where a squirrel or a bee can go, he can; and no man is asked
for leave. Sometimes the farmer withstands him in crossing his
lots, but ’tis to no purpose; the farmer could as well hope to
prevent the sparrows or tortoises. It was their land before it
was his, and their title was precedent.”
Stevenson would make the surroundings a matter of small import; the
landscape, he says, is “quite accessory,” and yet, within a page after,
he rallies Hazlitt, and playfully calls him an epicure, because he
postulates “a _winding_ road, and three hours to dinner.”
CHOICE OF SURROUNDINGS
There is the region about home, the region one knows best. For
muddy weather, macadam; but, when they are at all negotiable, then
always country roads by preference. The macadam road is all that is
unpleasant--hard, dry, glaring, straight, monotonous; overrun with
noisy, dusty, evil-smelling machines, with their curious and often
unpleasant occupants. It is bordered, not with trees, as a road should
be, but with telephone poles; a fine coating of lime dust lies like a
death pallor on what hardy vegetation struggles to live along its margin;
it is commercial, business-like, uncompromising, and unlovely. But the
country road belongs to another world--a world apart--and is traveled
by a different people. It, too, has its aim and destination, but it is
deliberate in its course; it neither cuts through the hills nor fills the
valleys, but accommodates itself to the windings of streams and to the
steepness of slopes. It is soft underfoot, shaded by trees; it finds and
follows the mountain brooks; rabbits play upon it, grouse dust themselves
in it, birds sing about it, and berries hang from its banks black and
sweet. The people who live in the country travel upon it; it is instinct
with the life of a hundred years.
If the day be clear, seek the hilltops; if not, the wooded valleys. The
pedestrian learns the by-paths, too, and the short cuts across lots. He
can find the arbutus in its season, the blackberries and the mushrooms
in theirs. Here is a suggestive page from Thoreau’s Journal (August 27,
1854):
“Would it not be well to describe some of those rough all-day
walks across lots?--as that of the 15th, picking our way over
quaking meadows and swamps and occasionally slipping into
the muddy batter midleg deep; jumping or fording ditches
and brooks; forcing our way through dense blueberry swamps,
where there is water beneath and bushes above; then brushing
through extensive birch forests all covered with green lice,
which cover our clothes and face; then, relieved, under larger
wood, more open beneath, steering for some more conspicuous
trunk; now along a rocky hillside where the sweet-fern grows
for a mile, then over a recent cutting, finding our uncertain
footing on the cracking tops and trimmings of trees left by
the choppers; now taking a step or two of smooth walking
across a highway; now through a dense pine wood, descending
into a rank, dry swamp, where the cinnamon fern rises above
your head, with isles of poison-dogwood; now up a scraggy hill
covered with scrub oak, stooping and winding one’s way for
half a mile, tearing one’s clothes in many places and putting
out one’s eyes, and find[ing] at last that it has no bare
brow, but another slope of the same character; now through
a corn-field diagonally with the rows; now coming upon the
hidden melon-patch; seeing the back side of familiar hills
and not knowing them,--the nearest house to home, which you
do not know, seeming further off than the farthest which you
do know;--in the spring defiled with froth on various bushes,
etc., etc., etc.; now reaching on higher land some open
pigeon-place, a breathing-place for us.”
Another page, too, is worth quoting (July 12, 1852):
“Now for another fluvial walk. There is always a current of air
above the water, blowing up or down the course of the river,
so that this is the coolest highway. Divesting yourself of all
clothing but your shirt and hat, which are to protect your
exposed parts from the sun, you are prepared for the fluvial
excursion. You choose what depths you like, tucking your toga
higher or lower, as you take the deep middle of the road or
the shallow sidewalks. Here is a road where no dust was ever
known, no intolerable drouth. Now your feet expand on a smooth
sandy bottom, now contract timidly on pebbles, now slump in
genial fatty mud--greasy, saponaceous--amid the pads. You scare
out whole schools of small breams and perch, and sometimes a
pickerel, which have taken shelter from the sun under the pads.
This river is so clear compared with the South Branch, or main
stream, that all their secrets are betrayed to you. Or you meet
with and interrupt a turtle taking a more leisurely walk up the
stream. Ever and anon you cross some furrow in the sand, made
by a muskrat, leading off to right or left to their galleries
in the bank, and you thrust your foot into the entrance, which
is just below the surface of the water and is strewn with
grass and rushes, of which they make their nests. In shallow
water near the shore, your feet at once detect the presence of
springs in the bank emptying in, by the sudden coldness of the
water, and there, if you are thirsty, you dig a little well in
the sand with your hands, and when you return, after it has
settled and clarified itself, get a draught of pure cold water
there.…
“I wonder if any Roman emperor ever indulged in such luxury as
this,--of walking up and down a river in torrid weather with
only a hat to shade the head. What were the baths of Caracalla
to this?”
It might seem that all the joys of walking are rural; but it is not so;
the city dweller knows as well as his country cousin how to make his
surroundings serve his need. Doctor Finley, veteran pedestrian though he
be, delighting to walk to the ends of the earth, has no word of disdain
for the streets of the city of his home. The following passage is taken
from a paper of his which appeared in the _Outlook_ and from which
quotation has already been made:
“My traveling afoot, for many years, has been chiefly in busy
city streets or in the country roads into which they run--not
far from the day’s work or from the thoroughfares of the
world’s concerns.
“Of such journeys on foot which I recall with greatest pleasure
are some that I have made in the encircling of cities. More
than once I have walked around Manhattan Island (an afternoon’s
or a day’s adventure within the reach of thousands), keeping
as close as possible to the water’s edge all the way round.
One not only passes through physical conditions illustrating
the various stages of municipal development from the wild
forest at one end of the island to the most thickly populated
spots of the earth at the other, but one also passes through
diverse cities and civilizations. Another journey of this
sort was one that I made around Paris, taking the line of the
old fortifications, which are still maintained, with a zone
following the fortifications most of the way just outside,
inhabited only by squatters, some of whose houses were on
wheels ready for ‘mobilization’ at an hour’s notice. (It was
near the end of that circumvallating journey, about sunset,
on the last day of an old year, that I saw my first airplane
rising like a great golden bird in the aviation field, and a
few minutes later my first elongated dirigible--precursors of
the air armies.)…
“About every city lies an environing charm, even if it have no
trees, as, for example, Cheyenne, Wyoming, where, stopping for
a few hours not long ago, I spent most of the time walking out
to the encircling mesas that give view of both mountains and
city. I have never found a city without its walkers’ rewards.
New York has its Palisade paths, its Westchester hills and
hollows, its ‘south shore’ and ‘north shore,’ and its Staten
Island (which I have often thought of as Atlantis, for once
on a holiday I took Plato with me to spend an afternoon on
its littoral, away from the noise of the city, and on my way
home found that my Plato had stayed behind, and he never
reappeared, though I searched car and boat). Chicago has its
miles of lake shore walks; Albany its Helderbergs; and San
Francisco, its Golden Gate Road. And I recall with a pleasure
which the war cannot take away a number of suburban European
walks. One was across the Campagna from Frascati to Rome, when
I saw an Easter week sun go down behind the Eternal City.
Another was out to Fiesole from Florence and back again;
another, out and up from where the Saone joins the Rhone
at Lyons; another, from Montesquieu’s château to Bordeaux;
another, from Edinburgh out to Arthur’s Seat and beyond;
another from Lausanne to Geneva, past Paderewski’s villa,
along the glistening lake with its background of Alps; and
still another, from Eton (where I spent the night in a cubicle
looking out on Windsor Castle) to London, starting at dawn. One
cannot know the intimate charm of the urban penumbra who makes
only shuttle journeys by motor or street cars.”
NATURE OF COUNTRY
When it comes to the matter of choosing the region for a walking
tour, all sorts of considerations enter in. This has been indicated
already; your naturalist will fix upon some happy hunting ground where
flowers or birds are abundant, or fossil trilobites or dinosaurs are
to be discovered; the fisherman will seek out the mountain brooks; the
antiquarian, some remote rural region, perhaps, or scene of battle; the
genealogist will visit the graves of his ancestors. But, leaving for the
moment such special and individual considerations out of account, what
should influence the average pedestrian in his choice of locality?
The choice of locality with relation to season has already been
considered, page 43 above.
The choice will not fall upon a flat, undiversified region, particularly
if the season be hot and the roads much traveled and dusty. Emerson, in a
passage extolling the pedestrian advantages of his native Massachusetts,
observes:
“For walking, you must have a broken country. In Illinois,
everybody rides. There is no good walk in that state. The
reason is, a square yard of it is as good as a hundred miles.
You can distinguish from the cows a horse feeding, at the
distance of five miles, with the naked eye. Hence, you have the
monotony of Holland, and when you step out of the door can see
all that you will have seen when you come home.”
Having said so much, Emerson adds, in order to put the Illinoian in good
humor again:
“We may well enumerate what compensating advantages we have
over that country, for ’tis a commonplace, which I have
frequently heard spoken in Illinois, that it was a manifest
leading of the Divine Providence that the New England states
should have been first settled, before the Western country was
known, or they would never have been settled at all.”
In Oklahoma, they say, one can look farther and see less than anywhere
else in the world.
The pedestrian seeks wide horizons, but he seeks more than that. The only
classical walk which the writer now recalls, taken in a level region,
was Thoreau’s tour along the beaches of Cape Cod; but there was the
sea--itself an unending delight and stimulus to imagination--and the sand
dunes, with all the beauties of mountain form in miniature.
There are, of course, the great recreation grounds of the world: the
Swiss Alps, the Tyrol, and in our own country the Glacier National Park,
the Yellowstone, and the Yosemite. Such a place is the pedestrian’s
paradise. But such a place is, for most of us, far away; ordinarily, the
requirement is of something humbler.
Let the choice then be broken country. There is all of New England, the
Adirondacks, the Appalachian region, the Ozarks, and the great mountain
lands of the West. Some fringe of one or another of these regions is
accessible to almost any holiday seeker. In addition to the mountainous
areas, there are the drumlins and lakes of our glaciated northern
states--New York, Michigan, Wisconsin; and, excepting only the prairies,
there is diversity of rolling hills and winding streams everywhere.
THE GOAL AND THE ROAD
It is well to have an objective in a walk, a focus of interest, a climax
of effort: a historical objective--the grave of Washington, perhaps, or
the battlefield of Israel Putnam; or a natural objective--the summit of
Mt. Marcy, or Lake Tahoe, or the Mammoth Cave.
Do not, however, set out from the point of chief interest; let there be
a gradual approach; if possible, let the hardest work come near the end;
let the highest mountain be the last.
Search out objects of interest within five hundred miles of home,
choose one of them as the goal--be it mountain, trout stream, or Indian
mound--and let the way lead to it.
On long tours, seek variety--variety of woods, rivers, mountains. Do not,
by choice, go and return over the same road, nor even through the same
region. Better walk one way and go by train the other.
In crossing mountain ranges, ascend the gradual slope and descend the
steep. (On precipices, however, there is less danger in climbing up than
down.)
Walk from south to north, by preference; it is always best to have the
sun at one’s back.
Avoid macadam roads--except when country roads are muddy, or on a night
walk. By night smooth footing is especially advantageous. Macadam is
wearing to both body and mind--and sole leather; immediately after rain
it is tolerable. Avoid highways, seek byways. Leave even the byways at
times, and travel across country.
MAPS
On map making, see page 111.
A map is useful, and, on an extended tour, almost necessary. Topographic
maps, showing towns and roads also, of a large part of the United States
are published by the United States Geological Survey. Better maps could
not be desired. Different regions are mapped to different scale, but, for
the greater part, each map or “quadrangle” covers an area measuring 15′
in extent each way; the scale is 1:62,500, or about a mile to an inch.
Each quadrangle measures approximately 12¾ × 17½ inches and displays an
area of 210-225 square miles, the area varying with the latitude. To
traverse one quadrangle from south to north means, if the country be
hilly and the roads winding, to walk twenty miles or more.
On these maps water is printed in blue, contour lines in brown, and
cultural features--roads, towns, county lines--in black. A contour line
is a line which follows the surface at a fixed altitude; one who follows
a contour line will go neither uphill nor down, but on the level. The
contour interval, that is, the difference in elevation between adjacent
contour lines, is stated at the bottom of each quadrangle. It is not
uniform for all the areas mapped, and is greater in mountains and less in
level regions. Every fourth or fifth contour line is made heavier than
the others.
A little experience will teach one to read a contour map at a glance; the
shape of the hills is indicated, and their steepness. In addition, these
maps bear in figures (and in feet) actual elevations above sea level.
Besides the quadrangles on the unit of area mentioned, the Survey
publishes maps to larger scale, of regions of exceptional importance:
Boston and vicinity, for instance; Washington and vicinity; the
Gettysburg battlefield; the Niagara gorge; Glacier National Park;
industrial regions such as Franklin Furnace, N. J., and vicinity.
Application may be made to The Director, United States Geological Survey,
Washington, D. C., for an index map of any particular region in which one
is interested; the index map is marked off into quadrangles, and each
quadrangle bears its distinctive name. Information regarding larger maps
is also given. So that, on consulting the index map, one may order by
name the particular quadrangles or larger maps he may desire. The price
of the quadrangles is ten cents each, or six cents each for fifty or
more. The larger maps units are of varying price.
For remoter regions, not yet mapped by Government, ruder maps may
ordinarily be had.
Such foreign regions as the Alps are, of course, perfectly mapped. The
maps in Baedeker’s guidebooks are good, and better still may be had, if
one desires.
It is a good plan to have the maps of one’s home region mounted on linen
and shellaced.
_Map case._ Maps of small size and constantly in use may be put in form
for carrying by cutting them into sections and mounting them on linen,
with spaces for folding left between the edges of adjacent sections.
A map so mounted may be folded and carried in an oiled silk envelope.
Leather is not a satisfactory material for such a case, for, when carried
in one’s clothing, it becomes wet through with perspiration.
For a walk on which one has occasion to use a number of maps, it is
preferable to provide oneself with a cylindrical case of sheet tin,
in which the rolled maps may be contained. A suitable case for the
Geological Survey quadrangles measures eighteen inches in length and
two in diameter. A close-fitting lid slips over the open end, and there
are runners soldered to one side, through which a supporting strap may
pass. A small hole in the bottom facilitates the putting on and removal
of the lid. Any tinsmith can make such a case in a short time. It should
be painted outside. It may be suspended by a strap from the shoulders,
and so be easily accessible, or it may, if preferred, be secured to or
carried within the knapsack.
WALKING BY COMPASS
Where roads are many and villages frequent, one may easily find his way,
map in hand. But in the wilderness the map must be supplemented by the
compass. The beginner should go gradually about this matter of traveling
by compass; he should gain experience in small undertakings. For one
acquainted with the art, there is in its practice an alluring element of
novelty and adventure. Most of all, one needs to teach himself to rely on
his compass _implicitly_.
A few suggestions about walking by compass may be useful. _First_, study
the map, and note the objective points; _second_, on setting out, have
always a definite point in mind and know its exact bearing; refer to the
compass repeatedly, directing one’s course to a tree, rock shoulder,
or other landmark, and on reaching it, appeal to the compass again, to
define a new mark; _third_, in making detours, around bogs or cliffs, use
the wits, and make proper compensation; _finally_, and as has once been
said, but cannot be too often said, trust the compass.
From a mountain top, if the destination can be seen, one may study the
contour of the land between and, engraving it surely in mind, direct his
course accordingly. But ability to do this is gained only through long
experience. For a novice to attempt it were foolhardy, and might lead to
serious consequences.
In making mental note of landmarks, one should, so far as possible, get
_two aligned points_ on the course ahead, for by keeping the alignment
deviation may be corrected.
On a clear day, having laid one’s course, one may follow it by the
guidance of one’s shadow. But here again, some experience is needed,
before trusting one’s ability too far.
One’s watch may serve as a rude compass, remembering that at sunrise
(approximately in the east and approximately at six o’clock) _the watch
being set to sun time_, if the watch be so placed that the hour hand
points to the sun, the north and south line will lie across the dial,
from the three o’clock index number to nine. And at any succeeding time
of the day, if the hour hand be pointed to the sun, south will lie midway
between the point where the hour hand lies and the index number twelve.
Manifestly, this improvised compass can be exactly right only at equinox,
and only when the watch is set to meridian time.
WALKING CLUBS IN AMERICA
UPHILL
Does the road wind uphill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.
Will the day’s journey take the whole long day?
From morn to night, my friend.
But is there for the night a resting-place?
A roof for when the slow, dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
You cannot miss that inn.
Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
Those who have gone before.
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
They will not keep you waiting at that door.
Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
Of labor you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
Yea, beds for all who come.
Christina G. Rossetti.
IV
WALKING CLUBS IN AMERICA
The walking clubs of Europe have had a long and useful history. The
favored regions, particularly the Alps, the Bavarian highlands, and the
Black Forest, have, time out of mind, been the holiday land for all the
European peoples. Walking there is in vogue as nowhere else in the world,
unless it be among the English lakes. Before the war it was interesting
to an American visitor in the Tyrol to observe how many people spent
their holidays afoot--and how many sorts of people: men, women, old,
young. Sometimes one met whole families walking together. It was not a
surprising thing to encounter a fresh-cheeked schoolgirl on the peak of
the Wildspitze; and pedestrian bridal tours seemed to be, in some strata
of society at least, quite the thing. But the impressive fact was that
there were hundreds of people--men, women, and children--tramping the
mountains together, and finding the inseparable desiderata, health and
happiness.
This enthusiasm for walking has expressed itself in walking clubs; they
are part of the “Movement”: The Alpine Club, _Le Club Alpin Français_,
_Il Club Alpino Italiano_, _Die Deutsche und Oesterreiche Alpenverein_,
_Der Schweize Alpenclub_, etc. These clubs lay trails and blaze them,
through chasms, across passes, and to summits. (It is the pedestrian
alone to whom the mountains reveal their extremest beauties.) The clubs
maintain, at comfortable intervals, mountain huts, where one may find
simple food and a clean bed; and they prepare and publish maps and
guidebooks.
We are followers of the Europeans, and we have this advantage of
followers, that we may see and profit by all that they have done.
Already there are many walking clubs in America; their memberships
are greatest, as might be expected, in New England and on the Pacific
Coast. Some of these organizations are concerned chiefly with feats of
mountaineering; others with the needs of the greater number of ordinary
people. It is of the clubs of this latter class that some account will
here be given. But at the outset a word of apology is needed. The
data from which this chapter is prepared are in the necessity of the
case casually collected; it cannot be otherwise than that they are
fragmentary; and the result must be faulty and ill proportioned. The
chapter is offered as a provisional one. Organizations not mentioned, but
which might have had place with those which are, are requested to furnish
data respecting themselves; all interested are invited to note mistakes
and give advice of corrections, to the end that a more useful and more
nearly satisfactory chapter may ultimately appear. Communications may be
addressed to the League of Walkers, 347 Madison Avenue, New York.
THE APPALACHIAN MOUNTAIN CLUB
One of the oldest and the most distinguished of the walking clubs of
America, is the Appalachian Mountain Club, of Boston, with its two
outlying “chapters,” in New York, and in Worcester, Mass. Following is
the official statement of the Club’s objects and activities.
“The Appalachian Mountain Club was organized in Boston in
January, 1876, to ‘explore the mountains of New England
and the adjacent regions, both for scientific and artistic
purposes.’ Its activities are directed not only toward
the preservation of the natural beauty of our mountain
resorts,--and in particular their forests,--but also toward
making them still more accessible and enjoyable through
the building of paths and camps, the publishing of maps
and guidebooks, the collecting of scientific data, and the
conducting of numerous field excursions.