one should sleep under the open sky; he should choose as his sleeping
place an exposed ridge, high and dry. In such a situation he will suffer
least annoyance from mosquitoes, and, if the night be cool, he will be
warmer than in the valley. Seldom in temperate climates is the night too
warm for sleeping out of doors; but even on such a night the air on the
hilltop is fresher. If it be windy, a wind-break may be made of boughs or
of cornstalks (on a cool night in autumn a corn-shock may be made into a
fairly comfortable shelter.) In case the evening threatens rain, one may
well seek a barn for protection; if one is in the wilderness, he will
search out an overhanging rock, or build a lean-to of bark or boughs.
Newspaper is a good heat insulator, and newspapers spread on the ground
where one is to lie make the bed a warmer, drier one. Newspaper will
protect one’s blanket from dew. Be careful when lying down to see that
shoes and clothing are under cover. If the night proves to be colder than
one has anticipated and one’s blanket is insufficient (or if, on another
tour, the days are so hot that walking ceases to be a pleasure--though
they have to be _very_ hot for that), it may be expedient, at a pinch, to
walk by night and rest by day.
Such _food_ as must be carried will be selected to save weight, so far
as is consistent with nutriment. Rolled oats are excellent; so also
is soup powder (put up in “sausage” form, imitating the famous German
_erbswurst_), and dried fruits and vegetables, powdered eggs, and
powdered milk. The value of pemmican is known. All these articles may be
obtained at groceries and at sportsmen’s stores. Seldom, however, will
one wander so far as to be for many days beyond the possibility of buying
food of more familiar form. Shelled nuts, raisins, dried fruit, malted
milk tablets, and lime juice tablets are good to carry on an all-day
excursion. _Food bags_ of “paraffined” cotton fabric will prove useful.
It is well to bear in mind that food may be distributed along the way,
sent in advance by mail, to await at post offices one’s coming.
The special equipment of the mountaineer--alpenstock, ice axe, rope,
_crampons_, _scarpetti_, etc.--need only be mentioned. They are not
needed in climbing the mountains of eastern America, but only on giddy
peaks, snowfields, and glaciers. Those interested will consult the works
on mountaineering mentioned in the Bibliography.
From the pages of a pamphlet of the Appalachian Mountain Club this note
is taken:
“Equipment does not end with the purchase of proper food,
clothing, climbing and camping outfit. The prospective climber
should give some thought to his physical and mental equipment.
A strong heart, good lungs, and a reasonable amount of physical
development and endurance are among the requisites and so,
too, are courage, caution, patience and good nature. If in
addition he is interested in topography, geology, photography,
animal or plant life, by so much the more is his equipment, and
consequently his enjoyment, increased.”
CARE OF BODY AND EQUIPMENT
As to speed of walking and distance, see below, page 51; as to
preliminary walking, in preparation for a tour, see page 53.
One hardly needs the admonitions, eat plain food, sleep long, and keep
body and clothing clean. The matter of _food_ becomes complicated when
one has to carry the supply of a day or two or of several days with him.
Be careful to get, so far as possible, a large proportion of vegetable
food--fresh vegetables and fruit.
When walking, the system requires large amounts of water, and, generally
speaking, one should _drink_ freely. If one stops by a roadside spring
on a hot day, he should rest a few minutes before drinking, and, if the
water be very cold, he should drink sparingly. It is refreshing before
drinking, and sometimes instead of drinking, to rinse mouth and throat
with spring water. In the Alps the guides caution one not to drink snow
water. In settled regions, drink boiled water only, unless assured of the
purity of the source. Beware of wells. It is a matter of safety, when
traveling, to be inoculated against typhoid fever. Practice restraint in
the use of ice cream, soda water, sweets, coffee, and tea.
The pedestrian should be careful to get as much _sleep_ as normally
he requires at home, and somewhat more. He may not be so regular in
hours, for he will find himself inclined to sleep an hour at midday,
and at times to walk under the starlight, to be abroad in the dawn. And
a walking tour would be a humdrum affair, if he did not yield to such
inclination.
A _bath_ at the end of the day--a sponge bath, if no better offers--is
an indispensable comfort. While on the march one will come upon inviting
places to bathe. Bathe before eating, not immediately after. If the water
is very cold, it is well to splash and rub one’s body before plunging in.
If much bathing tends to produce lassitude, one should limit himself to
what is necessary.
Don’t overdo; on the march, when _tired out_, stop at the first
opportunity--don’t keep going merely to make a record. Don’t invite
fatigue. If, in hot weather, free perspiration should fail, stop
immediately and take available measures to restore normal circulation.
_Lameness_ in muscles is due to the accumulation of waste matter in the
tissues; elimination may be aided and lameness speedily relieved by
drinking hot water freely and by soaking one’s body in a warm bath: the
internal processes are accelerated, in freer blood circulation, while
much is dissolved out through the pores of the skin. At the end of a long
hard walk, the most refreshing thing is a drink--not of ice water, not of
soda water, but a pint or so of hot water. Rubbing oil as a remedy for
lame muscles is hardly worth carrying; alcohol is a mistake. Bruised
muscles should be painted lightly with iodine.
_Care of feet._ Always wash the feet thoroughly at the end of a tramp,
and dry carefully, particularly between the toes. If the skin cracks and
splits between the toes, wash at night with boric acid and soften with
vaseline. It is better to allow toenails to grow rather long, and in
trimming cut them straight across.
When resting at noon take off shoes and stockings, and, before putting
them on again, turn the stockings inside out. If the weather be mild,
let the feet remain bare until about to set out again; if there be water
available, bathe the feet immediately on stopping. If, on the march, the
arch of the foot should grow tired, consciously “toe in.”
If there is rubbing, binding, squeezing, with consequent tenderness at
any point, stop at once, take off shoe and stocking, and consider what is
to be done. It may suffice to protect the tender spot, applying a shred
of absorbent cotton secured with a strip of adhesive tape; perhaps the
thickness of the stocking may be changed, or the lacing of the shoe be
eased or tightened. By _tighter_ lacing sometimes the play of the foot
within the shoe may be diminished and undesirable rubbing or squeezing
overcome. Talcum powder sprinkled on the foot will help to relieve
rubbing, and soap rubbed on the stocking outside, above the tender place,
is efficacious.
Sometimes, in spite of forethought, one may find one’s self walking in
ill-fitting shoes; for example, the shoes though broad enough may be too
short, and one’s toes in consequence may be cramped and squeezed in the
toe of the shoe--particularly on down grades--until they become tender
and even blistered. If then other expedients fail, one has to examine
his shoe carefully, determine precisely where the line of binding strain
lies, and then--remembering that the shoe as it is, is worthless to
him--slit leather and lining through, in a line transverse to the line of
strain.
Should a blister, in spite of care, develop, let it alone, if possible.
Don’t interfere with nature’s remedial processes. But, if one must go on
walking with the expectation that the blister unless attended to will
tear open, then one should drain it--not by pricking it through, however.
Take a bright needle, sterilize it in the flame of a match, and run it
under the skin from a point to one side, and so tap the blister. Then
cover the area with adhesive tape. If there is abrasion, paint the spot
with iodine, or apply a few crystals of permanganate of potassium and a
drop or two of water, then cover with absorbent cotton and adhesive tape.
Be careful, on setting out in the morning, that any soreness or lameness
of the preceding day has been met by the measures described.
Corns are caused by wearing tight or ill-fitting shoes. If one has a
corn, he should get rid of it before attempting distance walking, and
should thereafter wear shoes such as to assure him immunity.
For _sunburn_, use talcum powder or cocoa butter. Do not expose large
areas of the body to sunburn.
A _cramp_ in the side may easily be relieved by drawing and retaining a
deep breath, and bending over.
The _bowels_ should be kept open, and will be, if one orders his food
aright. Constipation is to be carefully guarded against. One may, in
spite of himself, after hard walking in hot weather, find difficulty. A
harmless emergency relief is an enema of a few ounces of the colorless
inert oil now sold under such names as “Russian” oil and “Nujol” (the
Standard Oil Company’s preparation).
_Medicines_ are to be used only in emergency: cascara for constipation,
or, in case of a sudden violent onset of illness, calomel; capsicum
plaster for internal inflammation. But hot water within and without
will generally relieve distress, and is the best remedy. But _do not
experiment_; if a physician is available, call him.
Ammonia is an antidote for insect stings.
Snake-bites are, newspaper reports to the contrary, very, very rare. The
bite of a poisonous serpent (rattlesnake or copperhead) requires heroic
treatment. Suck the wound, cut it out immediately with a sharp knife,
fill the incision with permanganate of potassium crystals and drop water
upon the permanganate.
_Care of clothing._ Underclothes and stockings worn today may be washed
tomorrow at the noon hour. Shirt, trousers--and underclothing too--should
go to the tub every few days, as opportunity offers.
Shoes should be cleaned each day, washed in cold water and greased.
If wet they should be carefully dried in gentle heat. Leather is
easily ruined by scorching; never dry a shoe in heat unendurable to
the hand. Shoes packed in newspaper overnight will be measurably dried
by absorption. Keep the leather pliant with grease or oil, but not
saturated. If one is going to walk through bogs, or in shallow water,
then his shoes should be copiously oiled, but ordinarily one should oil
his shoes with sparing hand.
COMPANIONS
Dr. Finley, President of the University of the State of New York, and
Commissioner of Education, finely says:[1] “It is figurative language,
of course, to speak of God’s ‘walking’ with man. But I do not know where
to find a better expression for the companionship which one enjoys when
walking alone on the earth. I should not speak of this if I thought it
was an experience for the patriarchs alone or for the few. A man does not
know one of the greatest satisfactions of life if he has not had such
walks.”
The prophets of the cult--Hazlitt and Stevenson--are quite eloquent on
the point, that the first joys of walking are reserved for those who
walk alone; even Emerson cynically observes that a dog may on occasion
be better company than a man. But the solitary Thoreau admits that he
sometimes has a companion, while sociable Lawrence Sterne prettily says,
“Let me have a companion of my way, were it but to remark how the shadows
lengthen as the sun declines.”
Ordinarily, we prefer--most of us--to walk in company; if the tour is
an extended one, continuing through many days, we certainly do. And
nothing is more important than the choice of companions. A mistake here
may be a kill-joy. Daily, hourly intercourse rubs individuality upon
individuality, till every oddity, every sensitive point, is worn to the
quick. Be forewarned, then, and be sure of one’s companions. Conversely,
let a man be sure of himself, resolutely refusing to find offense, or to
lose kindliness, good humor, and good will. “’Tis the best of humanity,”
says Emerson, “that goes out to walk.”
A common interest in things seen, stimulated perhaps by reading matter
carried along, may be the selective process in making up a party; but
friendship underlies all.
A proved company of two, three, or four is best. With greater numbers,
the party loses intimacy and coherence; furthermore, if dependent on
hospitality by the way, difficulties arise. A housewife who willingly
provides for two, may hesitate to entertain six.
If there be one in the party who has an aptitude for it, let him keep
a _journal_ (in the form of letters home, perhaps). Such a record,
illustrated by photographs, is a souvenir to afford long-continued
delight.
When walking in out-of-the-way places it is the part of prudence always
to have a companion; for, otherwise, in case of mishap, a man might be in
sorry plight, or even in actual danger.
WHEN TO WALK
THE VAGABOND[2]
Give me the life I love,
Let the lave go by me,
Give the jolly heaven above
And the byway nigh me.
Bed in the bush with stars to see,
Bread I dip in the river--
There’s the life for a man like me,
There’s the life for ever.
Let the blow fall soon or late,
Let what will be o’er me;
Give the face of earth around
And the road before me.
Wealth I seek not, hope nor love,
Nor a friend to know me;
All I seek the heaven above
And the road below me.
Or let autumn fall on me
Where afield I linger,
Silencing the bird on tree,
Biting the blue finger.
White as meal the frosty field--
Warm the fireside haven--
Not to autumn will I yield,
Not to winter even!
Let the blow fall soon or late,
Let what will be o’er me;
Give the face of earth around
And the road before me.
Wealth I ask not, hope nor love,
Nor a friend to know me.
All I ask the heaven above
And the road below me.
Robert Louis Stevenson.
II
WHEN TO WALK
Any day--every day, if that were possible. Says Thoreau, “I think that I
cannot preserve my health and spirits, unless I spend four hours a day at
least [in the open]”; and, again, he says of himself that he cannot stay
in his chamber for a single day “without acquiring some rust.”
Recall Thoreau’s Journals. Their perennial charm lies largely in this,
that he is abroad winter and summer, at seedtime and at harvest, in sun
and rain, making his shrewd observations, finding that upon which his
poetic fancy may play, finding the point of departure for his Excursions
in Philosophy.
AT WHAT SEASON
“The first care of a man settling in the country should be to
open the face of the earth to himself by a little knowledge of
Nature, or a great deal, if he can; of birds, plants, rocks,
astronomy; in short, the art of taking a walk. This will draw
the sting out of frost, dreariness out of November and March,
and the drowsiness out of August.”
--Ralph Waldo Emerson, “Resources.”
_The Daily Walk._ Walking is to be commended, not as a holiday pastime,
merely, but as part of the routine of life, in season and out.
Particularly to city-dwellers, to men whose occupations are sedentary,
is walking to be commended as recreation. Will a man assert himself too
busy?--his neighbor plays a game of golf a week; he himself, perhaps, if
he will admit it, is giving half a day a week to some pastime--may be a
less wholesome one.
It is worth a man’s while to reckon on his walking every day in the week.
It may well be to his advantage, in health and happiness, to extend
his daily routine afoot--perhaps by dispensing with the services of a
“jitney” from the suburban station to his residence, perhaps by leaving
the train or street car a station farther from home, perhaps by walking
down town to his office each morning.
_The Weekly Walk._ The environs of one’s home can scarcely be
too forbidding. A range of ten miles out from Concord village
satisfied Thoreau throughout life. Grant the surroundings of Concord
exceptional--Thoreau’s demands were exceptional. Those who will turn
these pages will be for the most part city folk; the resident of any
of our cities may, with the aid of trolley, railway, and steamboat,
discover for himself a dozen ten-mile walks in its environs--many of
them converging to his home, some macadam paved and so available even in
the muddy season, and any one of them possible on a Saturday or a Sunday
afternoon.
What could a pedestrian ask more? A three-hour walk of a Saturday
afternoon--exploring, perhaps, some region of humble historic interest,
studying outcroppings of coal or limestone, making new acquaintance with
birds, bees, and flowers, and enjoying always the wide sky, the sweep of
the river, the blue horizon. No other recreation is comparable to this.
It is pleasurable to walk in fair, mild weather; but there is pleasure
on gray, cold, rainy days, too. To exert the body, to pit one’s strength
against the wind’s, to cause the sluggish blood to stream warm against
a nipping cold, to feel the sting of sleet on one’s face--to bring all
one’s being to hearty, healthful activity--by such means one comes to the
end, bringing to his refreshment gusto, to his repose contentment.
The consistent pedestrian will score to his credit, every week throughout
the year, ten miles of vigorous, sustained tramping. Five hundred miles
a year makes an impressive showing, and is efficacious: it goes far to
“slam the door in the doctor’s nose.”
_The Walking Tour._ Apart from, or, better, in addition to the perennial
weekly walking about one’s home, there is the occasional walking tour: a
two or three-day hike, over Labor Day, perhaps, or Washington’s Birthday;
and then there is the longer vacation tour of two or three weeks’
duration.
With important exceptions, we, in our northern latitudes, arrange our
walking tours in summer time. And, so far as concerns the exceptions, it
will here suffice to remind ourselves of mountain climbing on snowshoes
in winter, of ski-running and skating, and of the winter carnivals of
sport held in the Adirondacks, in the Alps, and in the Rocky Mountains.
In our southern states, however, no disadvantage attaches to winter; to
the contrary, over a great part of that region, winter is the pleasanter
season for the pedestrian. But summer is the season of vacations, and is,
generally speaking, the time of good roads, fair skies, and gentle air.
Then one can walk with greatest ease and freedom.
The choice of the particular fortnight for the “big hike” may be governed
by all sorts of considerations; if the expedition be ornithological,
and there is free choice, it will be taken in May or June, or perhaps
in September; if to climb Mt. Ktaadn, it will preferably be in August.
Again, one’s employer may, for his own reasons, fix the time. It is well,
therefore, to formulate general statements, helpful in making choice of
place, when once the season has been fixed.
In early summer, from the time the snow melts till mid July, the north
woods are infested with buzzing, stinging, torturing mosquitoes; to
induce one to brave these pests, large countervailing inducements must
needs appear. Mountaineering in temperate latitudes is less advisable
in the early summer than later; there is more rain then, and nights
are cold, and, in the high mountains, soft snow is often an impedance.
Throughout much of our country, June is a rainy month. In May and June,
accordingly, and early July, one should by preference plan his walk in
open settled country, in the foothills of mountain ranges, or across such
pleasant regions as central New York or Wisconsin.
Late July, August and September are, for the most part, hot and dusty. At
that season, accordingly, the great river basins and wide plains should
be avoided; one should choose rather the north woods, the mountains, or
the New England coast.
For the pedestrian September in the mountains and October everywhere are
the crown of the year; the fires of summer are then burning low, storms
are infrequent, the nip in the air stirs one to eagerness for the wide
sky and the open road.
“The world has nothing to offer more rich and entertaining
than the days which October always brings us, when after the
first frosts, a steady shower of gold falls in the strong south
wind from the chestnuts, maples and hickories: all the trees
are wind-harps, filling the air with music; and all men become
poets, and walk to the measure of rhymes they make or remember.”
--Ralph Waldo Emerson, “Country Life.”
If one is so fortunate as to have his holiday abroad, he will find the
Italian hills or the Riviera delightful either in early spring or in
late autumn; he will find the Alps at their best in midsummer; and, at
intermediate seasons, there remain the Black Forest and the regions of
the Seine, the Rhine, and the Elbe. As for Scotland and Ireland, no one
has ventured to say when the rains are fewest.
THE HOURS OF THE DAY
“Can you hear what the morning says to you, and believe _that_?
Can you bring home the summits of Wachusett, Greylock, and the
New Hampshire hills?”
--Ralph Waldo Emerson, “Country Life.”
It is well, and altogether pleasantest, on the hike, to be under way
early in the morning; and sometimes--particularly if the day’s march
be short--to finish all, without prolonged stop. Ordinarily, it is
preferable to walk till eleven or twelve o’clock, then to rest, wash
clothing, have lunch, read, sleep, and, setting out again in the middle
of the afternoon, to complete the day’s stage by five or six o’clock.
Afterward come bath, clean clothes, the evening meal, rest, and an early
bed.
But one’s schedule should not be inflexible; one should have acquaintance
with the dawn, he should know the voices of the night. One forgets how
many stars there are, till he finds himself abroad at night in clear
mountain air. An all-night walk is a wonderful experience, particularly
under a full moon; and, in intensely hot weather, a plan to walk by night
may be a very grateful arrangement.
Dr. John H. Finley, of the University of the State of New York, writes in
the _Outlook_[3] reminiscently of walking by night:
“But the walks which I most enjoy, in retrospect at any rate,
are those taken at night. Then one makes one’s own landscape
with only the help of the moon or stars or the distant lights
of a city, or with one’s unaided imagination if the sky is
filled with cloud.
“The next better thing to the democracy of a road by day is the
monarchy of a road by night, when one has one’s own terrestrial
way under guidance of a Providence that is nearer. It was in
the ‘cool of the day’ that the Almighty is pictured as walking
in the garden, but I have most often met him on the road by
night.
“Several times I have walked down Staten Island and across
New Jersey to Princeton ‘after dark,’ the destination being
a particularly attractive feature of this walk. But I enjoy
also the journeys that are made in strange places where one
knows neither the way nor the destination, except from a map
or the advice of signboard or kilometer posts (which one reads
by the flame of a match, or, where that is wanting, sometimes
by following the letters and figures on a post with one’s
fingers), or the information, usually inaccurate, of some other
wayfarer. Most of these journeys have been made of a necessity
that has prevented my making them by day, but I have in every
case been grateful afterward for the necessity. In this
country they have been usually among the mountains--the Green
Mountains or the White Mountains or the Catskills. But of all
my night faring, a night on the moors of Scotland is the most
impressive and memorable, though without incident. No mountain
landscape is to me more awesome than the moorlands by night, or
more alluring than the moorlands by day when the heather is in
bloom. Perhaps this is only the ancestors speaking again.