THE CAMP DOG
When I began to go into the wilderness to camp, I was much more
credulous than I am now. Everywhere I went in the woods I saw an
implement which looked like a cross between a pickaxe with a long handle
and the largest pair of tweezers ever seen. This was always lying up
against something as if just ready for use, much as one sees an axe
resting against a cabin wall or on a chopping block. I couldn’t make out
what this could be used for. Finally, curiosity getting the better of me
and no opportunity for seeing it used offering itself, I asked.
“Oh, that,” answered the guide with a twinkle in his eye, “that is the
camp dog.”
“How nice!” I thought. “Why is it called camp dog?”
“Well, you see it does most of the work for us and being so faithful and
handy we’ve just got naturally into the way of calling it a camp dog.”
I was still more impressed when he gave me then and there several
illustrations of its usefulness. But the end of the tale of the camp dog
is not yet,--in fact it was a very long tale for me, the end of which
you shall have in good season.
Generally speaking it may be said that it is the guide and not this
implement which is the camp dog. It is he who is faithful, always handy,
always willing. And it is he who is more imposed upon than any other
member of the camp community. The guide is a responsible person,--_the_
responsible person. He is usually registered and his pay is always good.
He needs every dollar he gets and every bit of authority, too, for he
works hard and often for groups of people who are thorough in only one
respect and that is in their irresponsibility. The guide has to be sure
that fires are kindled in the right places and that they are really out
when they should be; he must keep his party from foolhardy acts of any
kind; he must be sure that they have a good time and certain that they
are not overtaxed; if it comes off cold or is cold, he must keep them
warm; he must see, despite every vicissitude, that they are enjoying
themselves; he must do the cooking--and he must be a good cook,--boil
the coffee, wash the dishes, pitch and strike the tents; he must pilot
the members of the party to the best places for fishing, often bait
their hooks or teach them how to bait, dig their worms; and give their
first lessons in casting a fly; must instruct them in all necessary wood
craft and keep them from shooting wildly; he must see that the game laws
of the state are observed, also the fire laws; if anything should
happen to a member of his party, he will, in all likelihood, be held
responsible for it; and finally, always and all the time, no matter how
he himself feels, he must be agreeable, obliging, useful.
Now if the man who has all these burdens to bear is not a camp dog, I
should like to know what he is? To those of us who have been into the
woods year after year, it is a sort of boundless irritation to see some
members of the camping party sitting about idle while the guide does the
work. Part of the value of camp life is its activity, its activities.
Another part of its good is the skill which comes from learning to be
useful in the woods. The life out-of-doors should be a constant training
in manual work,--call it wood work if you wish. I am reminded of a story
told in “Vanity Fair” about a lazy, indifferent student who was in the
class of a famous physicist. The freshman sprawled in the rear seat and
was sleeping or was about to go to sleep.
“Mr. Fraser,” said the physicist sharply, “you may recite.”
Fraser opened his eyes but he did not change his somnolent pose.
“Mr. Fraser, what is work?”
“Everything is work.”
“What, everything is work?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then I take it you would like the class to believe that this desk is
work?”
“Yes, sir,” wearily, “wood work.”
From the moment that school of the woods is entered every girl has her
wood work cut out for her, if she is taking camping in the right spirit.
It is all team play in the wilderness, or if it is not, it is a rather
poor game. Helpfulness is one of the first rules and every camper should
be willing to help the guide. Usually the guides are a fine set of self
respecting, dignified, resourceful men. And I think it might be said
with considerable truthfulness that when they are not what they ought to
be, it is nine times out of ten due to the undesirable influence of the
parties they have worked for. Your guide is your equal in most respects
and your superior in others. He should be met on a footing of equality.
I use this word advisedly and I do _not_ mean familiarity. Well-bred
girls do not meet anyone, whether in the wilderness or in civilization,
on this footing immediately. The party should be willing and glad to
help the guide in every possible way. That does not signify doing his
work for him but it does indicate helping him.
A routine of some sort should be adopted and is one of the best ways to
assist him. One girl should be on duty at one time and another at
another and all in regular rotation. No camp life can go on
successfully without some law and order of this sort. For it is just as
necessary for the smooth running of household wheels in the log cabin as
it is in the city home. Whoever occupies the guide’s position, that is
the one who is chiefly responsible for everything, should be ably helped
by the whole party but not by the whole party at the same time. Evolve a
system for the particular conditions of the camp life in which you find
yourself and stick to it. Let one girl or one set of girls help one day
and another the next. Let the girl be detailed to do one kind of work
one day and another another. This system, with proper rotation, means
that nobody gets tired of her work. A girl cannot be too self-reliant if
she is ever to be wise in the way of the woods. There is no need for
discouragement if everything is not learned at once, for camping is like
skating and is an art to be learned only through many tumbles and
mistakes. Be prepared to take it and yourself lightly--in short, to
laugh readily over the mistakes made in the art of living in the woods.
Now we have come to the very tip of the tail of the camp dog. You will
be interested to know how an old timer was obliged to laugh at herself.
I am ashamed to tell you how recently this occurred. I was in the
northernmost wilderness of the state of Maine, and near a big lumber
camp, when I saw a “camp dog” lying on the ground, its long axe handle
shining from use, its pickaxe blade a bright steel color, and the tooth
at the back looking as if it had been often used. I was delighted.
“Oh,” I said to my guide, “look at that camp dog lying there!”
He was particularly attentive to my pronunciation, for he said I
pronounced some words, such as “girl,” as he had never heard them
pronounced before. I saw a curious expression pass across his face.
“What did you say that was?” he asked.
“Why, that camp dog lying there.”
“Camp dog!”
Then he began to laugh and he kept right on until the woods echoed with
his roars.
“Well,” he said finally, wiping away the tears, “if that doesn’t beat
everything! That isn’t a camp dog, that’s a cant dog,--you know what you
cant logs and heavy things over with, roll ’em over and pry ’em up with
when you couldn’t do it any other way. My grief, to think of your
calling that a camp dog all these years!”
And he went off into another guffaw.