mosquito." So says
Murray. Our observations differ. A thousand mosquitoes and as many gnats
can bite me without leaving a mark, or having any effect save the pain
of the bite while they are at work. But each bite of the black fly makes
a separate and distinct boil, that will not heal and be well in two
months.
While fishing for brook trout in July last, I ran into a swarm of them
on Moose River, and got badly bitten. I had carelessly left my medicine
behind. On the first of October the bites had not ceased to be painful,
and it was three months before they disappeared entirely. Frank Forester
says, in his _Fish and Fishing_, page 371, that he has never fished for
the red-fleshed trout of Hamilton county, "being deterred therefrom by
dread of that curse of the summer angler, the black fly, which is to me
especially venomous."
"Adirondack Murray" gives extended directions for beating these little
pests by the use of buckskin gloves with chamois gauntlets, Swiss mull,
fine muslin, etc. Then he advises a mixture of sweet oil and tar, which
is to be applied to face and hands; and he adds that it is easily washed
off, leaving the skin soft and smooth as an infant's; all of which is
true. But, more than forty years' experience in the woods has taught me
that the following recipe is infallible anywhere that _sancudos_,
_moquims_, or our own poisonous insects do most abound.
It was published in _Forest and Stream_ in the summer of 1880, and again
in '83. It has been pretty widely quoted and adopted, and I have never
known it to fail: Three ounces pine tar, two ounces castor oil, one
ounce pennyroyal oil. Simmer all together over a slow fire, and bottle
for use. You will hardly need more than a two-ounce vial full in a
season. One ounce has lasted me six weeks in the woods. Rub it in
thoroughly and liberally at first, and after you have established a good
glaze, a little replenishing from day to day will be sufficient. And
don't fool with soap and towels where insects are plenty. A good safe
coat of this varnish grows better the longer it is kept on--and it is
cleanly and wholesome. If you get your face and hands crocky or smutty
about the camp-fire, wet the corner of your handkerchief and rub it off,
not forgetting to apply the varnish at once, wherever you have cleaned
it off. Last summer I carried a cake of soap and a towel in my knapsack
through the North Woods for a seven weeks' tour, and never used either a
single time. When I had established a good glaze on the skin, it was too
valuable to be sacrificed for any weak whim connected with soap and
water. When I struck a woodland hotel, I found soap and towels plenty
enough. I found the mixture gave one's face the ruddy tanned look
supposed to be indicative of health and hard muscle. A thorough ablution
in the public wash basin reduced the color, but left the skin very soft
and smooth; in fact, as a lotion for the skin it is excellent. It is a
soothing and healing application for poisonous bites already received.
I have given some space to the insect question, but no more than it
deserves or requires. The venomous little wretches are quite important
enough to spoil many a well planned trip to the woods, and it is best to
beat them from the start. You will find that immunity from insects and a
comfortable camp are the two first and most indispensable requisites of
an outing in the woods. And just here I will briefly tell how a young
friend of mine went to the woods, some twenty-five years ago. He was a
bank clerk, and a good fellow withal, with a leaning toward camp-life.
For months, whenever we met, he would introduce his favorite topics,
fishing, camping out, etc. At last in the hottest of the hot months, the
time came. He put in an appearance with a fighting cut on his hair, a
little stiff straw hat, and a soft skin, bleached by long confinement in
a close office. I thought he looked a little tender; but he was
sanguine. He could rough it, could sleep on the bare ground with the
root of a tree for a pillow; as for mosquitoes and punkies, he never
minded them.
[Sidenote: _Beware the Black Fly_]
We went in a party of five--two old hunters and three youngsters, the
latter all enthusiasm and pluck--at first. Toward the last end of a
heavy eight-mile tramp, they grew silent, and slapped and scratched
nervously. Arriving at the camping spot, they worked fairly well, but
were evidently weakening a little. By the time we were ready to turn in
they were reduced pretty well to silence and suffering--especially the
bank clerk, Jean L. The punkies were eager for his tender skin, and they
were rank poison to him. He muffled his head in a blanket and tried to
sleep, but it was only a partial success. When, by suffocating himself,
he obtained a little relief from insect bites, there were stubs and
knotty roots continually poking themselves among his ribs, or digging
into his backbone.
I have often had occasion to observe that stubs, roots and small stones,
etc., have a perverse tendency to abrade the anatomy of people unused to
the woods. Mr. C. D. Warner has noticed the same thing, I believe.
On the whole, Jean and the other youngsters behaved very well. Although
they turned out in the morning with red, swollen faces and half closed
eyes, they all went trouting and caught about 150 small trout between
them. They did their level bravest to make a jolly thing of it; but
Jean's attempt to watch a deerlick, resulted in a wetting through the
sudden advent of a shower; and the shower drove about all the punkies
and mosquitoes in the neighborhood under our roof for shelter. I never
saw them more plentiful or worse. Jean gave in and varnished his pelt
thoroughly with my "punkie dope," as he called it; but, too late; the
mischief was done. And the second trial was worse to those youngsters
than the first. More insects. More stubs and knots. Owing to these
little annoyances, they arrived at home several days before their
friends expected them--leaving enough rations in camp to last Old Sile
and the writer a full week. And the moral of it is, if they had fitted
themselves for the the woods before going there, the trip would have
been a pleasure instead of a misery.
One other little annoyance I will mention, as a common occurrence among
those who camp out; this is the lack of a pillow. I suppose I have
camped fifty times with people, who, on turning in, were squirming
around for a long time, trying to get a rest for the head. Boots are the
most common resort. But, when you place a boot-leg--or two of
them--under your head, they collapse, and make a head-rest less than
half an inch thick. Just why it never occurs to people that a stuffing
of moss, leaves, or hemlock browse, would fill out the bed-leg and make
a passable pillow, is another conundrum I cannot answer. But there is
another and better way of making a pillow for camp use, which I will
describe further on.
And now I wish to devote some space to one of the most important
adjuncts of woodcraft, i.e., camps; how to make them, and how to make
them comfortable. There are camps, and camps. There are camps in the
North Woods that are really fine villas, costing thousands of dollars,
and there are log-houses, and shanties, and bark camps, and A tents, and
walled tents, shelter tents and shanty tents. But, I assume that the
camp best fitted to the wants of the average outer is the one that
combines the essentials of dryness, lightness, portability, cheapness,
and is easily and quickly put up. Another essential is, that it must
admit of a bright fire in front by night or day. I will give short
descriptions of the forest shelters (camps) I have found handiest and
most useful.
Firstly, I will mention a sort of camp that was described in a
sportsman's paper, and has since been largely quoted and used. It is
made by fastening a horizontal pole to a couple of contiguous trees, and
then putting on a heavy covering of hemlock boughs, shingling them with
the tips downward, of course. A fire is to be made at the roots of one
of the trees. This, with plenty of boughs, may be made to stand a pretty
stiff rain; but it is only a damp arbor, and no camp, properly speaking.
A forest camp should always admit of a bright fire in front, with a
lean-to or shed roof overhead, to reflect the fire heat on the bedding
below. Any camp that falls short of this, lacks the requirements of
warmth, brightness and healthfulness. This is why I discard all close,
canvas tents.
[Sidenote: _The Indian Camp_]
[Illustration: INDIAN CAMP]
The simplest and most primitive of all camps is the "Indian camp." It
is easily and quickly made, is warm and comfortable, and stands a pretty
heavy rain when properly put up. This is how it is made: Let us say you
are out and have slightly missed your way. The coming gloom warns you
that night is shutting down. You are no tenderfoot. You know that a
place of rest is essential to health and comfort through the long, cold
November night. You dive down the first little hollow until you strike a
rill of water, for water is a prime necessity. As you draw your hatchet
you take in the whole situation at a glance. The little stream is
gurgling downward in a half choked frozen way. There is a huge sodden
hemlock lying across it. One clip of the hatchet shows it will peel.
There is plenty of smaller timber standing around; long, slim poles,
with a tuft of foliage on top. Five minutes suffice to drop one of
these, cut a twelve-foot pole from it, sharpen the pole at each end, jam
one end into the ground and the other into the rough back of a scraggy
hemlock, and there is your ridge pole. Now go--with your hatchet--for
the bushiest and most promising young hemlocks within reach. Drop them
and draw them to camp rapidly. Next, you need a fire. There are fifty
hard, resinous limbs sticking up from the prone hemlock; lop off a few
of these, and split the largest into match timber; reduce the splinters
to shavings, scrape the wet leaves from your prospective fireplace, and
strike a match on the balloon part of your trousers. If you are a
woodsman you will strike but one. Feed the fire slowly at first; it will
gain fast. When you have a blaze ten feet high, look at your watch. It
is 6 P.M. You don't want to turn in before 10 o'clock, and you have four
hours to kill before bed-time. Now, tackle the old hemlock; take off
every dry limb, and then peel the bark and bring it to camp. You will
find this takes an hour or more.
Next, strip every limb from your young hemlocks, and shingle them onto
your ridge pole. This will make a sort of bear den, very well calculated
to give you a comfortable night's rest. The bright fire will soon dry
the ground that is to be your bed, and you will have plenty of time to
drop another small hemlock and make a bed of browse a foot thick. You do
it. Then you make your pillow. Now, this pillow is essential to comfort
and very simple. It is half a yard of muslin, sewed up as a bag, and
filled with moss or hemlock browse. You can empty it and put it in your
pocket, where it takes up about as much room as a handkerchief. You have
other little muslin bags--an' you be wise. One holds a couple of ounces
of good tea; another, sugar; another is kept to put your loose duffle
in: money, match safe, pocket-knife. You have a pat of butter and a bit
of pork, with a liberal slice of brown bread; and before turning in you
make a cup of tea, broil a slice of pork, and indulge in a lunch.
Ten o'clock comes. The time has not passed tediously. You are warm, dry
and well-fed. Your old friends, the owls, come near the fire-light and
salute you with their strange wild notes; a distant fox sets up for
himself with his odd, barking cry and you turn in. Not ready to sleep
just yet.
But you drop off; and it is two bells in the morning watch when you
waken with a sense of chill and darkness. The fire has burned low, and
snow is falling. The owls have left, and a deep silence broods over the
cold, still forest. You rouse the fire, and, as the bright light shines
to the furthest recesses of your forest den, get out the little pipe,
and reduce a bit of navy plug to its lowest denomination. The smoke
curls lazily upward; the fire makes you warm and drowsy, and again you
lie down--to again awaken with a sense of chilliness--to find the fire
burned low, and daylight breaking. You have slept better than you would
in your own room at home. You have slept in an "Indian camp."
You have also learned the difference between such a simple shelter and
an open air bivouac under a tree or beside an old log.
Another easily made and very comfortable camp is the "brush shanty," as
it is usually called in Northern Pennsylvania. The frame for such a
shanty is a cross-pole resting on two crotches about six feet high, and
enough straight poles to make a foundation for the thatch. The poles are
laid about six inches apart, one end of the ground, the other on the
cross-pole, and at a pretty sharp angle. The thatch is made of the
fan-like boughs cut from the thrifty young hemlock, and are to be laid
bottom upward and feather end down. Commence to lay them from the
ground, and work up to the cross-pole, shingling them carefully as you
go. If the thatch be laid a foot in thickness, and well done, the shanty
will stand a pretty heavy rain--better than the average bark roof, which
is only rain-proof in dry weather.
A bark camp, however, may be a very neat sylvan affair, provided you are
camping where spruce or balsam fir may be easily reached, and in the hot
months when bark will "peel"; and you have a day in which to work at a
camp. The best bark camps I have ever seen are in the Adirondacks. Some
of them are rather elaborate in construction, requiring two or more
days' hard labor by a couple of guides. When the stay is to be a long
one, and the camp permanent, perhaps it will pay.
[Sidenote: _The Shanty-Tent_]
As good a camp as I have ever tried--perhaps the best--is the
"shanty-tent," shown in the illustration. It is easily put up, is
comfortable, neat, and absolutely rain-proof. Of course, it may be of
any required size; but, for a party of two, the following dimensions and
directions will be found all sufficient:
Firstly, the roof. This is merely a sheet of strong cotton cloth 9 feet
long by 4 or 4-1/2 feet in width. The sides, of the same material, to be
4-1/2 feet deep at front, and 2 feet deep at the back. This gives 7 feet
along the edge of the roof, leaving 2 feet for turning down at the back
end of the shanty. It will be seen that the sides must be "cut bias," to
compensate for the angle of the roof, otherwise the shanty will not be
square and shipshape when put up. Allowing for waste in cutting, it
takes nearly 3 yards of cloth for each side. The only labor required in
making, is to cut the sides to the proper shape, and stitch them to the
roof. No buttons, strings, or loops. The cloth does not even require
hemming. It does, however, need a little water-proofing; for which the
following receipt will answer very well, and add little or nothing to
the weight: To 10 quarts of water add 10 ounces of lime, and 4 ounces of
alum; let it stand until clear; fold the cloth snugly and put it in
another vessel, pour the solution on it, let it soak for 12 hours; then
rinse in luke-warm rain water, stretch and dry in the sun, and the
shanty-tent is ready for use.
[Sidenote: _Construction_]
To put it up properly, make a neat frame as follows: Two strong stakes
or posts for the front, driven firmly in the ground 4-1/2 feet apart; at
a distance of 6 feet 10 inches from these, drive two other posts--these
to be 4 feet apart--for back end of shanty. The front posts to be 4-1/2
feet high, the back rests only two feet. The former also to incline a
little toward each other above, so as to measure from outside of posts,
just 4 feet at top. This gives a little more width at front end of
shanty, adding space and warmth. No crotches are used in putting up the
shanty-tent. Each of the four posts is fitted on the top to receive a
flat-ended cross-pole, and admit of nailing. When the posts are squarely
ranged and driven, select two straight, hard-wood rods, 2 inches in
diameter, and 7 feet in length--or a little more. Flatten the ends
carefully and truly, lay them alongside on top from post to post, and
fasten them with a light nail at each end. Now, select two more straight
rods of the same size, but a little over 4 feet in length; flatten the
ends of these as you did the others, lay them crosswise from side to
side, and lapping the ends of the other rods; fasten them solidly by
driving a six-penny nail through the ends and into the posts, and you
have a square frame 7x4 feet. But it is not yet complete. Three light
rods are needed for rafters. These are to be placed lengthwise of the
roof at equal distances apart, and nailed or tied to keep them in place.
Then take two straight poles a little over 7 feet long, and some 3
inches in diameter. These are to be accurately flattened at the ends,
and nailed to the bottom of the posts, snug to the ground, on outside
of posts. A foot-log and head-log are indispensable. These should be
about 5 inches in diameter, and of a length to just reach from outside
to outside of posts. They should be squared at ends, and the foot-log
placed against the front post, outside, and held firmly in place by two
wooden pins. The head-log is fastened the same way, except that it goes
against the inside of the back posts; and the frame is complete. Round
off all sharp angles or corners with knife and hatchet, and proceed to
spread and fasten the cloth. Lay the roof on evenly, and tack it truly
to the front cross-rod, using about a dozen six-ounce tacks. Stretch the
cloth to its bearings, and tack it at the back end in the same manner.
Stretch it sidewise and tack the sides to the side poles, fore and aft.
Tack front and back ends of sides to the front and back posts. Bring
down the 2-foot flap of roof at back end of shanty; stretch, and tack it
snugly to the back posts--and your sylvan house is done. It is
rain-proof, wind-proof, warm and comfortable. The foot and head logs
define the limits of your forest dwelling; within which you may pile
fragrant hemlock browse as thick as you please, and renew it from day to
day. It is the perfect camp.
You may put it up with less care and labor, and make it do very well.
But I have tried to explain how to do it in the best manner; to make it
all sufficient for an entire season. And it takes longer to tell it on
paper than to do it.
When I go to the woods with a partner, and we arrive at our camping
ground, I like him to get his fishing rig together, and start out for a
half day's exercise with his favorite flies, leaving me to make the camp
according to my own notions of woodcraft. If he will come back about
dusk with a few pounds of trout, I will have a pleasant camp and a
bright fire for him. And if he has enjoyed wading an icy stream more
than I have making the camp--he has had a good day.
Perhaps it may not be out of place to say that the camp, made as above,
calls for fifteen bits of timber, posts, rods, etc., a few shingle
nails, and some six-penny wrought nails, with a paper of six-ounce
tacks. Nails and tacks will weigh about five ounces, and are always
useful. In tacking the cloth, turn the raw edge in until you have four
thicknesses, as a single thickness is apt to tear. If you desire to
strike camp, it takes about ten minutes to draw and save all the nails
and tacks, fold the cloth smoothly, and deposit the whole in your
knapsack. If you wish to get up a shelter tent on fifteen minutes'
notice, cut and sharpen a twelve-foot pole as for the Indian camp, stick
one end in the ground, the other in the rough bark of a large
tree--hemlock is best--hang the cloth on the pole, fasten the sides to
rods, and the rods to the ground with inverted crotches, and your
shelter tent is ready for you to creep under.
[Illustration: SHANTY-TENT AND CAMP-FIRE]
The above description of the shanty-tent may seem a trifle elaborate,
but I hope it is plain. The affair weighs just three pounds, and it
takes a skillful woodsman about three hours of easy work to put it in
the shape described. Leaving out some of the work, and only aiming to
get it up in square shape as quickly as possible, I can put it up in an
hour. The shanty as it should be, is shown in the illustration very
fairly. And the shape of the cloth when spread out, is shown in the
diagram on page 26. On the whole, it is the best form of close-side tent
I have found. It admits of a bright fire in front, without which a
forest camp is just no camp at all to me. I have suffered enough in
close, dark, cheerless, damp tents.
More than thirty years ago I became disgusted with the clumsy, awkward,
comfortless affairs that, under many different forms, went under the
name of camps. Gradually I came to make a study of "camping out." It
would take too much time and space, should I undertake to describe all
the different styles and forms I have tried. But I will mention a few of
the best and worst.
[Sidenote: _Other Camps_]
The old Down East "coal cabin" embodied the principle of the Indian
camp. The frame was simply two strong crotches set firmly in the ground
at a distance of eight feet apart, and interlocking at top. These
supported a stiff ridge-pole fifteen feet long, the small end sharpened
and set in the ground. Refuse boards, shooks, stakes, etc., were placed
thickly from the ridge-pole to the ground; a thick layer of straw was
laid over these, and the whole was covered a foot thick with earth and
sods, well beaten down. A stone wall five feet high at back and sides
made a most excellent fireplace; and these cabins were weather-proof and
warm, even in zero weather. But they were too cumbersome, and included
too much labor for the ordinary hunter and angler. Also, they were open
to the objection, that while wide enough in front, they ran down to a
dismal, cold peak at the far end. Remembering, however, the many
pleasant winter nights I had passed with the coal-burners, I bought a
supply of oil-cloth and rigged it on the same principle. It was a
partial success, and I used it for one season. But that cold, peaked,
dark space was always back of my head, and it seemed like an iceberg. It
was in vain that I tied a handkerchief about my head, or drew a stocking
leg over it. That miserable, icy angle was always there. And it would
only shelter one man anyhow. When winter drove me out of the woods I
gave it to an enthusiastic young friend, bought some more oil-cloth, and
commenced a shanty-tent that was meant to be perfect. A good many
leisure hours were spent in cutting and sewing that shanty, which proved
rather a success. It afforded a perfect shelter for a space 7x4 feet,
but was a trifle heavy to pack, and the glazing began to crack and peel
off in a short time. I made another and larger one of stout drilling,
soaked in lime-water and alum; and this was all that could be asked when
put up properly on a frame. But, the sides and ends being sewed to the
roof made it unhandy to use as a shelter, when shelter was needed on
short notice. So I ripped the back ends of the sides loose from the
flap, leaving it, when spread out, as shown in the diagram. This was
better; when it was necessary to make some sort of shelter in short
order, it could be done with a single pole as used in the Indian camp,
laying the tent across the pole, and using a few tacks to keep it in
place at sides and center. This can be done in ten minutes, and makes a
shelter-tent that will turn a heavy rain for hours.
[Illustration]
On the whole, for all kinds of weather, the shanty-tent is perhaps the
best style of camp to be had at equal expense and trouble.
For a summer camp, however, I have finally come to prefer the simple
lean-to or shed roof. It is the lightest, simplest and cheapest of all
cloth devices for camping out, and I have found it sufficient for all
weathers from June until the fall of the leaves. It is only a sheet of
strong cotton cloth 9x7 feet, and soaked in lime and alum-water as the
other. The only labor in making it is sewing two breadths of sheeting
together. It needs no hemming, binding, loops or buttons, but is to be
stretched on a frame as described for the brush shanty, and held in
place with tacks. The one I have used for two seasons cost sixty cents,
and weighs 2-1/4 pounds. It makes a good shelter for a party of three;
and if it be found a little too breezy for cool nights, a sufficient
windbreak can be made by driving light stakes at the sides and weaving
in a siding of hemlock boughs.
[Sidenote: _Sparks_]
Lastly, whatever cloth structure you may elect to use for a camp, do not
fail to cover the roof with a screen of green boughs before building
your camp-fire. Because there will usually be one fellow in camp who has
a penchant for feeding the fire with old mulchy deadwood and brush, for
the fun of watching the blaze, and the sparks that are prone to fly
upward; forgetting that the blazing cinders are also prone to drop
downward on the roof of the tent, burning holes in it.
I have spoken of some of the best camps I know. The worst ones are the A
and wall tents, with all closed camps in which one is required to
seclude himself through the hours of sleep in damp and darkness, utterly
cut off from the cheerful, healthful light and warmth of the camp-fire.
Chapter IV
CAMP-FIRES AND THEIR IMPORTANCE--THE WASTEFUL WRONG WAY THEY
ARE USUALLY MADE, AND THE RIGHT WAY TO MAKE THEM
Hardly second in importance to a warm, dry camp, is the camp-fire. In
point of fact, the warmth, dryness, and healthfulness of a forest camp
are mainly dependent on the way the fire is managed and kept up. No
asthmatic or consumptive patient ever regained health by dwelling in a
close, damp tent. I once camped for a week in a wall tent, with a
Philadelphia party, and in cold weather. We had a little sheet iron
fiend, called a camp-stove. When well fed with bark, knots and chips, it
would get red hot, and, heaven knows, give out heat enough. By the time
we were sound asleep, it would subside; and we would presently awake
with chattering teeth to kindle her up again, take a smoke and a nip,
turn in for another nap--to awaken again half frozen. It was a poor
substitute for the open camp and bright fire. An experience of fifty
years convinces me that a large percentage of the benefit obtained by
invalids from camp life is attributable to the open camp and
well-managed camp-fire. And the latter is usually handled in a way that
is too sad, too wasteful; in short, badly botched. For instance.
[Sidenote: _The "Guides' Camp"_]
It happened in the summer of '81 that I was making a canoe trip in the
Northern Wilderness, and as Raquette Lake is the largest and about the
most interesting lake in the North Woods, I spent about a week paddling,
fishing, etc. I made my headquarters at Ed. Bennett's woodland hostelry,
"Under the Hemlocks." As the hotel was filled with men, women and
crying children, bitten to agony by punkies and mosquitoes, I chose to
spread my blanket in a well-made bark shanty, which a sign-board in
black and white said was the "Guides' Camp."
And this camp was a very popular institution. Here it was that every
evening, when night had settled down on forest and lake, the guests of
the hotel would gather to lounge on the bed of fresh balsam browse,
chat, sing and enjoy the huge camp-fire.
No woodland hotel will long remain popular that does not keep up a
bright, cheery, out-o'-door fire. And the fun of it--to an old
woodsman--is in noting how like a lot of school children they all act
about the fire. Ed. Bennett had a man, a North Woods trapper, in his
employ, whose chief business was to furnish plenty of wood for the
guides' camp, and start a good fire every evening by sundown. As it grew
dark and the blaze shone high and bright, the guests would begin to
straggle in; and every man, woman and child seemed to view it as a
religious duty to pause by the fire, and add a stick or two, before
passing into camp. The wood was thrown on endwise, crosswise, or any
way, so that it would burn, precisely as a crowd of boys make a bonfire
on the village green. The object being, apparently, to get rid of the
wood in the shortest possible time.
When the fire burnt low, toward mid-night, the guests would saunter off
to the hotel; and the guides, who had been waiting impatiently, would
organize what was left of the fire, roll themselves in their blankets,
and turn in. I suggested to the trapper that he and I make one fire as
it should be, and maybe they would follow suit--which would save half
the fuel, with a better fire. But he said, "No; they like to build
bonfires, and 'Ed.' can stand the wood, because it is best to let them
have their own way. Time seems to hang heavy on their hands--and they
pay well." Summer boarders, tourists and sportsmen, are not the only men
who know how to build a camp-fire all wrong.
When I first came to Northern Pennsylvania, thirty-five years ago, I
found game fairly abundant; and, as I wanted to learn the country where
deer most abounded, I naturally cottoned to the local hunters. Good
fellows enough, and conceited, as all local hunters and anglers are apt
to be. Strong, good hunters and axe-men, to the manner born, and prone
to look on any outsider as a tenderfoot. Their mode of building
camp-fires was a constant vexation to me. They made it a point to always
have a heavy sharp axe in camp, and toward night some sturdy chopper
would cut eight or ten logs as heavy as the whole party could lug to
camp with hand-spikes. The size of the logs was proportioned to the
muscular force in camp. If there was a party of six or eight, the logs
would be twice as heavy as when we were three or four. Just at dark,
there would be a log heap built in front of the camp, well chinked with
bark, knots and small sticks; and, for the next two hours, one could
hardly get at the fire to light a pipe. But the fire was sure though
slow. By 10 or 11 P.M. it would work its way to the front, and the camp
would be warm and light. The party would turn in, and deep sleep would
fall on a lot of tired hunters--for two or three hours. By which time
some fellow near the middle was sure to throw his blanket off with a
spiteful jerk, and dash out of camp with, "Holy Moses! I can't stand
this; it's an oven."
Another Snorer (partially waking).--"N-r-r-rm, gu-r-r, ugh. Can't
you--deaden--fire--a little?"
First Speaker.--"Deaden h----. If you want the fire deadened, get up and
help throw off some of these logs."
Another (in coldest corner of shanty)--"What's 'er matter--with a-you
fellows? Better dig out--an' cool off in the snow. Shanty's comfor'ble
enough."
His minority report goes unheeded. The camp is roasted out. Strong hands
and hand-spikes pry a couple of glowing logs from the front and replace
them with two cold, green logs; the camp cools off, and the party takes
to blankets once more--to turn out again at 5 A.M., and inaugurate
breakfast. The fire is not in favorable shape for culinary operations,
the heat is mainly on the back side, just where it isn't wanted. The few
places level enough to set a pot or pan are too hot; and, in short,
where there is any fire, there is too much. One man sees, with intense
disgust, the nozzle of his coffee-pot drop into the fire. He makes a
rash grab to save his coffee, and gets away--with the handle, which
hangs on just enough to upset the pot.
"Old Al.," who is frying a slice of pork over a bed of coals that would
melt a gun barrel, starts a horse laugh, that is cut short by a blue
flash and an explosion of pork fat, which nearly blinds him. And the
writer, taking in these mishaps in the very spirit of fun and frolic, is
suddenly sobered and silenced by seeing his venison steak drop from the
end of the "frizzling stick," and disappear between two glowing logs.
The party manages, however, to get off on the hunt at daylight, with
full stomachs; and perhaps the hearty fun and laughter more than
compensate for these little mishaps.
This is a digression. But I am led to it by the recollection of many
nights spent in camps and around camp-fires, pretty much as described
above. I can smile today at the remembrance of the calm, superior way in
which the old hunters of that day would look down on me, as from the
upper branches of a tall hemlock, when I ventured to suggest that a
better fire could be made with half the fuel and less than half the
labor. They would kindly remark, "Oh, you are a Boston boy. You are used
to paying $8.00 a cord for wood. We have no call to save wood here. We
can afford to burn it by the acre." Which was more true than logical.
Most of these men had commenced life with a stern declaration of war
against the forest; and, although the men usually won at last, the
battle was a long and hard one. Small wonder that they came to look upon
a forest tree as a natural enemy. The camp-fire question came to a
crisis, however, with two or three of these old settlers. And, as the
story well illustrates my point, I will venture to tell it.
[Sidenote: _A Winter Camp_]
It was in the "dark days before Christmas" that a party of four started
from W., bound for a camp on Second Fork, in the deepest part of the
wilderness that lies between Wellsboro and the Block House. The party
consisted of Sile J., Old Al., Eli J. and the writer. The two first were
gray-haired men, the others past thirty; all the same, they called us
"the boys." The weather was not inviting, and there was small danger of
our camp being invaded by summer outers or tenderfeet. It cost twelve
miles of hard travel to reach that camp; and, though we started at
daylight, it was past noon when we arrived. The first seven miles could
be made on wheels, the balance by hard tramping. The road was execrable;
no one cared to ride; but it was necessary to have our loads carried as
far as possible. The clearings looked dreary enough, and the woods
forbidding to a degree, but our old camp was the picture of desolation.
There was six inches of damp snow on the leafless brush roof, the
blackened brands of our last fire were sticking their charred ends out
of the snow, the hemlocks were bending sadly under their loads of wet
snow, and the entire surroundings had a cold, cheerless, slushy look,
very little like the ideal hunter's camp. We placed our knapsacks in the
shanty, Eli got out his nail hatchet, I drew my little pocket-axe, and
we proceeded to start a fire, while the two older men went up stream a
few rods to unearth a full-grown axe and a bottle of old rye, which they
had cached under a log three months before. They never fooled with
pocket-axes. They were gone so long that we sauntered up the band,
thinking it might be the rye that detained them. We found them with
their coats off, working like beavers, each with a stout, sharpened
stick. There had been an October freshet, and a flood-jam at the bend
had sent the mad stream over its banks, washing the log out of position
and piling a gravel bar two feet deep over the spot where the axe and
flask should have been. About the only thing left to do was to cut a
couple of stout sticks, organize a mining company, limited, and go in;
which they did. Sile was drifting into the side of the sandbar savagely,
trying to strike the axe-helve, and Old Al. was sinking numberless
miniature shafts from the surface in a vain attempt to strike whisky.
The company failed in about half an hour. Sile resumed his coat, and sat
down on a log--which was one of his best holds, by the way. He looked at
Al.; Al. looked at him; then both looked at us, and Sile remarked that,
if one of the boys wanted to go out to the clearings and "borry" an axe,
and come back in the morning, he thought the others could pick up wood
enough to tough it out one night. Of course nobody could stay in an open
winter camp without an axe.
It was my time to come to the front. I said: "You two just go at the
camp; clean the snow off and slick up the inside. Put my shelter-cloth
with Eli's, and cover the roof with them; and if you don't have just as
good a fire tonight as you ever had, you can tie me to a beech and leave
me here. Come on, Eli." And Eli did come on. And this is how we did it:
We first felled a thrifty butternut tree ten inches in diameter, cut off
three lengths at five feet each, and carried them to camp. These were
the back logs. Two stout stakes were driven at the back of the fire, and
the logs, on top of each other, were laid firmly against the stakes. The
latter were slanted a little back, and the largest log placed at bottom,
the smallest on top, to prevent tipping forward. A couple of short,
thick sticks were laid with the ends against the bottom log by way of
fire dogs; a fore stick, five feet long and five inches in diameter; a
well built pyramid of bark, knots and small logs completed the
camp-fire, which sent a pleasant glow of warmth and heat to the furthest
corner of the shanty. For "night-wood," we cut a dozen birch and ash
poles from four to six inches across, trimmed them to the tips, and
dragged them to camp. Then we denuded a dry hemlock of its bark by the
aid of ten-foot poles, flattened at one end, and packed the bark to
camp. We had a bright, cheery fire from the early evening until morning,
and four tired hunters never slept more soundly.
[Illustration: CAMP-FIRE AS IT SHOULD BE MADE]
We stayed in that camp a week; and, though the weather was rough and
cold, the little pocket-axes kept us well in firewood. We selected
butternut for backlogs, because, when green, it burns very slowly and
lasts a long time. And we dragged our smaller wood to camp in lengths of
twenty to thirty feet, because it was easier to lay them on the fire and
burn them in two than to cut them shorter with light hatchets. With a
heavy axe, we should have cut them to lengths of five or six feet.
[Sidenote: _Our Luck_]
Our luck, I may mention, was good--as good as we desired. Not that four
smallish deer are anything to brag about for a week's hunt by four men
and two dogs. I have known a pot-hunter to kill nine in a single day.
But we had enough.
As it was, we were obliged to "double trip it" in order to get our deer
and duffle down to "Babb's." And we gave away more than half our
venison. For the rest, the illustrations show the camp-fire--all but the
fire--as it should be made.
Chapter V
FISHING, WITH AND WITHOUT FLIES--SOME TACKLE AND
LURES--DISCURSIVE REMARKS ON THE GENTLE ART--THE
HEADLIGHT--FROGGING
There is probably no subject connected with out-door sport so thoroughly
and exhaustively written up as fly-fishing, and all that pertains
thereto. Fly-fishing for speckled trout always, and deservedly, takes
the lead. Bass fishing usually comes next, though some writers accord
second place to the lake trout, salmon trout or land-locked salmon. The
mascalonge, as a game fish, is scarcely behind the small-mouthed bass,
and is certainly more gamy than the lake trout. The large-mouthed bass
and pickerel are usually ranked about with the yellow perch. I don't
know why; they are certainly gamy enough. Perhaps it is because they do
not leap out of water when hooked. Both are good on the table.
A dozen able and interesting authors have written books wherein trout,
flies and fly-fishing are treated in a manner that leaves an old
backwoodsman little to say. Rods, reels, casting lines, flies and fish
are described and descanted on in a way, and in a language, the reading
whereof reduces me to temporary insanity. And yet I seem to recollect
some bygone incidents concerning fish and fishing. I have a well-defined
notion that I once stood on Flat Rock, in Big Pine Creek, and caught
over 350 fine trout in a short day's fishing. Also that many times I
left home on a bright May or June morning, walked eight miles, caught a
twelve-pound creel of trout, and walked home before bed-time.
I remember that once, in Michigan, on the advice of local fishermen, I
dragged a spoon around High Bank Lake two days, with little result save
half a dozen blisters on my hands; and that on the next morning, taking
a long tamarack pole and my own way of fishing, I caught, before 10 A.
M., fifty pounds of bass and pickerel, weighing from two to ten pounds
each.
Gibson, whose spoon, line and skiff I had been using and who was the
fishing oracle of that region, could hardly believe his eyes. I kept
that country inn, and the neighborhood as well, supplied with fish for
the next two weeks.
It is truth to say that I have never struck salt or fresh waters, where
edible fish were at all plentiful, without being able to take, in some
way, all that I needed. Notably and preferably with the fly if that
might be. If not, then with worms, grubs, minnows, grasshoppers,
crickets, or any sort of doodle bug their highnesses might affect. When
a plump, two-pound trout refuses to eat a tinseled, feathered fraud, I
am not the man to refuse him something more edible.
That I may not be misunderstood, let me say that I recognized the
speckled brook trout as the very emperor of all game fish, and angling
for him with the fly as the neatest, most fascinating sport attainable
by the angler. But there are thousands of outers who, from choice or
necessity, take their summer vacations where _Salmo fontinalis_ is not
to be had. They would prefer him, either on the leader or the table; but
he is not there; "And a man has got a stomach, and we live by what we
eat."
Wherefore, they go a-fishing for other fish. So that they are successful
and sufficiently fed, the difference is not so material. I have enjoyed
myself hugely catching catties on a dark night from a skiff with a
hand-line.
I can add nothing in a scientific way to the literature of fly-fishing;
but I can give a few hints that may be conducive to practical success,
as well with trout as with less noble fish. In fly-fishing, one
serviceable four-ounce rod is enough; and a plain click reel, of small
size, is just as satisfactory as a more costly affair. Twenty yards of
tapered, water-proof line, with a six-foot leader, and a cost of two
flies, complete the rig, and will be found sufficient. In common with
most fly-fishers, I have mostly thrown a cast of three flies, but have
found two just as effective, and handier.
[Sidenote: _The Best Flies_]
We all carry too many flies. Some of my friends have more than sixty
dozen, and will never use a tenth of them. In the summer of '88, finding
I had more than seemed needful, I left all but four dozen behind me. I
wet only fifteen of them in a seven weeks' outing. And they filled the
bill. I have no time or space for a dissertation on the hundreds of
different flies made and sold at the present day. Abler pens have done
that. I will, however, name a few that I have found good in widely
different localities, i.e., the Northern Wilderness of New York and the
upper waters of Northern Pennsylvania. For the Northern Wilderness:
Scarlet ibis, split ibis, Romeyn, white-winged coachman, royal coachman,
red hackle, red-bodied ashy and gray-bodied ashy. The ashies were good
for black bass also. For Northern Pennsylvania: Queen of the waters,
professor, red fox, coachman, black may, white-winged coachman, wasp,
brown hackle, Seth Green. Ibis flies are worthless here. Using the dark
flies in bright water and clear weather, and the brighter colors for
evening, the list was long enough.
At the commencement of the open season, and until the young maple leaves
are half grown, bait will be found far more successful than the fly. At
this time the trout are pretty evenly distributed along lake shores and
streams, choosing to lie quietly in rather deep pools, and avoiding
swift water. A few may rise to the fly in a logy, indifferent way; but
the best way to take them is bait-fishing with well-cleansed angle-worms
or white grubs, the latter being the best bait I have ever tried. They
take the bait sluggishly at this season, but, on feeling the hook, wake
up to their normal activity and fight gamely to the last. When young,
new-born insects begin to drop freely on the water about the 20th of
May, trout leave the pools and take to the riffles. And from this time
until the latter part of June the fly-fisherman is in his glory. It may
be true that the skillful bait-fisherman will rather beat his creel. He
cares not for that. He can take enough; and he had rather take ten trout
with the fly than a score with bait. As for the man who goes a-fishing
simply to catch fish, the fly-fisher does not recognize him as an angler
at all.
When the sun is hot and the weather grows warm, trout leave the ripples
and take to cold springs and spring-holes; the largest fish, of course,
monopolizing the deepest and coolest places, while the smaller ones
hover around, or content themselves with shallower water. As the weather
gets hotter, the fly-fishing falls off badly. A few trout of four to
eight ounces in weight may still be raised, but the larger ones are
lying on the bottom, and are not to be fooled with feathers. They will
take a tempting bait when held before their noses--sometimes; at other
times, not. As to raising them with a fly--as well attempt to raise a
sick Indian with the temperance pledge. And yet, they may be taken in
bright daylight by a ruse that I learned long ago, of a youngster less
than half my age, a little, freckled, thin-visaged young man, whose
health was evidently affected by a daily struggle with a pair of
tow-colored side whiskers and a light mustache. There was hardly enough
of the whole affair to make a door-mat for a bee hive. But he seemed so
proud of the plant, that I forebore to rig him. He was better than he
looked--as often happens. The landlord said, "He brings in large trout
every day, when our best fly-fishermen fail." One night, around an
out-door fire, we got acquainted, and I found him a witty, pleasant
companion. Before turning in I ventured to ask him how he succeeded in
taking large trout, while the experts only caught small ones, or failed
altogether.
"Go with me tomorrow morning to a spring-hole three miles up the river,
and I'll show you," he said.
[Sidenote: _At the Spring-Hole_]
Of course, we went. He, rowing a light skiff, and I paddling a still
lighter canoe. The spring-hole was in a narrow bay that set back from
the river, and at the mouth of a cold, clear brook; it was ten to twelve
feet deep, and at the lower end a large balsam had fallen in with the
top in just the right place for getting away with large fish, or
tangling lines and leaders. We moored some twenty feet above the
spring-hole, and commenced fishing, I with my favorite cast of flies, my
friend with the tail of a minnow. He caught a 1-1/2-pound trout almost
at the outset, but I got no rise; did not expect it. Then I went above,
where the water was shallower, and raised a couple of half-pounders, but
could get no more. I thought he had better go to the hotel with what he
had, but my friend said "wait"; he went ashore and picked up a long
pole with a bushy tip; it had evidently been used before. Dropping down
to the spring-hole, he thrust the tip to the bottom and slashed it
around in a way to scare and scatter every trout within a hundred feet.
"And what does all that mean?" I asked.
"Well," he said, "every trout will be back in less than an hour; and
when they first come back, they take the bait greedily. Better take off
your leader and try bait."
Which I did. Dropping our hooks to the bottom, we waited some twenty
minutes, when he had a bite, and, having strong tackle, soon took in a
trout that turned the scale at 2-1/4 pounds. Then my turn came and I
saved one weighing 1-1/2 pounds. He caught another of 1-1/4 pounds, and
I took one of 1 pound. Then they ceased biting altogether.
"And now," said my friend, "if you will work your canoe carefully around
to that old balsam top and get the light where you can see the bottom,
you may see some large trout."
I did as directed, and, making a telescope of my hand, looked intently
for the bottom of the spring-hole. At first I could see nothing but
water; then I made out some dead sticks, and finally began to dimly
trace the outlines of large fish. There they were, more than forty of
them, lying quietly on the bottom like suckers, but genuine brook trout,
every one of them.
"This," said he, "makes the fifth time I have brushed them out of here,
and I have never missed taking from two to five large trout. I have two
other places where I always get one or two, but this is the best."
At the hotel we found two fly-fishers who had been out all the morning.
They each had three or four small trout.
During the next week we worked the spring-holes daily in the same way,
and always with success. I have also had good success by building a
bright fire on the bank, and fishing a spring-hole by the light--a mode
of fishing especially successful with catties and perch.
A bright, bull's-eye headlight, strapped on a stiff hat, so that the
light can be thrown where it is wanted, is an excellent device for night
fishing. And during the heated term, when fish are slow and sluggish, I
have found the following plan works well: Bake a hard, well salted,
water "johnny-cake," break it into pieces the size of a hen's egg, and
drop the pieces into a spring-hole. This calls a host of minnows, and
the larger fish follow the minnows. It will prove more successful on
perch, catties, chubs, etc., than on trout, however. By this plan, I
have kept a camp of five men well supplied with fish when their best
flies failed--as they mostly do in very hot weather.
Fishing for mascalonge, pickerel, and bass, is quite another thing,
though by many valued as a sport scarcely inferior to fly-fishing for
trout. I claim no especial skill with the fly-rod. It is a good day when
I get my tail fly more than fifteen yards beyond the reel, with any
degree of accuracy.
My success lies mainly with the tribes of Esox and Micropterus. Among
these, I have seldom or never failed during the last thirty-six years,
when the water was free of ice; and I have had just as good luck when
big-mouthed bass and pickerel were in the "off season," as at any time.
For in many waters there comes a time--in late August and
September--when neither bass nor pickerel will notice the spoon, be it
handled never so wisely. Even the mascalonge looks on the flashing cheat
with indifference; though a very hungry specimen may occasionally
immolate himself. It was at such a season that I fished High Bank
Lake--as before mentioned--catching from forty to fifty pounds of fine
fish every morning for nearly two weeks, after the best local fishermen
had assured me that not a decent sized fish could be taken at that
season. Perhaps a brief description of the modes and means that have
proved invariably successful for many years may afford a few useful
hints, even to old anglers.
[Sidenote: Frog-Bait and Gangs]
To begin with, I utterly discard all modern "gangs" and "trains,"
carrying from seven to thirteen hooks each. They are all too small, and
all too many; better calculated to scratch and tear, than to catch and
hold. Three hooks are enough at the end of any line, and better than
more. These should be fined or honed to a perfect point, and the abrupt
part of the barb filed down one-half. All hooks, as usually made, have
twice as much barb as they should have; and the sharp bend of the barb
prevents the entering of the hook in hard bony structures, wherefore the
fish only stays hooked so long as there is a taut pull on the line. A
little loosening of the line and shake of the head sets him free. But
no fish can shake out a hook well sunken in mouth or gills, though
two-thirds of the barb be filed away.
[Illustration: FROG-BAIT]
[Illustration: THREE-HOOK GANG]
For mascalonge or pickerel I invariably use wire snells made as follows:
Lay off four or more strands of fine brass wire 13 inches long; turn one
end of the wires smoothly over a No. 1 iron wire, and work the ends in
between the strands below. Now, with a pair of pincers hold the ends,
and, using No. 1 as a handle, twist the ends and body of the snell
firmly together; this gives the loop; next, twist the snell evenly and
strongly from end to end. Wax the end of the snell thoroughly for two or
three inches, and wax the tapers of two strong Sproat or O'Shaughnessy
hooks, and wind the lower hook on with strong, waxed silk, to the end of
the taper; then lay the second hook at right angles with the first, and
one inch above it; wind this as the other, and then fasten a third and
smaller hook above that for a lip hook. This gives the snell about one
foot in length, with the two lower hooks standing at right angles, one
above the other, and a third and smaller hook in line with the second.
The bait is the element of success; it is made as follows: Slice off a
clean, white pork rind, four or five inches long by an inch and a half
wide; lay it on a board, and, with a sharp knife cut it as nearly to the
shape of a frog as your ingenuity permits. Prick a slight gash in the
head to admit the lip hook, which should be an inch and a half above the
second one, and see that the fork of the bait rests securely in the barb
of the middle hook.
Use a stout bait-rod and a strong line. Fish from a boat, with a second
man to handle the oars, if convenient. Let the oarsman lay the boat ten
feet inside the edge of the lily-pads, and make your cast, say, with
thirty feet of line; land the bait neatly to the right, at the edge of
the lily-pads, let it sink a few inches, and then with the tip well
lowered, bring the bait around on a slight curve by a quick succession
of draws, with a momentary pause between each; the object being to
imitate as nearly as possible a swimming frog. If this be neatly done,
and if the bait be made as it should be, at every short halt the legs
will spread naturally, and the imitation is perfect enough to deceive
the most experienced bass or pickerel. When half a dozen casts to right
and left have been made without success, it is best to move on, still
keeping inside and casting outside the lily-pads.
A pickerel of three pounds or more will take in all three hooks at the
first snap; and, as he closes his mouth tightly and starts for the
bottom, strike quickly, but not too hard, and let the boatman put you
out into deep water at once, where you are safe from the strong roots of
the yellow lily.
It is logically certain your fish is well hooked. You cannot pull two
strong, sharp hooks through that tightly closed mouth without fastening
at least one of them where it will do most good. Oftener both will
catch, and it frequently happens that one hook will catch each lip,
holding the mouth nearly closed, and shortening the struggles of a large
fish very materially. On taking off a fish, and before casting again,
see that the two lower hooks stand at right angles. If they have got
turned in the struggle you can turn them at any angle you like; the
twisted wire is stiff enough to hold them in place. Every angler knows
the bold, determined manner in which the mascalonge strikes his prey. He
will take in bait and hooks at the first dash, and if the rod be held
stiffly usually hooks himself. Barring large trout, he is the king of
game fish. The big-mouthed bass is less savage in his attacks, but is a
free biter. He is apt to come up behind and seize the bait about
two-thirds of its length, turn, and bore down for the bottom. He will
mostly take in the lower hooks, however, and is certain to get fastened.
His large mouth is excellent for retaining the hook.
As for the small-mouthed (_Micropterus dolomieu_, if you want to be
scientific), I have found him more capricious than any game fish on the
list. One day he will take only dobsons, or crawfish; the next, he may
prefer minnows, and again, he will rise to the fly or a bucktail
spinner.
On the whole, I have found the pork frog the most successful lure in his
case; but the hooks and bait must be arranged differently. Three strands
of fine wire will make a snell strong enough, and the hooks should be
strong, sharp and rather small, the lower hooks placed only half an inch
apart, and a small lip hook two and a quarter inches above the middle
one. As the fork of the bait will not reach the bend of the middle hook,
it must be fastened to the snell by a few stitches taken with stout
thread, and the lower end of the bait should not reach more than a
quarter of an inch beyond the bottom of the hook, because the
small-mouth has a villainous trick of giving his prey a stern chase,
nipping constantly and viciously at the tail, and the above arrangement
will be apt to hook him at the first snap. Owing to this trait, some
artificial minnows with one or two hooks at the caudal end, are very
killing--when he will take them.
[Sidenote: Lake Trout]
Lake, or salmon trout, may be trolled for successfully with the above
lure; but I do not much affect fishing for them. Excellent sport may be
had with them, however, early in the season, when they are working near
the shore, but they soon retire to water from fifty to seventy feet
deep, and can only be caught by deep trolling or buoy-fishing. I have no
fancy for sitting in a slow-moving boat for hours, dragging three or
four hundred feet of line in deep water, a four-pound sinker tied by six
feet of lighter line some twenty feet above the hooks. The sinker is
supposed to go bumping along the bottom, while the bait follows three or
four feet above it. The drag of the line and the constant joggling of
the sinker on rocks and snags, make it difficult to tell when one has a
strike--and it is always too long between bites.
Sitting for hours at a baited buoy with a hand-line, and without taking
a fish, is still worse, as more than once I have been compelled to
acknowledge in very weariness of soul. There are enthusiastic anglers,
however, whose specialty is trolling for lake trout. A gentleman by the
name of Thatcher, who has a fine residence on Raquette Lake--which he
calls a camp--makes this his leading sport, and keeps a log of his
fishing, putting nothing on record of less than ten pounds weight. His
largest fish was booked at twenty-eight pounds, and he added that a
well-conditioned salmon trout was superior to a brook trout on the
table; in which I quite agree with him. But he seemed quite disgusted
when I ventured to suggest that a well-conditioned cattie or bullhead,
caught in the same waters--was better than either.
"Do you call the cattie a game fish?" he asked.
Yes; I call any fish a game fish that is taken for sport with hook and
line. I can no more explain the common prejudice against the catfish and
eel than I can tell why an experienced angler should drag a gang of
thirteen hooks through the water--ten of them being worse than
superfluous. "Frank Forester" gives five hooks as the number for a
trolling gang. We mostly use hooks too small, and do not look after
points and barbs closely enough. A pair of No. 1 O'Shaughnessy, or 1-1/2
Sproat, or five tapered blackfish hooks, will make a killing rig for
small-mouthed bass using No. 4 Sproat for lip hook. Larger hooks are
better for the big-mouthed, a four-pound specimen of which will easily
take in one's fist. A pair of 5-0 O'Shaughnessy's, or Sproat's will be
found none too large; and as for the mascalonge and pickerel, if I must
err, let it be on the side of large hooks and strong lines.
[Sidenote: Stout Tackle]
It is idle to talk of playing the fish in water where the giving of a
few yards insures a hopeless tangle among roots, tree-tops, etc. I was
once fishing in Western waters where the pickerel ran very large, and I
used a pair of the largest salmon hooks with tackle strong enough to
hold a fish of fifteen pounds, without any playing; notwithstanding
which, I had five trains of three hooks each taken off in as many days
by monster pickerel. An expert mascalonge fisherman--Davis by
name--happened to take board at the farm house where I was staying, and
he had a notion that he could "beat some of them big fellows;" and he
did it; with three large cod hooks, a bit of fine, strong chain, twelve
yards of cod-line, an eighteen-foot tamarack pole, and a twelve inch
sucker for bait. I thought it the most outlandish rig I had ever seen,
but went with him in the early gray of the morning to see it tried, just
where I had lost my hooks and fish.
Raising the heavy bait in the air, he would give it a whirl to gather
headway, and launch it forty feet away with a splash that might have
been heard thirty rods. It looked more likely to scare than catch, but
was a success. At the third or fourth cast we plainly saw a huge
pickerel rise, shut his immense mouth over bait, hooks, and a few inches
of chain, turn lazily, and head for the bottom, where Mr. D. let him
rest a minute, and then struck steadily but strongly. The subsequent
struggle depended largely on main strength, though there was a good deal
of skill and cool judgment shown in the handling and landing of the
fish. A pickerel of forty pounds or more is not to be snatched out of
the water on his first mad rush; something must be yielded--and with no
reel there is little chance of giving line. It struck me my friend
managed his fish remarkably well, towing him back and forth with a
strong pull, never giving him a rest and finally sliding him out on a
low muddy bank, as though he were a smooth log. We took him up to the
house and tested the size of his mouth by putting a quart cup in it,
which went in easily. Then we weighed him, and he turned the scales at
forty-four pounds. It was some consolation to find three of my hooks
sticking in his mouth. Lastly, we had a large section of him stuffed and
baked. It was good; but a ten-pound fish would have been better. The
moral of all this--if it has any moral--is, use hooks according to the
size of fish you expect to catch.
And, when you are in a permanent camp, and fishing is very poor, try
frogging. It is not a sport of a high order, though it may be called
angling--and it can be made amusing, with hook and line. I have seen
educated ladies in the wilderness, fishing for frogs with an eagerness
and enthusiasm not surpassed by the most devoted angler with his
favorite cast of flies.
There are several modes of taking the festive batrachian. He is speared
with a frog-spear; caught under the chin with snatch-hooks; taken with
hook and line, or picked up from a canoe with the aid of a headlight,
or jack-lamp. The two latter modes are best.
To take him with hook and line: a light rod, six to eight feet of line,
a snell of single gut with a 1-0 Sproat or O'Shaughnessy hook, and a bit
of bright scarlet flannel for bait; this is the rig. To use it, paddle
up behind him silently, and drop the rag just in front of his nose. He
is pretty certain to take it on the instant. Knock him on the head
before cutting off his legs. It is unpleasant to see him squirm, and
hear him cry like a child while you are sawing at his thigh joints.
By far the most effective manner of frogging is by the headlight on dark
nights. To do this most successfully, one man in a light canoe, a good
headlight and a light, one-handed paddle, are the requirements. The frog
is easily located, either by his croaking, or by his peculiar shape.
Paddle up to him silently and throw the light in his eyes; you may then
pick him up as you would a potato. I have known a North Woods guide to
pick up a five-quart pail of frogs in an hour, on a dark evening. On the
table, frogs' legs are usually conceded first place for delicacy and
flavor. For an appetizing breakfast in camp, they have no equal, in my
judgment. The high price they bring at the best hotels, and their
growing scarcity, attest the value placed on them by men who know how
and what to eat. And, not many years ago, an old pork-gobbling
backwoodsman threw his frying-pan into the river because I had cooked
frogs' legs in it. While another, equally intelligent, refused to use my
frying-pan, because I had cooked eels in it; remarking sententiously,
"Eels is snakes, an' I know it."
It may be well, just here and now, to say a word on the importance of
the headlight. I know of no more pleasant and satisfactory adjunct of a
camp than a good light that can be adjusted to the head, used as a jack
in floating, carried in the hand, or fastened up inside the shanty. Once
fairly tried, it will never be ignored or forgotten. Not that it will
show a deer's head seventeen rods distant with sufficient clearness for
a shot--or your sights with distinctness enough to make it. (See
Murray's _Adirondacks_, page 174.)
A headlight that will show a deer plainly at six rods, while lighting
the sights of a rifle with clearness, is an exceptionally good light.
More deer are killed in floating under than over four rods. There are
various styles of headlights, jack-lamps, etc., in use. They are bright,
easily adjusted, and will show rifle sights, or a deer, up to 100
feet--which is enough. They are also convenient in camp, and better than
a lantern on a dim forest path.
Before leaving the subject of bait-fishing, I have a point or two I wish
to make. I have attempted to explain the frog-bait, and the manner of
using it, and I shall probably never have occasion to change my belief
that it is, on the whole, the most killing lure for the entire tribes of
bass and pickerel. There is however, another, which, if properly
handled, is almost as good. It is as follows:
Take a bass, pickerel, or yellow perch, of one pound or less; scrape the
scales clean on the under side from the caudal fin to a point just
forward of the vent.
[Sidenote: Swivels and Snells]
Next, with a sharp knife, cut up toward the backbone, commencing just
behind the vent with a slant toward the tail. Run the knife smoothly
along just under the backbone, and out through the caudal fin, taking
about one-third of the latter, and making a clean, white bait, with the
anal and part of the caudal by way of fins. It looks very like a white
minnow in the water; but is better, in that it is more showy, and
infinitely tougher. A minnow soon drags to pieces. To use it, two strong
hooks are tied on a wire snell at right angles, the upper one an inch
above the lower, and the upper hook is passed through the bait, leaving
it to draw without turning or spinning. The casting and handling is the
same as with the frog-bait, and is very killing for bass, pickerel, and
mascalonge. It is a good lure for salmon trout also; but, for him it was
found better to fasten the bait with the lower hook in a way to give it
a spinning motion; and this necessitates the use of a swivel, which I do
not like; because, "a rope is as strong as its weakest part"; and I have
more than once found that weakest part the swivel. If, however, a swivel
has been tested by a dead lift of twenty to twenty-five pounds, it will
do to trust.
I have spoken only of brass or copper wire for snells, and for pickerel
or mascalonge of large size nothing else is to be depended on. But for
trout and bass, strong gut or gimp is safe enough. The possibilities as
to size of the mascalonge and Northern pickerel no man knows. Frank
Forester thinks it probable that the former attains to the weight of
sixty to eighty pounds, while he only accords the pickerel a weight of
seventeen to eighteen pounds. I have seen several pickerel of over forty
pounds, and one that turned the scale at fifty-three. And I saw a
mascalonge on Georgian Bay that was longer than the Canuck guide who was
toting the fish over his shoulder by a stick thrust in the mouth and
gills. The snout reached to the top of the guide's head, while the
caudal fin dragged on the ground. There was no chance for weighing the
fish, but I hefted him several times, carefully, and am certain he
weighed more than a bushel of wheat. Just what tackle would be proper
for such a powerful fellow I am not prepared to say, having lost the
largest specimens I ever hooked. My best mascalonge weighed less than
twenty pounds. My largest pickerel still less.
I will close this discursive chapter by offering a bit of advice. Do not
go into the woods on a fishing tour without a stock of well cleansed
angle-worms. Keep them in a tin can partly filled with damp moss, and in
a cool moist place. There is no one variety of bait that the angler
finds so constantly useful as the worm. Izaak Walton by no means
despised worm or bait-fishing.
Chapter VI
CAMP COOKERY--HOW IT IS USUALLY DONE, WITH A FEW SIMPLE HINTS
ON PLAIN COOKING--COOKING FIRE AND OUT-DOOR RANGE
The way in which an average party of summer outers will contrive to
manage--or mis-manage--the camp and camp-fire so as to get the greatest
amount of smoke and discontent at the least outlay of time and force, is
something past all understanding, and somewhat aggravating to an old
woodsman who knows some better. But it is just as good fun as the
cynical O. W. can ask, to see a party of three or four enthusiastic
youngsters organize the camp on the first day in, and proceed to cook
the first meal. Of course, every man is boss, and every one is bound to
build the fire, which every one proceeds to do. There are no back logs,
no fore sticks, and no arrangement for level solid bases on which to
place frying-pans, coffee pots, etc. But, there is a sufficiency of
knots, dry sticks, bark and chunks, with some kindling at the bottom,
and a heavy volume of smoke working its way through the awkward-looking
pile. Presently thin tongues of blue flame begin to shoot up through the
interstices, and four brand new coffee pots are wriggled into level
positions at as many different points on the bonfire. Four hungry
youngsters commence slicing ham and pork, four frying-pans are brought
out from as many hinged and lidded soap boxes--when one man yells out
hurriedly, "Look out, Joe, there's your coffee pot handle coming off."
And he drops his frying-pan to save his coffee pot, which he does, minus
the spout and handle. Then it is seen that the flames have increased
rapidly, and all the pots are in danger. A short, sharp skirmish rescues
them, at the expense of some burned fingers, and culinary operations are
the order of the hour.
Coffee and tea are brewed with the loss of a handle or two, and the
frying-pans succeed in scorching the pork and ham to an unwholesome
black mess. The potato kettle does better. It is not easy to spoil
potatoes by cooking them in plenty of boiling water; and, as there is
plenty of bread with fresh butter, not to mention canned goods, the
hungry party feed sufficiently, but not satisfactorily. Everything seems
pervaded with smoke. The meat is scorched bitter, and the tea is of the
sort described by Charles Dudley Warner, in his humorous description of
"Camping Out": "The sort of tea that takes hold, lifts the hair, and
disposes the drinker to hilariousness. There is no deception about it,
it tastes of tannin, and spruce, and creosote." Of the cooking he says:
"Everything has been cooked in a tin pail and a skillet--potatoes, tea,
pork, mutton, slapjacks. You wonder how everything would have been
prepared in so few utensils. When you eat, the wonder ceases, everything
might have been cooked in one pail. It is a noble meal.... The slapjacks
are a solid job of work, made to last, and not go to pieces in a
person's stomach like a trivial bun."
I have before me a copy of _Forest and Stream_, in which the canoe
editor, under the heading of "The Galley Fire," has some remarks well
worth quoting. He says: "The question of camp cookery is one of the
greatest importance to all readers of _Forest and Stream_, but most of
all to the canoeists. From ignorance of what to carry the canoeist falls
back on canned goods, never healthy as a steady diet, Brunswick soup and
eggs.... The misery of that first camp-fire, who has forgotten it?
Tired, hungry, perhaps cold and wet, the smoke everywhere, the coffee
pot melted down, the can of soup upset in the fire, the fiendish conduct
of frying-pan and kettle, the final surrender of the exhausted victim,
sliding off to sleep with a piece of hard-tack in one hand and a slice
of canned beef in the other, only to dream of mother's hot biscuits,
juicy steaks, etc., etc." It is very well put, and so true to the life.
And again: "Frying, baking, making coffee, stews, plain biscuits, the
neat and speedy preparation of a healthy 'square meal' can be easily
learned." Aye, and should be learned by every man who goes to the woods
with or without a canoe.
[Sidenote: The First Day Out]
But I was describing a first day's camping out, the party being four
young men and one old woodsman, the latter going along in a double
character of invited guest and amateur guide. When the boys are through
with their late dinner, they hustle the greasy frying-pans and
demoralized tinware into a corner of the shanty, and get out their rods
for an evening's fishing. They do it hurriedly, almost feverishly, as
youngsters are apt to do at the start. The O. W. has taken no part in
the dinner, and has said nothing save in response to direct questions,
nor has he done anything to keep up his reputation as a woodsman, except
to see that the shelter roof is properly put up and fastened. Having
seen to this, he reverts to his favorite pastime, sitting on a log and
smoking navy plug. Long experience has taught him that it is best to let
the boys effervesce a little. They will slop over a trifle at first, but
twenty-four hours will settle them. When they are fairly out of hearing,
he takes the old knapsack from the clipped limb where it has been hung,
cuts a slice of ham, butters a slice of bread, spreads the live coals
and embers, makes a pot of strong green tea, broils the ham on a
three-pronged birch fork, and has a clean, well-cooked plain dinner.
Then he takes the sharp three-pound camp axe, and fells a dozen small
birch and ash trees, cutting them into proper lengths and leaving them
for the boys to tote into camp. Next, a bushy, heavy-topped hemlock is
felled, and the O. W. proceeds leisurely to pick a heap of fine hemlock
browse. A few handfuls suffice to stuff the muslin pillow bag, and the
rest is carefully spread on the port side of the shanty for a bed. The
pillow is placed at the head, and the old Mackinac blanket-bag is spread
neatly over all, as a token of ownership and possession. If the
youngsters want beds of fine, elastic browse, let 'em make their own
beds.
No camp-fire should be without poker and tongs. The poker is a beech
stick four feet long by two inches thick, flattened at one end, with a
notch cut in it for lifting kettles, etc. To make the tongs, take a
tough beech or hickory stick, one inch thick by two feet in length,
shave it down nearly one-half for a foot in the center, thrust this part
into hot embers until it bends freely, bring the ends together and
whittle them smoothly to a fit on the inside, cross-checking them also
to give them a grip; finish off by chamfering the ends neatly from the
outside. They will be found exceedingly handy in rescuing a bit of
tinware, a slice of steak or ham, or any small article that happens to
get dropped in a hot fire.
And don't neglect the camp broom. It is made by laying bushy hemlock
twigs around a light handle, winding them firmly with strong twine or
moose wood bark, and chopping off the ends of the twigs evenly. It can
be made in ten minutes. Use it to brush any leaves, sticks, and any
litter from about the camp or fire. Neatness is quite as pleasant and
wholesome around the forest camp as in the home kitchen. These little
details may seem trivial to the reader. But remember, if there is a spot
on earth where trifles make up the sum of human enjoyment, it is to be
found in a woodland camp. All of which the O. W. fully appreciates, as
he finishes the above little jobs; after which he proceeds to spread the
fire to a broad level bed of glowing embers, nearly covering the same
with small pieces of hemlock bark, that the boys may have a decent
cooking fire on their return.
About sundown they come straggling in, not jubilant and hilarious,
footsore rather and a little cross. The effervescence is subsiding, and
the noise is pretty well knocked out of them. They have caught and
dressed some three score of small brook trout, which they deposit beside
the shanty, and proceed at once to move on the fire, with evident intent
of raising a conflagration, but are checked by the O. W., who calls
their attention to the fact that for all culinary purposes, the fire is
about as near the right thing as they are likely to get it. Better defer
the bonfire until after supper. Listening to the voice of enlightened
woodcraft, they manage to fry trout and make tea without scorch or
creosote, and the supper is a decided improvement on the dinner. But the
dishes are piled away as before, without washing.
[Sidenote: The First Night]
Then follows an hour of busy work, bringing wood to camp and packing
browse. The wood is sufficient; but the browse is picked, or cut, all
too coarse, and there is only enough of it to make the camp look green
and pleasant--not enough to rest weary shoulders and backs. But, they
are sound on the bonfire. They pile on the wood in the usual way,
criss-cross and haphazard. It makes a grand fire, and lights up the
forest for fifty yards around, and the tired youngsters turn in. Having
the advantage of driving a team to the camping ground, they are well
supplied with blankets and robes. They ought to sleep soundly, but they
don't. The usual drawbacks of a first night in camp are soon manifested
in uneasy twistings and turnings, grumbling at stubs, knots, and sticks,
that utterly ignore conformity with the angles of the human frame. But
at last, tired nature asserts her supremacy, and they sleep. Sleep
soundly, for a couple of hours; when the bonfire, having reached the
point of disintegration, suddenly collapses with a sputtering and
crackling that brings them to their head's antipodes, and four dazed,
sleepy faces look out with a bewildered air, to see what has caused the
rumpus. All take a hand in putting the brands together and re-arranging
the fire, which burns better than at first; some sleepy talk, one or two
feeble attempts at a smoke, and they turn in again. But, there is not an
hour during the remainder of the night in which some one is not
pottering about the fire.
The O.W., who has abided by his blanket-bag all night--quietly taking in
the fun--rouses out the party at 4 A. M. For two of them are to fish
Asaph Run with bait, and the other two are to try the riffles of Marsh
Creek with the fly. As the wood is all burned to cinders and glowing
coals, there is no chance for a smoky fire; and, substituting coffee for
tea, the breakfast is a repetition of the supper.
By sunrise the boys are off, and the O. W. has the camp to himself. He
takes it leisurely, gets up a neat breakfast of trout, bread, butter,
and coffee, cleans and puts away his dishes, has a smoke, and picks up
the camp axe. Selecting a bushy hemlock fifteen inches across, he lets
it down in as many minutes, trims it to the very tip, piles the limbs in
a heap, and cuts three lengths of six feet each from the butt. This
insures browse and back logs for some time ahead. Two strong stakes are
cut and sharpened. Four small logs, two of eight and two of nine feet in
length, are prepared, plenty of night wood is made ready, a supply of
bright, dry hemlock bark is carried to camp, and the O. W. rests from
his labors, resuming his favorite pastime of sitting on a log and
smoking navy plug. Finally it occurs to him that he is there partly as
guide and mentor to the younger men, and that they need a lesson on
cleanliness. He brings out the frying-pans and finds a filthy-looking
mess of grease in each one, wherein ants, flies, and other insects have
contrived to get mixed. Does he heat some water, and clean and scour the
pans? Not if he knows himself. If he did it once he might keep on doing
it. He is cautious about establishing precedents, and he has a taste for
entomology. He places the pans in the sun where the grease will soften
and goes skirmishing for ants and doodle bugs. They are not far to seek,
and he soon has a score of large black ants, with a few bugs and
spiders, pretty equally distributed among the frying-pans. To give the
thing a plausible look a few flies are added, and the two largest pans
are finished off, one with a large earwig, the other with a
thousand-legged worm. The pans are replaced in the shanty, the embers
are leveled and nearly covered with bits of dry hemlock bark, and the O.
W. resumes his pipe and log
With such a face of Christian satisfaction,
As good men wear, who have done a virtuous action.
Before noon the boys are all in, and as the catch is twice as numerous
and twice as large as on the previous evening, and as the weather is all
that could be asked of the longest days in June, they are in excellent
spirits. The boxes are brought out, pork is sliced, a can of Indian meal
comes to the front, and they go for the frying-pans.
"Holy Moses! Look here. Just see the ants and bugs."
Second Man.--"Well, I should say! I can see your ants and bugs, and go
you an earwig better."
Third Man (inverting his pan spitefully over the fire).--"D--n 'em, I'll
roast the beggars."
Bush D. (who is something of a cook and woodsman) "Boys, I'll take the
pot. I've got a thousand-legged worm at the head of a pismire flush, and
it serves us right, for a lot of slovens. Dishes should be cleaned as
often as they are used. Now let's scour our pans and commence right."
[Sidenote: Their Lesson]
Hot water, ashes, and soap soon restore the pans to pristine brightness;
three frying-pans are filled with trout well rolled in meal; a fourth is
used for cooking a can of tomatoes; the coffee is strong, and everything
comes out without being smoked or scorched. The trout are browned to a
turn, and even the O. W. admits that the dinner is a success. When it is
over and the dishes are cleaned and put away, and the camp slicked up,
there comes the usual two hours of lounging, smoking, and story
telling, so dear to the hearts of those who love to go a-fishing and
camping. At length there is a lull in the conversation, and Bush D.
turns to the old woodsman with, "I thought, 'Uncle Mart,' you were going
to show us fellows such a lot of kinks about camping out, camp-fires,
cooking, and all that sort of thing, isn't it about time to begin?
Strikes me you have spent most of the last twenty-four hours holding
down that log."
"Except cutting some night wood and tending the fire," adds number two.
The old woodsman, who has been rather silent up to this time, knocks the
ashes leisurely from his pipe, and gets on his feet for a few remarks.
He says, "Boys, a bumblebee is biggest when it's first born. You've
learned more than you think in the last twenty-four hours."
"Well, as how? Explain yourself," says Bush D.
O. W.--"In the first place, you have learned better than to stick your
cooking-kit into a tumbled down heap of knots, mulch and wet bark, only
to upset and melt down the pots, and scorch or smoke everything in the
pans, until a starving hound wouldn't eat the mess. And you have found
that it doesn't take a log heap to boil a pot of coffee or fry a pan of
trout. Also, that a level bed of live coals makes an excellent cooking
fire, though I will show you a better. Yesterday you cooked the worst
meal I ever saw in the woods. Today you get up a really good, plain
dinner; you have learned that much in one day. Oh, you improve some. And
I think you have taken a lesson in cleanliness today."
"Yes; but we learned that of the ant--and bug," says number two.
O. W.--"Just so. And did you think all the ants and doodlebugs blundered
into that grease in one morning? I put 'em in myself--to give you a
'kink.'"
Bush D. (disgusted).--"You blasted, dirty old sinner."
Second Man.--"Oh, you miserable old swamp savage; I shan't get over that
earwig in a month."
Third Man (plaintively).--"This life in the woods isn't what it's
cracked up to be; I don't relish bugs and spiders. I wish I were home.
I'm all bitten up with punkies, and----"
Fourth Man (savagely).--"Dashed old woods-loafer; let's tie his hands
and fire him in the creek."
O. W. (placidly).--"Exactly, boys. Your remarks are terse, and to the
point. Only, as I am going to show you a trick or two on woodcraft this
afternoon, you can afford to wait a little. Now, quit smoking, and get
out your hatchets; we'll go to work."
Three hatchets are brought to light; one of them a two-pound clumsy
hand-axe, the others of an old time, Mt. Vernon, G. W. pattern. "And
now," says good-natured Bush, "you give directions and we'll do the
work."
[Illustration: G. W. HATCHET]