Woodcraft | Page 6

an ibis fly or red rag is rather funny. And his hind legs, rolled in meal
and nicely browned, are preferable to trout or venison.
CHAPTER III
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,