Camp Cookery--How It Is Usually Done, With A Few Simple Hints On Plain
Cooking--Cooking Fire And Outdoor Range
THE way in which an average party of summer outers will contrive to
manage--or mismanage--the camp and campfire so as to get the greatest
amount of smoke and discontent at the least outlay of time and force,
is something past all understanding and somewhat aggravating to an old
woodsman who knows some better. But it is just as good fun as the
cynical O.W. can ask, to see a party of three or four enthusiastic
youngsters organize the camp on the first day in, and proceed to cook
the first meal. Of course, every man is boss, and every one is bound to
build the fire, which every one proceeds to do. There are no back logs,
no fore sticks, and no arrangement for level solid bases on which to
place frying pans, coffee pots, etc. But, there is a sufficiency of
knots, dry sticks, bark and chunks, with some kindling at the bottom,
and a heavy volume of smoke working its way through the awkward-looking
pile. Presently thin tongues of blue flame begin to shoot up through
the interstices, and four brand new coffee pots are wriggled into level
positions at as many different points on the bonfire. Four hungry
youngsters commence slicing ham and pork, four frying pans are brought
out from as many hinged and lidded soap boxes--when one man yells out
hurriedly, "Look out, Joe, there's your coffee pot handle coming off."
And he drops his frying pan to save his coffee pot, which he does,
minus the spout and handle. Then it is seen that the flames have
increased rapidly, and all the pots are in danger. A short, sharp
skirmish rescues them, at the expense of some burned fingers, and
culinary operations are the order of the hour.
Coffee and tea are brewed with the loss of a handle or two, and the
frying pans succeed in scorching the pork and ham to an unwholesome
black mess. The potato kettle does better. It is not easy to spoil
potatoes by cooking them in plenty of boiling water; and, as there is
plenty of bread with fresh butter, not to mention canned goods, the
hungry party feed sufficiently, but not satisfactorily. Everything
seems pervaded with smoke. The meat is scorched bitter, and the tea is
of the sort described by Charles Dudley Warner, in his humorous
description of "camping out": "The sort of tea that takes hold, lifts
the hair, and disposes the drinker to hilariousness. There is no
deception about it, it tastes of tannin, and spruce, and creosote." Of
the cooking he says: "Everything has been cooked in a tin pail and a
skillet--potatoes, tea, pork, mutton, slapjacks. You wonder how
everything would have been prepared in so few utensils. When you eat,
the wonder ceases, everything might have been cooked in one pail. It is
a noble meal...The slapjacks are a solid job of work, made to last, and
not go to pieces in a person's stomach like a trivial bun."
I have before me a copy of Forest and Stream, in which the canoe
editor, under the heading of "The Galley Fire," has some remarks well
worth quoting. He says: "The question of camp cookery is one of the
greatest importance to all readers of Forest and Stream, but most of
all to the canoeists. From ignorance of what to carry the canoeist
falls back on canned goods, never healthy as a steady diet, Brunswick
soup and eggs...The misery of that first campfire, who has forgotten
it? Tired, hungry, perhaps cold and wet, the smoke everywhere, the
coffee pot melted down, the can of soup upset in the fire, the fiendish
conduct of frying pan and kettle, the final surrender of the exhausted
victim, sliding off to sleep with a piece of hardtack in one hand and a
slice of canned beef in the other, only to dream of mother's hot
biscuits, juicy steaks, etc., etc." It is very well put, and so true to
the life. And again: "Frying, baking, making coffee, stews, plain
biscuits, the neat and speedy preparation of a healthy 'square meal'
can be easily learned." Aye, and should be learned by every man who
goes to the woods with or without a canoe.
But I was describing a first day's camping out, the party being four
young men and one old woodsman, the latter going along in a double
character of invited guest and amateur guide. When the boys are through
with their late dinner, they hustle the greasy frying pans and
demoralized tinware into a corner of the shanty, and get out their rods
for an evening's fishing. They do it hurriedly, almost feverishly, as
youngsters are apt to do at the start. The O.W. has taken no part in
the dinner, and has said nothing save in response to direct questions,
nor has he done anything to keep up his reputation as a woodsman,
except to see that the shelter roof is properly put up and fastened.
Having seen to this, he reverts to his favorite pastime, sitting on a
log and smoking navy plug. Long experience has taught him that it is
best to let the boys effervesce a little. They will slop over a trifle
at first, but twenty-four hours will settle them. When they are fairly
out of hearing, he takes the old knapsack from the clipped limb where
it has been hung, cuts a slice of ham, butters a slice of bread,
spreads the live coals and embers, makes a pot of strong green tea,
broils the ham on a three-pronged birch fork, and has a clean, well
cooked plain dinner. Then he takes the sharp three-pound camp axe, and
fells a dozen small birch and ash trees, cutting them into proper
lengths and leaving them for the boys to tote into camp. Next, a bushy,
heavy-topped hemlock is felled, and the O.W. proceeds leisurely to pick
a heap of fine hemlock browse. A few handfuls suffice to stuff the
muslin pillow bag, and the rest is carefully spread on the port side of
the shanty for a bed. The pillow is placed at the head, and the old
Mackinac blanket-bag is spread neatly over all, as a token of ownership
and possession. If the youngsters want beds of fine, elastic browse,
let 'em make their own beds.
No campfire should be without poker and tongs. The poker is a beech
stick four feet long by two inches thick, flattened at one end, with a
notch cut in it for lifting kettles, etc. To make the tongs, take a
tough beech or hickory stick, one inch thick by two feet in length,
shave it down nearly one-half for a foot in the center, thrust this
part into hot embers until it bends freely, bring the ends together and
whittle them smoothly to a fit on the inside, cross checking them also
to give them a grip; finish off by chamfering the ends neatly from the
outside. They will be found exceedingly handy in rescuing a bit of
tinware, a slice of steak or ham, or any small article that happens to
get dropped in a hot fire.
And don't neglect the camp broom. It is made by laying bushy hemlock
twigs around a light handle, winding them firmly with strong twine or
moose wood bark, and chopping off the ends of the twigs evenly. It can
be made in ten minutes. Use it to brush any leaves, sticks, and any
litter from about the camp or fire. Neatness is quite as pleasant and
wholesome around the forest camp as in the home kitchen. These little
details may seem trivial to the reader. But remember, if there is a
spot on earth where trifles make up the sum of human enjoyment, it is
to be found in a woodland camp. All of which the O.W. fully
appreciates, as he finishes the above little jobs; after which he
proceeds to spread the fire to a broad level bed of glowing embers,
nearly covering the same with small pieces of hemlock bark, that the
boys may have a decent cooking fire on their return.
About sundown they come straggling in, not jubilant and hilarious,
footsore rather and a little cross. The effervescence is subsiding, and
the noise is pretty well knocked out of them. They have caught and
dressed some three score of small brook trout, which they deposit
beside the shanty, and proceed at once to move on the fire, with
evident intent of raising a conflagration, but are checked by the O.W.,
who calls their attention to the fact that for all culinary purposes,
the fire is about as near the right thing as they are likely to get it.
Better defer the bonfire until after supper. Listening to the voice of
enlightened woodcraft, they manage to fry trout and make tea without
scorch or creosote, and the supper is a decided improvement on the
dinner. But the dishes are piled away as before, without washing.
Then follows an hour of busy work, bringing wood to camp and packing
browse. The wood is sufficient; but the browse is picked, or cut, all
too coarse, and there is only enough of it to make the camp look green
and pleasant--not enough to rest weary shoulders and backs. But, they
are sound on the bonfire. They pile on the wood in the usual way,
criss-cross and haphazard. It makes a grand fire, and lights up the
forest for fifty yards around, and the tired youngsters turn in. Having
the advantage of driving a team to the camping ground, they are well
supplied with blankets and robes. They ought to sleep soundly, but they
don't. The usual drawbacks of a first night in camp are soon manifested
in uneasy twistings and turnings, grumbling at stubs, nots, and sticks,
that utterly ignore conformity with the angles of the human frame. But
at last, tired nature asserts her supremacy, and they sleep. Sleep
soundly, for a couple of hours; when the bonfire, having reached the
point of disintegration, suddenly collapses with a sputtering and
crackling that brings them to their head's antipodes, and four dazed,
sleepy faces look out with a bewildered air, to see what has caused the
rumpus. All take a hand in putting the brands together and rearranging
the fire, which burns better than at first; some sleepy talk, one or
two feeble attempts at a smoke, and they turn in again. But, there is
not an hour during the remainder of the night in which some one is not
pottering about the fire.
The O.W., who has abided by his blanket-bag all night quietly taking
in the fun--rouses out the party at 4 A.M. For two of them are to fish
Asaph Run with bait, and the other two are to try the riffles of Marsh
Creek with the fly. As the wood is all burned to cinders and glowing
coals, there is no chance for a smoky fire; and, substituting coffee
for tea, the breakfast is a repetition of the supper.
By sunrise the boys are off, and the O.W. has the camp to himself. He
takes it leisurely, gets up a neat breakfast of trout, bread, butter,
and coffee, cleans and puts away his dishes, has a smoke, and picks up
the camp axe. Selecting a bushy hemlock fifteen inches across, he lets
it down in as many minutes, trims it to the very tip, piles the limbs
in a heap, and cuts three lengths of six feet each from the butt. This
insures browse and back logs for some time ahead. Two strong stakes are
cut and sharpened.
Four small logs, two of eight and two of nine feet in length, are
prepared, plenty of night wood is made ready, a supply of bright, dry
hemlock bark is carried to camp, and the O.W. rests from his labors,
resuming his favorite pastime of sitting on a log and smoking navy plug.
Finally it occurs to him that he is there partly as guide and mentor
to the younger men, and that they need a lesson on cleanliness. He
brings out the frying pans and finds a filthy looking mess of grease in
each one, wherein ants, flies, and other insects have contrived to get
mixed. Does he heat some water, and clean and scour the pans? Not if he
knows himself. If he did it once he might keep on doing it. He is
cautious about establishing precedents, and he has a taste for
entomology. He places the pans in the sun where the grease will soften
and goes skirmishing for ants and doodle bugs. They are not far to
seek, and he soon has a score of large black ants, with a few bugs and
spiders, pretty equally distributed among the frying pans. To give
the thing a plausible look a few flies are added, and the two largest
pans are finished off, one with a large earwig, the other with a
thousand-legged worm. The pans are replaced in the shanty, the embers
are leveled and nearly covered with bits of dry hemlock bark, and the
O.W. resumes his pipe and log.
With such a face of Christian satisfaction, as good men wear, who have
done a virtuous action.
Before noon the boys are all in, and as the catch is twice as numerous
and twice as large as on the previous evening, and as the weather is
all that could be asked of the longest days in June, they are in
excellent spirits. The boxes are brought out, pork is sliced, a can of
Indian meal comes to the front, and they go for the frying pans.
"Holy Moses! Look here. Just see the ants and bugs."
Second Man.--"Well, I should say! I can see your ants and bugs, and go
you an earwig better."
Third Man (inverting his pan spitefully over the fire).--"Damn 'em.
I'll roast the beggars."
Bush D. (who is something of a cook and woodsman) "Boys, I'll take the
pot. I've got a thousand-legged worm at the head of a pismire flush,
and it serves us right, for a lot of slovens. Dishes should be cleaned
as often as they are used. Now let's scour our pans and commence right."
Hot water, ashes, and soap soon restore the pans to pristine
brightness; three frying pans are filled with trout well rolled in
meal; a fourth is used for cooking a can of tomatoes; the coffee is
strong, and everything comes out without being smoked or scorched. The
trout are browned to a turn, and even the O.W. admits that the dinner
is a success. When it is over and the dishes are cleaned and put away,
and the camp slicked up, there comes the usual two hours of lounging,
smoking, and story telling, so dear to the hearts of those who love to
go a-fishing and camping. At length there is a lull in the
conversation, and Bush D. turns to the old woodsman with, "I thought,
Uncle Mart, you were going to show us fellows such a lot of kinks about
camping out, campfires, cooking, and all that sort of thing, isn't it
about time to begin? Strikes me you have spent most of the last
twenty-four hours holding down that log." "Except cutting some night
wood and tending the fire," adds number two.
The old woodsman, who has been rather silent up to this time, knocks
the ashes leisurely from his pipe, and gets on his feet for a few
remarks. He says, "Boys, a bumblebee is biggest when it's first born.
You've learned more than you think in the last twenty-four hours."
"Well, as how? Explain yourself," says Bush D.
O.W.--"In the first place, you have learned better than to stick your
cooking-kit into a tumbled down heap of knots, mulch and wet bark, only
to upset and melt down the pots, and scorch or smoke everything in the
pans, until a starving hound wouldn't eat the mess. And you have found
that it doesn't take a log heap to boil a pot of coffee or fry a pan of
trout. Also, that a level bed of live coals makes an excellent cooking
fire, though I will show you a better. Yesterday you cooked the worst
meal I ever saw in the woods. Today you get up a really good, plain
dinner; you have learned that much in one day. Oh, you improve some.
And I think you have taken a lesson in cleanliness today."
"Yes; but we learned that of the ant--and bug," says number two.
O.W.--"Just so. And did you think all the ants and doodle-bugs
blundered into that grease in one morning? I put 'em in myself--to give
you a 'kink.'"
Bush D. (disgusted).--"You blasted, dirty old sinner."
Second Man.--"Oh, you miserable old swamp savage; I shan't get over
that earwig in a month."
Third Man (plaintively).--"This life in the woods isn't what it's
cracked up to be; I don't relish bugs and spiders. I wish I were home.
I'm all bitten up with punkies, and--"
Fourth Man (savagely).--"Dashed old woods-loafer; let's tie his hands
and fire him in the creek."
O.W. (placidly).--"Exactly, boys. Your remarks are terse, and to the
point. Only, as I am going to show you a trick or two on woodcraft this
afternoon, you can afford to wait a little. Now, quit smoking, and get
out your hatchets; we'll go to work."
Three hatchets are brought to light; one of them a two-pound clumsy
hand-axe, the others of an old time, Mt. Vernon, G.W. pattern. "And
now," says good-natured Bush, "you give directions and we'll do the
work."
Under directions, the coarse browse of the previous night is placed
outside the shanty; three active youngsters, on hands and knees, feel
out and cut off every offending stub and root inside the shanty, until
it is smooth as a floor. The four small logs are brought to camp; the
two longest are laid at the sides and staked in place; the others are
placed, one at the head, the other at the foot, also staked; and the
camp has acquired definite outlines, and a measurable size of eight by
nine feet. Three hemlock logs and two sharpened stakes are toted to
camp; the stakes driven firmly, and the logs laid against them, one
above the other. Fire-dogs, forestick, etc., complete the arrangement,
and the campfire is in shape for the coming night, precisely as shown
in the engraving.
"And now," says the O.W., "if three of you will go down to the flat
and pick the browse clean from the two hemlock tops, Bush and I will
fix a cooking-range."
"A--what?" asks one.
"Going to start a boarding-house?" says another.
"Notion of going into the hardware business?" suggests a third.
"Never mind, sonny; just 'tend to that browse, and when you see a
smoke raising on the flat by the spring, come over and see the range."
And the boys, taking a couple of blankets in which to carry the browse,
saunter away to the flat below.
A very leisurely aesthetic, fragrant occupation is this picking
browse. It should never be cut, but pulled, stripped or broken. I have
seen a Senator, ex-Governor, and a wealthy banker enjoying themselves
hugely at it, varying the occupation by hacking small timber with their
G.W. hatchets, like so many boys let loose from school. It may have
looked a trifle undignified, but I dare say they found their account in
it. Newport or Long Branch would have been more expensive, and much
less healthful.
For an hour and a half tongues and fingers are busy around the hemlock
tops; then a thin, long volume of blue smoke rises near the spring, and
the boys walk over to inspect the range. They find it made as follows:
Two logs six feet long and eight inches thick are laid parallel, but
seven inches apart at one end and only four at the other. They are
bedded firmly and flattened a little on the inside. On the upper sides
the logs are carefully hewed and leveled until pots, pans and kettles
will sit firmly and evenly on them. A strong forked stake is driven at
each end of the space, and a cross-pole, two or three inches thick,
laid on, for hanging kettles. This completes the range; simple, but
effective. (See illustration.) The broad end of the space is for frying
pans, and the potato kettle. The narrow end, for coffee pots and
utensils of lesser diameter. From six to eight dishes can be cooked at
the same time. Soups, stews, and beans are to be cooked in closely
covered kettles hung from the cross-pole, the bottoms of the kettles
reaching within some two inches of the logs. With a moderate fire they
may be left to simmer for hours without care or attention.
The fire is of the first importance. Start it with fine kindling and
clean, dry, hemlock bark. When you have a bright, even fire from end to
end of the space, keep it up with small fagots of the sweetest and most
wholesome woods in the forest. These are, in the order named, black
birch, hickory, sugar maple, yellow birch, and red beech. The sticks
should be short, and not over two inches across. Split wood is better
than round. The outdoor range can be made by one man in little more
than an hour, and the camper-out, who once tries it, will never wish to
see a "portable camp-stove" again.
When the sun leaves the valley in the shade of Asaph Mountain, the
boys have a fragrant bed of elastic browse a foot deep in the shanty,
with pillows improvised from stuffed boot legs, cotton handkerchiefs,
etc. They cook their suppers on the range, and vote it perfect, no
melting or heating handles too hot for use, and no smoking of dishes,
or faces.
Just at dark--which means 9 P.M. in the last week of June--the fire is
carefully made and chinked. An hour later it is throwing its grateful
warmth and light directly into camp, and nowhere else. The camp turns
in. Not to wriggle and quarrel with obdurate stubs, but to sleep. And
sleep they do. The sound, deep, restful sleep of healthy young manhood,
inhaling pure mountain air on the healthiest bed yet known to man.
When it is past midnight, and the fire burns low, and the chill night
breeze drifts into camp, they still do not rouse up, but only spoon
closer, and sleep right on. Only the O.W. turns out sleepily, at two
bells in the middle watch, after the manner of hunters, trappers, and
sailors, the world over. He quietly rebuilds the fire, reduces a bit of
navy plug to its lowest denomination, and takes a solitary smoke--still
holding down his favorite log. Quizzically and quietly he regards the
sleeping youngsters, and wonders if among them all there is one who
will do as he has done, i.e., relinquish all of what the world reckons
as success, for the love of nature and a free forest life. He hopes
not. And yet, as he glances at the calm yellow moon overhead, and
listens to the low murmur of the little waterfall below the spring, he
has a faint notion that it is not all loss and dross.
Knocking the ashes from his pipe he prepares to turn in, murmuring to
himself, half sadly, half humorously, "I have been young, and now I am
old; yet have I never seen the true woodsman forsaken, or his seed
begging bread--or anything else, so to speak--unless it might be a
little tobacco or a nip of whisky." And he creeps into his blanket-bag,
backs softly out to the outside man, and joins the snorers.
It is broad daylight when he again turns out, leaving the rest still
sleeping soundly. He starts a lively fire in the range, treats two
coffee pots to a double handful of coffee and three pints of water
each, sets on the potato kettle, washes the potatoes, then sticks his
head into the camp, and rouses the party with a regular second mate's
hail. "Star-a-ar-bo'lin's aho-o-o-y. Turn out, you beggars. Come on
deck and see it rain." And the boys do turn out. Not with wakeful
alacrity, but in a dazed, dreamy, sleepy way. They open wide eyes, when
they see that the sun is turning the sombre tops of pines and hemlocks
to a soft orange yellow.
"I'd have sworn," says one, "that I hadn't slept over fifteen minutes
by the watch."
"And I," says another, "was just watching the fire, when I dropped off
in a doze. In about five minutes I opened my eyes, and I'll be shot if
it wasn't sunrise."
"As for me," says a third, "I don't know as I've slept at all. I
remember seeing somebody poking the fire last night. Next thing I knew,
some lunatic was yelling around camp about 'starbolin's,' and 'turning
out.' Guess I'll lay down and have my nap out."
"Yes," says the O.W., "I would. If I was a healthy youngster, and
couldn't get along with seven hours and a half of solid sleep, I'd take
the next forenoon for it. Just at present, I want to remark that I've
got the coffee and potato business underway, and I'll attend to them.
If you want anything else for breakfast, you'll have to cook it."
And the boys, rising to the occasion, go about the breakfast with
willing hands. It is noticeable, however, that only one pan of trout is
cooked, two of the youngsters preferring to fall back on broiled ham,
remarking that brook trout is too rich and cloying for a steady diet.
Which is true. The appetite for trout has very sensibly subsided, and
the boyish eagerness for trout fishing has fallen off immensely. Only
two of the party show any interest in the riffles. They stroll down
stream leisurely, to try their flies for an hour or two. The others
elect to amuse themselves about the camp, cutting small timber with
their little hatchets, picking fresh browse, or skirmishing the
mountain side for wintergreen berries and sassafras. The fishermen
return in a couple of hours, with a score of fair-sized trout. They
remark apologetically that it is blazing hot--and there are plenty of
trout ahead. Then they lean their rods against the shanty, and lounge
on the blankets, and smoke and doze.
It is less than forty-eight hours since the cross-pole was laid; and,
using a little common sense woodcraft, the camp has already attained to
a systematic no-system of rest, freedom and idleness. Every man is free
to "loaf, and invite his soul." There is good trouting within an hour's
walk for those who choose, and there is some interest, with a little
exercise, in cooking and cutting night wood, slicking up, etc. But the
whole party is stricken with "camp-fever," "Indian laziness," the dolce
far niente. It is over and around every man, enveloping him as with a
roseate blanket from the Castle of Indolence. It is the perfect summer
camp.
And it is no myth; but a literal resumé of a five days' outing at
Poplar Spring, on Marsh Creek, in Pennsylvania. Alas, for the beautiful
valley, that once afforded the finest camping grounds I have ever known.
Never any more
Can it be
Unto me (or anybody else)
As before.
A huge tannery, six miles above Poplar Spring, poisons and blackens
the stream with chemicals, bark and ooze. The land has been brought
into market, and every acre eagerly bought up by actual settlers. The
once fine covers and thickets are converted into fields thickly dotted
with blackened stumps. And, to crown the desolation, heavy laden trains
of "The Pine Creek and Jersey Shore R.R." go thundering almost hourly
over the very spot where stood our camp by Poplar Spring.
Of course, this is progress; but, whether backward or forward, had
better be decided sixty years hence. And, just what has happened to the
obscure valley of Marsh Creek, is happening today, on a larger scale,
all over the land. It is the same old story of grab and greed. Let us
go on the "make" today, and "whack up" tomorrow; cheating each other
as villainously as we may, and posterity be damned. "What's all the
w-u-u-rld to a man when his wife is a widdy?"
This is the moral: From Maine to Montana; from the Adirondacks to
Alaska; from the Yosemite to the Yellowstone, the trout-hog, the
deer-wolf, the netter, the skin-hunter, each and all have it their own
way; and the law is a farce--only to be enforced where the game has
vanished forever. Perhaps the man-child is born who will live to write
the moral of all this--when it is too late.