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
lifelong 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.
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 campfire, 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.
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 headrest 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 boot-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.
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 bedtime. 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 on 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 rainproof 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.
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 waterproofing;
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.
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 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, hardwood 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 sixpenny 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 sixpenny 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.
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 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.
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 stockingleg 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.
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.
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 campfire. 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
campfire.