Odds And Ends--Where To Go For An Outing--Why A Clinker?--Boughs And
Browse
THE oft-recurring question as to where to go for the outing, can
hardly be answered at all satisfactorily. In a general way, any place
may, and ought to be, satisfactory, where there are fresh green woods,
pleasant scenery, and fish and game plenty enough to supply the camp
abundantly, with boating facilities and pure water.
"It's more in the man than it is in the land," and there are thousands
of such places on the waters of the Susquehanna, the Delaware, the
rivers and lakes of Maine, Michigan, Wisconsin and Canada.
Among the lakes of Central New York one may easily select a camping
ground, healthy, pleasant, easily reached and with the advantage of
cheapness. A little too much civilization, perhaps; but the farmers are
friendly and kindly disposed to all summer outers who behave like
gentlemen.
For fine forest scenery and unequaled canoeing facilities, it must be
admitted that the Adirondack region stands at the head. There is also
fine fishing and good hunting, for those who know the right places to
go for deer and trout. But it is a tedious, expensive job getting into
the heart of the Wilderness, and it is the most costly woodland resort
I know of when you are there. You can keep expenses down (and also have
a much better sport) by avoiding the hotels and going into camp at once
and staying there. The best way is for two men to hire a guide, live in
camp altogether and divide the expense.
All along the Allegheny range, from Maine to Michigan and from
Pennsylvania to the Provinces, numberless resorts exist as pleasant, as
healthy, as prolific of sport, as the famed Adirondacks, and at half
the cost. But, for an all-summer canoe cruise, with more than 600
accessible lakes and ponds, the Northern Wilderness stands alone. And,
as a wealthy cockney once remarked to me in Brown's Tract, "It's no
place for a poor man."
And now I will give my reasons for preferring the clinker-built cedar
boat, or canoe, to any other. First, as to material. Cedar is stronger,
more elastic, more enduring and shrinks less than pine or any other
light wood used as boat siding. As one of the best builders in the
country says, "It has been thoroughly demonstrated that a cedar canoe
will stand more hard knocks than an oak one; for where it only receives
bruises, the oak streaks will split." And he might add, the pine will
break. But I suppose it is settled beyond dispute that white cedar
stands at the head for boat streaks. I prefer it then, because it is
the best. And I prefer the clinker, because it is the strongest,
simplest, most enduring and most easily repaired in case of accident.
To prove the strength theory, take a cedar (or pine) strip eight feet
long and six inches wide. Bend it to a certain point by an equal strain
on each end and carefully note the result. Next strip it lengthwise
with the rip saw, lap the two halves an inch and nail the lap as in
boat building. Test it again and you will find it has gained in
strength about twenty per cent. That is the clinker of it.
Now work the laps down until the strip is of uniform thickness its
entire length and test it once more; you will find it much weaker than
on first trial. That is the smooth skin, sometimes called lapstreak.
They, the clinker canoes, are easily tightened when they spring a leak
through being rattled over stones in rapids. It is only to hunt a
smooth pebble for a clinch head and settle the nails that have started
with the hatchet, putting in a few new ones if needed. And they are put
together, at least by the best builders, without any cement or white
lead, naked wood to wood, and depending only on close work for
waterproofing. And each pair of strips is cut to fit and lie in its
proper place without strain, no two pairs being alike, but each pair,
from garboards to upper streak, having easy, natural form for its
destined position.
The veneered canoes are very fine, for deep water; but a few cuts on
sharp stones will be found ruinous; and if exposed much to weather they
are liable to warp. The builders understand this and plainly say that
they prefer not to build fine boats for those who will neglect the
proper care of them.
The paper boat, also, will not stand much cutting on sharp stones, and
it is not buoyant when swamped, unless fitted with watertight
compartments, which I abhor.
The canvas is rather a logy, limp son of craft, to my thinking and
liable to drown her crew if swamped.
But each and all have their admirers, and purchasers as well, while
each is good in its way and I only mention a few reasons for my
preference of the cedar.
When running an ugly rapid or crossing a stormy lake, I like to feel
that I have enough light, seasoned wood under me to keep my mouth and
nose above water all day, besides saving the rifle and knapsack, which,
when running into danger, I always tie to the ribbing with strong linen
line, as I do the paddle also, giving it about line enough to just
allow free play.
I am not--to use a little modern slang--going to "give myself away" on
canoeing, or talk of startling adventure. But, for the possible
advantage of some future canoeist, I will briefly relate what happened
to me on a certain windy morning one summer. It was on one of the
larger lakes--no matter which--between Paul Smith's and the Fulton
Chain. I had camped over night in a spot that did not suit me in the
least, but it seemed the best I could do then and there. The night was
rough and the early morning threatening. However, I managed a cup of
coffee, "tied in," and made a slippery carry of two miles a little
after sunrise. Arrived on the shore of the lake, things did not look
promising. The whirling, twirling clouds were black and dangerous
looking, the crisp, dark waves were crested with spume, and I had a
notion of just making a comfortable camp and waiting for better
weather. But the commissary department was reduced to six Boston
crackers, with a single slice of pork, and it was twelve miles of
wilderness to the nearest point of supplies, four miles of it carries,
included. Such weather might last a week, and I decided to go. For half
an hour I sat on the beach, taking weather notes. The wind was
northeast; my course was due west, giving me four points free. Taking
five feet of strong line, I tied one end under a rib next the keelson
and the other around the paddle. Stripping to shirt and drawers, I
stowed everything in the knapsack and tied that safely in the fore
peak. Then I swung out. Before I was a half mile out, I fervently
wished myself back. But it was too late. How that little, corky, light
canoe did bound and snap, with a constant tendency to come up in the
wind'e eye, that kept me on the qui vive every instant. She shipped no
water; she was too buoyant for that. But she was all the time in danger
of pitching her crew overboard. It soon came to a crisis. About the
middle of the lake, on the north side, there is a sharp, low gulch that
runs away back through the hills, looking like a level cut through a
railroad embankment. And down this gulch came a fierce thunder gust
that was like a small cyclone. It knocked down trees, swept over the
lake and caught the little canoe on the crest of a wave, right under
the garboard streak. I went overboard like a shot; but I kept my grip
on the paddle. That grip was worth a thousand dollars to the
"Travelers' Accidental" and another thousand to the "Equitable
Company" because the paddle, with its line, enabled me to keep the
canoe in hand and prevent her from going away to leeward like a dry
leaf. When I once got my nose above water and my hand on her after
stem, I knew I had the whole business under control. Pressing the stem
down, I took a look inboard. The little jilt! She had not shipped a
quart of water. And there was the knapsack, the rod, the little
auxiliary paddle, all just as I had tied them in; only the crew and the
double-blade had gone overboard. As I am elderly and out of practice in
the swimming line, and it was nearly half a mile to a lee shore, and as
I was out of breath and water logged, it is quite possible that a
little forethought and four cents' worth of fishline saved the
insurance companies two thousand dollars.
How I slowly kicked that canoe ashore; how the sun came out bright and
hot; how, instead of making the remaining eleven miles, I raised a
conflagration and a comfortable camp, dried out and had a pleasant
night of it; all this is neither here nor there. The point I wish to
make is, keep your duffle safe to float and your paddle and canoe
sufficiently in hand to always hold your breathing works above water
level. So shall your children look confidently for your safe return,
while the "Accidentals" arise and call you a good investment.
There is only one objection to the clinker-built canoe that occurs to
me as at all plausible. This is, that the ridge-like projections of her
clinker laps offer resistance to the water and retard her speed.
Theoretically, this is correct. Practically, it is not proven. Her
streaks are so nearly on her water line that the resistance, if any,
must be infinitesimal. It is possible, however, that this element might
lessen her speed one or two minutes in a mile race. I am not racing,
but taking leisurely recreation. I can wait two or three minutes as
well as not. Three or four knots an hour will take me through to the
last carry quite as soon as I care to make the landing.
A few words of explanation and advice may not be out of place. I have
used the words "boughs" and "browse" quite frequently. I am sorry they
are not more in use. The first settlers in the unbroken forest knew how
to diagnose a tree. They came to the "Holland Purchase" from the
Eastern States, with their families, in a covered wagon, drawn by a
yoke of oxen, and the favorite cow patiently leading behind. They could
not start until the ground was settled, some time in May, and nothing
could be done in late summer, save to erect a log cabin and clear a few
acres for the next season. To this end the oxen were indispensable and
a cow was of first necessity, where there were children. And cows and
oxen must have hay. But there was not a lot of hay in the country. A
few hundred pounds of coarse wild grass was gleaned from the margins of
streams and small marshes; but the main reliance was "browse." Through
the warm months the cattle could take care of themselves; but, when
winter settled down in earnest, a large part of the settler's work
consisted in providing browse for his cattle. First and best was the
basswood (linden): then came maple, beech, birch and hemlock. Some of
the trees would be nearly three feet in diameter, and when felled, much
of the browse would be twenty feet above the reach of cattle, on the
ends of huge limbs. Then the boughs were lopped off and the cattle
could get at the browse. The settlers divided the tree into log, limbs,
boughs and browse. Anything small enough for a cow or deer to masticate
was browse. And that is just what you want for a camp in the forest.
Not twigs that may come from a thorn, or boughs that may be as thick as
your wrist, but browse, which may be used for a mattress, the
healthiest in the world.
And now for a little useless advice. In going into the woods, don't
take a medicine chest or a set of surgical instruments with you. A bit
of sticking salve, a wooden vial of anti-pain tablets and another of
rhubarb regulars, your fly medicine and a pair of tweezers will be
enough. Of course you have needles and thread.
If you go before the open season for shooting, take no gun. It will
simply be a useless incumbrance and a nuisance.
If you go to hunt, take a solemn oath never to point the shooting end
of your gun toward yourself or any other human being.
In still-hunting, swear yourself black in the face never to shoot at a
dim, moving object in the woods for a deer, unless you have seen that
it is a deer. In these days there are quite as many hunters as deer in
the woods; and it is a heavy, wearisome job to pack a dead or wounded
man ten or twelve miles out to a clearing, let alone that it spoils all
the pleasure of the hunt and is apt to raise hard feelings among his
relations.
In a word, act coolly and rationally. So shall your outing be a
delight in conception and the fulfillment thereof; while the memory of
it shall come back to you in pleasant dreams, when legs and shoulders
are too stiff and old for knapsack and rifle.
That is me. That is why I sit here tonight with the north wind and
sleet rattling the one window of my little den, writing what I hope
younger and stronger men will like to take into the woods with them and
read. Not that I am so very old. The youngsters are still not anxious
to buck against the muzzleloader in off-hand shooting. But, in common
with a thousand other old graybeards, I feel that the fire, the fervor,
the steel, that once carried me over the trail from dawn until dark, is
dulled and deadened within me.
We had our day of youth and May;
We may have grown a trifle sober;
But life may reach a wintry way,
And we are only in October.
Wherefore, let us be thankful that there are still thousands of cool,
green nooks beside crystal springs, where the weary soul may hide for a
time, away from debts, duns and deviltries, and a while commune with
nature in her undress.
And with kindness to all true woodsmen; and with malice toward none,
save the trout-hog, the netter, the cruster and skin-butcher, let us
PREPARE TO TURN IN.