Since the life of the Indian is one of travel and exploration, not for
the benefit of science, but for his own convenience and pleasure, he is
accustomed to find himself in pathless regions--now in the deep woods,
now upon the vast, shimmering prairie, or again among the tangled
water-ways of a mighty lake studded with hundreds, even thousands, of
wooded islands.
How does he find his way so successfully in the pathless jungle without
the aid of a compass? you ask. Well, it is no secret. In the first
place, his vision is correct; and he is not merely conscious of what he
sees, but also sub-consciously he observes the presence of any and all
things within the range of his senses.
If you would learn his system, you must note the relative position of
all objects, and especially the location of your camp in relation to
river, lake, or mountain. The Indian is a close student of the
topography of the country, and every landmark--hill, grove, or unusual
tree--is noted and remembered. It is customary with the hunters and
warriors to tell their stories of adventure most minutely, omitting no
geographical and topographical details, so that the boy who has listened
to such stories from babyhood can readily identify places he has never
before seen.
This kind of knowledge is simple, and, like the every-day meal, it is
properly digested and assimilated, and becomes a part of one's self. It
is this instant, intelligent recognition of every object within his
vision in his daily roving, which fixes the primitive woodsman's
reckoning of time, distance, and direction.
Time is measured simply by the height of the sun. Shadow is the wild
man's dial; his own shadow is best. Hunger is a good guide when the sun
is behind the clouds. Again, the distance traveled is an indicator, when
one travels over known distances. In other words, he keeps his soul at
one with the world about him, while the over-civilized man is trained to
depend upon artificial means. He winds his watch, pins his thought to a
chronometer, and disconnects himself from the world-current; then starts
off on the well-beaten road. If he is compelled to cut across, he calls
for a guide; in other words, he borrows or buys the mind of another.
Neither can he trust his memory, but must needs have a notebook!
The wild man has no chronometer, no yardstick, no unit of weight, no
field-glass. He is himself a natural being in touch with nature. Some
things he does, he scarcely knows why; certainly he could not explain
them. His calculations are swift as a flash of lightning; best of all,
they come out right! This may seem incredible to one who is born an old
man; but there are still some boys who hark back to their
great-great-grandfathers; they were not born and nursed within six
walls!
The colors of tree, grass, and rock tell the points of the compass to
the initiated. On the north side, the bark is of a darker color,
smoother, and more solid looking; while on the southern exposure it is
of a lighter hue, because of more sunshine, and rougher, because it has
not been polished off by the heavy beating of snow and rain in the cold
season. An Indian will pass his hand over the trunk of a tree in the
dark and tell you which way is north; some will tell you the kind of
tree, also.
The branches of the tree tell the same story; on the south side they
grow thicker and longer, while the leaves lie more horizontal on the
sunny side, and more vertical on the north. Again, the dry leaves on the
ground corroborate them; on the north side of the trees the leaves are
well-packed and overlay each other almost like shingles. The color and
thickness of the moss on rock or tree also tells the secret.
But I must leave some things for you to discover; and I advise you to
select a rock or tree that is well exposed to the elements for a first
attempt. Of course, in well-protected localities, these distinctions are
not so marked, but even there are discernible to a trained eye.
If you ever lose your way in the woods, do not allow yourself to become
unnerved. Never "give up." Fear drowns more people than water, and is a
more dangerous enemy than the wilderness. A normal man, with some
knowledge of out-of-doors, can without much effort keep in touch with
his starting-point, and, however tortuously he may rove, he will pick
the shortest way back. Know exactly where you are before starting, in
relation to the natural landmarks, and at every halt locate yourself as
nearly as possible. Measure your shadow (it varies according to the
season), and scatter dry earth, leaves, or grass, to learn the direction
of the wind. The watershed is another important point to bear in mind.
On a clear night, look for the well-known stars, such as the "Great
Dipper," which lies to the north in summer, the handle pointing west.
The "Milky Way" lies north and south. Once you locate the camp, you may
be guided by these or by the wind in night travel.
The Indian, as an out-of-door man, early learns the necessity of a
weather bureau of his own. He develops it after the fashion of another
system of precaution; that is, he takes note of the danger-signals of
the animals, those unconscious criers of the wilderness, both upon water
and land. These have definite signals for an approaching change in the
weather. For instance, the wolf tribes give the "storm call" on the
evening before. This call is different in tone from any other and
clearly identified by us. Horses kick and stamp, and the buffalo herds
low nervously. Certain water-fowl display a strange agitation which they
do not show under any other circumstances. Antelopes seek shallow lakes
before a thunder-shower and stand in the water--the Indians say because
lightning does not strike in the water. Even dogs howl and make
preparations to hide their young. Ducks have their signal call; but the
chief weather prophet of the lakes is the loon, as the gray wolf or
coyote is of the prairie.
Certain leaves and grass-blades contract or expand at the approach of
storm, and even their color is affected, while the wind in the leaves
has a different sound. The waves on the beach whisper of the change, and
we also observe the "ring" around the sun, and the opacity and disk of
the moon. The lone hunter may be left with only the open prairie and the
dome of heaven; but he still has his grass-blades, his morning and
evening skies. Sometimes the little prairie birds give him the signal;
or, if not, he may fall back upon his old wounds, that begin to ache and
swell with the change of atmosphere.