Everybody admires the man who can travel in the woods without getting
lost. Such a man always commands respect among his less accomplished
associates. The sportsman never ceases to wonder at the ability of
his guide to find his way unfailingly through the dense bush, and the
white guide also admires and wonders at the Indian's accomplishments
in the same line. To the uninitiated the feats of the woodsman seem
like a sixth sense--instinct, they call it. But it is not instinct,
but simply the application of knowledge which comes to those who are
forced by circumstances to be observing in such matters. The man who
can take an outfit on his back and travel a month in the wilderness,
living without a particle of aid from his fellow men, is a woodsman,
and he possesses a knowledge of woodcraft which would make a better
world if it could be imparted to all mankind.
I was born and grew to manhood in one of the wildest and roughest
districts of Pennsylvania. Northeast from my home I could travel 30
miles without seeing a human habitation, and northward the wild,
uninhabited mountains reached a like distance, broken at one place
only by a narrow valley in which there were a few small farms. Little
by little I learned to know these mountains and the narrow valleys
between. There was not a stream within 10 or 15 miles where I had not
fished for trout and trapped for mink and 'coons, and I had hunted
every swamp and red brush flat for deer, bears and grouse. I knew
every place where blueberries grew in sufficient numbers to make the
gathering profitable, and often I wandered long distances merely for
the pleasure of mountain travel. I soon got the reputation of being
an accomplished woodsman, an honor which I did not deserve, for I
knew nothing whatever about travel in real wilderness. The long
mountains paralleling one another made it easy to get about without
losing the sense of direction, and I kept my compass points merely by
familiarity with the ground on which I traveled.
When at the age of 23 I went into the wilderness of Canada, I was up
against an entirely different proposition. Before me were hundreds of
miles of unbroken bush, spotted with lakes that at first looked all
alike to me, and cut by small streams which flowed about from lake to
lake in the most haphazard fashion imaginable. I had never traveled
with the sun as a guide and knew nothing regarding the use of a
compass, both of which are essential for wilderness travel.
[Illustration: A COMPASS OF A PRACTICAL TYPE.]
My first move was to file on a piece of government land. The land
guide helped to locate me and while we were looking about I saw him
look at his compass, then he remarked that it was just noon and we
would make some tea. I was surprised to see him get the time of day
from a compass and asked him how he knew it was noon. "Because the
sun is directly south," he answered, "and it is in that position only
at noon." And then he explained to me how a compass could be used as
a watch, with fair accuracy, and how a watch could be made to answer
very well as a compass.
The woodsman told me that I could not travel in that country without
a compass, and I soon found that such was the case. I borrowed a
compass from a friend, a small, slip-cover instrument with a stop to
hold the needle stationary when not in use. But I found that the
slip-cover was inconvenient; dust got in at the stop opening and
hampered the movement of the needle; and finally the compass slipped
through a hole in my pocket and was lost. By these experiences I
learned that the most practical form of compass for a woodsman was an
open-face, watch-shaped instrument, without a stop, and with a ring
by which it could be fastened to the coat or vest like a watch. Such
an instrument does not have the long life of the finer stop compass,
but it costs only a dollar or thereabouts, and after a year or two of
use can be thrown away and a new one purchased. Of course, if a stop
compass can be found that has no outside opening to admit dust it is
better still.
An Indian seldom carries a compass, but he travels mainly by the "lay
of the land." He learns the country just as I learned the mountains
of Pennsylvania, and as a rule he has little idea of direction.
Sometimes he travels by sun, in fact the sun answers for both watch
and compass. But when the sun is invisible and the ground unfamiliar
he sometimes meets with trouble and "loses his wigwam." But he is
much less apt to get lost than a white man, under similar conditions,
for when he loses his bearings he doesn't lose his head, in fact he
doesn't consider it a serious matter at all. He simply makes camp and
the next day he travels on until he rights himself again. The Indian
also, when forced to it, uses means of getting his bearings which
only Indians and veteran woodsmen know how to use.
For my own part I travel mostly by the sun when on strange ground,
verifying my directions occasionally by reference to the compass. I
also study landmarks and make use of them constantly, for to travel
by compass alone is slow and difficult.
Comparatively few people who have never used a compass know how the
instrument works; indeed, I once knew a man who thought that the
needle pointed towards home when the owner lost his bearings. But it
doesn't do any such thing unless by chance the home lies north.
On the peninsula of Boothia Felix, which juts into the Arctic Sea
northwest of Hudson's Bay, is the magnetic north pole, and the needle
of the compass, when free to revolve, points to this particular part
of the earth. It does not point directly towards the magnetic pole in
all parts of the world, for the magnetic currents which converge
there do not flow in straight lines. In fact, there is an area in
Asia, where the compass needle is deflected and points to a smaller
local magnetic pole. But for bush travel all that is necessary is to
consider that the blue end of the compass needle points north, and to
call this point north always, the opposite direction, of course,
being south.
Perhaps I should not say that the needle always points north, for it
may lose its magnetism with age or the pivot on which it swings may
become dulled, or again the needle may be deflected by a metal object
being brought too near. If the needle behaves queerly, maybe you are
holding it too near your gun, or some metal object in your belt or
pocket may be attracting it. All objects of iron or steel become
magnetized to a certain extent and will attract the needle if brought
too near. But aside from such outside influence, and that of wear,
the compass is a perfectly reliable instrument. Sometimes it tells us
that the sun rises in the northwest, in which case we should believe
it without question, for if we go contrary to the teachings of the
instrument we will find that 99 times out of 100 the compass is right
and we are dead wrong. One of the greatest mistakes a man can make
when he gets turned around in the big timber is to doubt his compass,
but many people will take a chance on their very unreliable instinct
rather than to trust a perfectly trustworthy instrument which was
brought into the woods to serve them on just such occasions. But one
need never be in doubt, for if the needle swings freely and settles
down in the same position each time, he may be sure that the
instrument is all right.
By referring to the drawing, which shows a very common type of
compass, it will be noted that the dial is graduated in degrees, on
its outer edge, with the principal points marked with letters. These
letters mean north, east, south, west, northeast, southeast, etc. To
make the compass work perfectly it must be held level and steady
until the needle stops swinging, then the compass can be turned
easily, so that the blue end of the needle stands over the letter
"N." When this is done all the points of the compass are shown. The
only way a compass can be used is to show these directions, and, of
course, the user should know which way he wants to go. Usually a man
in the woods knows some familiar landmark; it may be a stream, a
lake, a mountain, or even the railroad which he left when he entered
the woods, and he will know whether he is north, south, east or west
of this landmark, so there is little excuse for getting completely
lost. But if he is so hopelessly muddled that he doesn't know for the
life of him whether he is in the Grand Canyon or a Canadian swamp the
compass will not help him very much. If he is traveling north of his
landmark he can return to it by going south, and the compass will
tell him quickly which direction is south.
[Illustration: A ROUTE TRAVELED BY COMPASS.]
Suppose you have made a camp in the wilds and have set out to explore
the surrounding country. For the sake of illustration I have drawn a
map of some of my old-time hunting ground, showing the location of
one of my camps. The first move would be to learn the country in the
immediate vicinity of camp. The stream by the side of the camp flows
east and this would be the first with which to get acquainted. A trip
along the stream both ways from camp will serve to familiarize one
with the stream and nearby country, so that he would have a good
landmark, and he could hardly cross this stream knowing that it was
the same one which flows by the camp. He would also know, if he were
to reach this creek, whether the camp lay up stream or down. This
then would serve as a base from which to operate. We will say now
that he wishes to see some of the country north and northwest of
camp. He sees in the distance a high hill with a peculiar bunch of
trees on its summit. By referring to the compass he finds that the
position of this hill is a little east of north. Then facing in that
direction he notes that the sun is behind his right shoulder, for it
is morning and the sun is in the southeast. Replacing the compass in
his pocket he starts toward the tree-crowned hill which he has chosen
as an objective point. As long as the hill is in sight he has clear
sailing, but when the forest hides his landmark from view he keeps
traveling straight ahead, maintaining his same position with
reference to the sun. But the sun is also moving and he dare not go
far without again looking at the compass and noting the changed
position of the sun. This, you will see, is traveling by landmark, by
compass, and by sun, and it will be found a very practical way.
But a man cannot travel straight in the average wilderness country,
for nature imposes obstacles. Lakes, swamps, unfordable streams and
other natural obstructions force detours, all of which must be kept
in mind and a general straight course maintained.
Presuming that in spite of the unavoidable detours the traveler has
kept a reasonable straight course and has reached the high hill with
its peculiar clump of trees, he will know now that since his course
has been a little east of north his camp must be just that much west
of south from this hill. It would be an easy matter for him to
retrace his steps to camp if he wished to do so.
From the top of the hill the explorer studies the topography of the
surrounding country, and notes the lakes; the hollows, which indicate
water courses; the swamp and clump of evergreen bush. Perhaps he
sketches a map of what he sees, the details to be added as the
country is learned more thoroughly.
To the northwest he sees what appears to be a fairly large lake, and
as this looks interesting he sets out in that direction, traveling as
before, by sun, compass and marker. Sometimes he can pick a mark a
half mile distant and at other times he must be content to make use
of a dead tree standing a hundred yards or less away. But near or
far, they all serve the same purpose.
Having reached his objective he finds that what appeared to be a
large lake is in reality a chain of small lakes or ponds and he draws
them into his map.
Then he sets out down stream, noting that it flows in a southwesterly
direction, and occasionally he takes a compass bearing to make sure
that this course has not changed. After traveling about a mile he
decides to return to camp. By carefully considering the distance
traveled in each direction he concludes that he is now about two and
a half miles northwest of camp, therefore he must travel southeast,
so he starts in that direction. When about a quarter of a mile from
camp he recognizes the surroundings and changes his course a little
at the point marked by the arrow, and goes straight to camp.
In the same way the camper would explore the country for a few miles
east, west and south, and when he has become reasonably well
acquainted with this ground he is ready to push his explorations to
greater distance, knowing that he can without difficulty return to
familiar ground, and then easily find his camp, for he could not
cross the section of country with which he is now familiar without
recognizing it.