In packing a live horse you will learn by practice not to pull in such a way as to cause the horse to step on your feet; you will also learn that a live horse will not stand as still as a wooden horse, but when you have learned to pack a wooden horse quickly and well, it will only take you a short time to become expert with a live horse.
These are useful when one has no one to help in packing the animal, and when one has no pack saddle like Fig. 200. With this squaw hitch you must throw your burden across the back of the horse, over the pad made by a blanket (Fig. 192), then put a loop over the end M, see X (Fig. 192), and another one over the end N, see Y (Fig. 192). At the end of the lash rope Z make a loop; now pass that loop down under the horse's belly and through Y (Fig. 193), bring the end Z back again over the horse's back, also pass the end T down through X, and bring it back over the horse's back, also pass the end Z down through Y, and bring it back over the horse's back, pass T through Z (Fig. 193), cinch tight and fasten on top of pack (Fig. 194). Fig. 195 shows another throw in another squaw hitch. Fig. 196 shows the next position. Fig. 197 shows the thing made fast.
Anyone who travels with pack horses should know how to arrange the lead rope in a manner so that it may be quickly and easily loosened, and at the same time be out of the way, so that the horse will not get his foot over it when climbing or descending steep places, which often happens when the lead rope is fastened to the pack in the usual manner. If you will take the rope and wind it loosely around the horse's neck, behind his left ear and in front of his right ear (Figs. 198 and 199), then tuck the end under the strands, as shown in Fig. 198, the thing may be undone in an instant, and in the meantime the rope is out of the way where it will not bother either the man or the horse.
Practise all this on the wooden horse, then it will come natural when the time comes to handle a real horse. The manner of looping up the lead rope, just described, I learned from the explorers of the Mt. McKinley expedition, who had many occasions to test the best, as well as the worst methods of packing and arranging their duffel. There are a number of other hitches, some given by Stewart Edward White, in Outing, called the Miner's Hitch, the Lone Packer's Hitch, but possibly we have given the reader enough to start him on his way; remember for the pack horse the necessary outfit is a horse blanket, the cincha and lash rope, the sling rope, the lead rope, the manta, which is a cover for the pack, sometimes called the tarp—short for tarpaulin, and the blind, but as a rule a handkerchief is used for a blinder. The aparejo is a sort of a leather mattress which goes over the horse's back and on which the pack rests, but you will find all about that when you hit the trail with a pack train. The alforjas is a Spanish name for the saddle-bags used on a pack horse. When the reader knows how to pack his horse, knows all the Spanish names for the pack saddle and all that sort of thing, there may come a time when he will have a horse which needs to be hitched at night, and it may happen he must needs
Figs. 204 and 205 show the famous Indian mode of packing by travois.
General Miles once told the author that the handsomest man he had ever seen came dashing into their camp in a cloud of alkali dust; having ridden right through bands of hostile Indians which surrounded the camp, he dismounted, took off his saddle and threw it on the ground, put the bridle bit, girth, etc., inside the saddle, put the saddle-cloth over it, then he calmly stretched himself out in front of the campfire. "That man," said General Miles, "was Bill Cody, Buffalo Bill!"
When Cody put the saddle on the ground he placed it on its side (Fig. 206); in placing the saddle in this position it preserves the curve of the skirts, and thus the form of the saddle is not destroyed and the reins and the stirrup straps are protected; at the same time the saddle makes a good pillow, and if it should rain at night the saddle blanket is the only thing, besides the rider, which gets a ducking, unless the latter has a good waterproof sleeping-bag.
So manage the saddle that with one swing it will 'light on the horse's back with the pummel towards the horse's head (Fig. 207). Grasp with your right hand the horn of the saddle, and as you swing the saddle on the horse with a graceful sweep, use your left hand to push the further skirt outward and thus prevent it from doubling up on the horse's back. Be careful to throw the girth far enough so that it will hang down so as to be easily reached under the horse. I once had an English farm hand who put a western saddle on a horse with the pummel towards the tail, and was very indignant when I told him that a pummel should face the bow of a craft; he told me he knew more about horses than I did, which is possibly true, as I am not a horseman; he also said that in the "hold country" he used to ride to "the 'ounds," all of which goes to prove customs are different in different countries. Here we put the pummel of the saddle towards the horse's head; we won't argue about it; we may be wrong, but it is a matter of custom, and right or wrong is the rule the reader must follow in America, even though the reader may have ridden to the "'ounds" while abroad. Do not misunderstand me, some of the best horsemen in the world are English, but this fellow was not one of them.
Years ago when the rider was in Montana on Howard Eaton's Ranch, near the celebrated ranch of Theodore Roosevelt, he had his first experience with Western horses, and being sensitive and standing in great terror of being called a tenderfoot, he shyly watched the others mount before he attempted to do so himself. Each one of these plainsmen, he noticed, took the reins in his left hand while standing on the left-hand side of the horse; then holding the reins over the shoulders of the horse he grasped the mane with the same hand, and put his left foot into the stirrup; but to put the left foot in the stirrup he turned the stirrup around so that he could mount while facing the horse's tail, then he grabbed hold of the pummel with his right hand and swung into the saddle as the horse started.
That looked easy; the writer also noticed that just before the others struck the saddle they gave a whoop, so without showing any hesitation the author walked up to his cayuse, took the reins confidently in his left hand, using care to stand on the left-hand side of the horse; then he placed the left hand with the reins between the shoulders of the horse and grabbed the mane, then he turned the stirrup around, turned his back to the horse's head, put his left foot in the stirrup and gave a yell.
On sober afterthought he decided that he gave that yell too soon; the horse almost went out from under him, or at least so it seemed to him, or maybe the sensation would be better described to say that it appeared to him as if he went a mile over the prairie with his right leg waving in the air like a one-winged aeroplane, before he finally settled down into the saddle.
But this could not have been really true, because everybody applauded and the writer was at once accepted by the crowd without question as a thoroughbred Sourdough. Possibly they may have thought he was feeling good and just doing some stunts.
It may interest the reader to state that the author did his best to live up to the first impression he had made, but he did not go riding the next day, there were some books he thought necessary to read; he discovered, however, that even lounging was not without some discomfort; for instance, he could not cross his knees without helping one leg over with both his hands; in fact, he could find no muscle in his body that could be moved without considerable exertion and pain.
But this is the point of the story: Had the author tried to mount that cayuse in any other way he would have been left sprawling on the prairie. The truth is that if you mount properly when the horse starts, even if he begins to buck and pitch, the action will tend to throw you into the saddle, not out of it.
When you approach a horse which has a brand on it, always approach from the left-hand side, because practically all the Western horses have brands on them, and you can, as a rule, count on a branded horse being from the West, with the hale and hearty habits of the West, which to be appreciated must be understood. If you want to make a real cayuse out of your wooden horse, brand it and any cowboy who then sees it will take off his hat.
There is no good reason why every hiker should not be accompanied by
But if a dog is going to enjoy the pleasure of a hike with you, if it is a good square dog it should be willing to also share the hardships of the hike with you, and to help carry the burdens on the trail. Any sort of a dog can be trained as
Slip the breast band over the dog's head, put the saddle-bags well forward on the dog's shoulders, tie the cinch around its waist, after which spread the cover or manta over the bag, and throw the hitch as shown by Figs. 211 and 214. Fig. 213 shows a bundle with a breast band made of the lash rope, in which case the lash rope is usually made of cloth like that in Fig. 211; the whole thing is simplicity itself and a good dog can carry quite a load packed in this manner.
It is not expected that the reader will make every one of these contrivances, but if he does he will learn How, and to be a good woodsman he should know how, so as to be prepared for any emergency. It is possible to make the whole pack for the dog from birch bark, but however it is made, if it serves the purpose of making the dog carry part of the pack, when you put the bark on the dog's back, you will teach the animal that there are two kinds of barks; one of which is useful as a duffel bag, and the other as an alarm.
In Alaska and other parts of the far North, as well as in Holland and other parts of Europe, the dog is generally used as a beast of burden; it draws sleds in North America and milk carts and market wagons in Holland, but it is not necessary for us to live in Holland or in the far North in order to make use of the dog; a good dog will cheerfully carry the packs on the trail, loyally guard the camp at night, and, if necessary, die in defense of its master.
Any uncomfortable pack is an abomination; too heavy a pack is an unhappy burden, no pack at all is fine—until you reach camp and hunt around for something to answer for a toothbrush, comb and brush, something on which to sit and sleep, something overhead to protect you from the rains and dews of heaven, something to eat and something to eat with besides your fingers, something from which to drink which holds water better than the hollow of your hand or the brim of your hat, and, in fact, all those necessary little comforts that a fellow wants on an overnight hike. Without these useful articles one will wish that he had subjected himself to the slight fatigue necessary to pack a small pack on his back.
The word "pack" itself is a joy to the outdoor man, for it is only outdoor men who use the word pack for carry, and who call a bundle or load a pack. The reason for this is that the real wilderness man, explorer, prospector, hunter, trapper or scout, packs all his duffel into a bundle which he carries on his back, in two small saddle-bags which are carried by his husky dogs, or a number of well-balanced bundles which are lashed on the pack saddle with a diamond hitch over the back of a pack horse.
You see we have pack dogs, pack horses and pack animals, pack saddles and packers, as well as the packs themselves, which the packers pack and these animals pack on their backs, or which the man himself packs on his own back. Then we also have the pack rat, but the pack rat does not carry things with our consent. The pack rat comes flippity-flop, hopping over the ground from the old hermit, Bill Jones's, packing with him Bill Jones's false teeth which he has abstracted from the tin cup of water at the head of Bill Jones's bunk. The pack rat deposits the teeth at the head of your cot, then deftly picking up your watch, the rat packs it back to Bill Jones's cot and drops it in the tin cup of water, where it soaks until morning.
It is easy to see that however funny the pack rat may be, and however useful he might be to the Sunday comic paper, the rat's humor is not appreciated by the campers in the Rocky Mountains, where it is called a pack rat from its habit of carrying things. Thus it is that in a newly settled country the word "carry" is almost forgotten; one "packs" a letter to the post box, or packs a horse to water, or packs a box of candy to his best girl, or a pail of water from the spring.
When you, my good reader, get the pack adjusted on your back and the tump line across your forehead (Fig. 226), remember that you are being initiated into the great fraternity of outdoor people. But no matter how tough or rough you may appear to the casual observer, your roughness is only apparent; a boy or man of refinement carries that refinement inside of him wherever he goes; at the same time when one is carrying a pack on one's back and a tump line on one's forehead (Fig. 226½), or a canoe on one's head, even though a lady should be met on the trail it would not be necessary for one to take off one's hat, for even a foolish society woman would not expect a man to doff the canoe he might be carrying on his head. Under all circumstances use common sense; that is the rule of the wilderness and also of real culture.
The most important thing that you must learn on the trail is not to fret and fume over trifles, and even if your load is heavy and irksome, even though the shoulder straps chafe and the tump line makes your neck ache
When we speak of "fighting the pack" we mean fighting the load; that does not mean getting one's load up against a tree and punching it with one's fists or "kicking the stuffings out of it," but it means complaining and fretting because the load is uncomfortable.
There are two kinds of "packs"—the pack that you carry day after day on a long hike, and the pack that you carry when on a canoe trip and you are compelled to leave the water and carry your canoe and duffel overland around some bad rapids or falls. The first-named pack should be as light as possible, say between 30 and 40 pounds, for on a long tramp every pound counts, because you know that you must carry it as long as you keep going, and there is no relief in sight except when you stop for your meals or to camp at night. But the last-named pack, the
When I asked a friend, who bears the scars of the pack straps on his body, how it was that he managed to endure the torture of such a load, he replied with a grin that as soon as he found that to "fight his pack" meant to perish—meant death!—he made up his mind to forget the blamed thing and so when the pack wearied him and the straps rubbed the skin off his body, he forced himself to think of the good dinners he had had at the Camp-fire Club of America, yum! yum! Also, of all the jolly stories told by the toastmaster, and of the fun he had had at some other entertainments. Often while thinking of these things he caught himself laughing out loud as he trudged along the lone trail, Forgetting the hateful pack on his back. "In this way," said he, with a winning smile upon his manly and weather-beaten face, "I learned how not to fight the pack but to Forget It!" Then he braced himself up, looked at the snow-capped mountain range ahead, hummed a little cowboy song and trudged on over the frozen snow at a scout's pace.
Now that you know what a pack is, and what "fighting a pack" means, remember that if one's studies at school are hard, that is one's pack. If the work one is doing is hard, difficult or tiresome, that is one's pack. If one's boss is cross and exacting, that is one's pack. If one's parents are worried and forget themselves in their worry and speak sharply, that is one's pack. Don't fight your pack; remember that you are a woodcrafter; straighten your shoulders, put on your scout smile and hit the trail like a man!
If you find that you are tempted to break the Scout Law, that you are tempted at times to forget the Scout Oath, that because your camp mates use language unfit for a woodcrafter or a scout, and you are tempted to do the same, if your playmates play craps and smoke cigarettes, and laugh at you because you refuse to do so, so that you are tempted to join them, these temptations form your pack; don't give in and fall under your load and whimper like a "sissy," or a "mollycoddle," but straighten up, look the world straight in the eye, and hit the trail like a man!
Some of us are carrying portage packs which we can dump off our shoulders at the end of the "carry," some of us are carrying hiking packs which we must carry through life and can never dump from our shoulders until we cross the Grand Portage from which no voyagers ever return. All our packs vary in weight, but none of them is easy to carry if we fret and fume and complain under the load.
We outdoor folks call our load "pack," but our Sunday School teachers sometimes speak of the pack they bear as a "cross." Be it so, but don't fight your pack.
The whole north country is sprinkled with the bones of the men who fought their packs. Our own land is also sprinkled with men we call "misfits" and failures, but who are really men who have fought their packs. But every post of eminence in the United States is occupied by a man who forgot his pack; this country was built by men who forgot their packs. George Washington carried a portage pack in weight all through his life, but it was a proud burden and he stood straight under it. Good old Abe Lincoln had even a heavier pack to carry, but in spite of the weight of it he always had a pleasant scout smile for everyone and a merry story to send the visitor away smiling. If Daniel Boone and Simon Kenton had fought their packs we would never have heard of them!
In the illustrations are shown many figures, and one should not forget that these are sketches of real men in the real wilderness, and not fancy pictures drawn from imagination. Figs. 230, 231, and 232 show many different methods of carrying big game on one's shoulders or back. Fig. 232 also shows a couple of prospectors on the trail. One has the bag on his back, held in place by shoulder straps; the other has a bag thrown over his shoulder like a ragman.
The alpine rucksack will carry—or to speak more properly—with it one can pack a camera, notebook, sketching material, lunch and all those things which a fellow wants on an enjoyable hike. The alpine rucksack is a many-gored poke about 18 inches wide and about 22 inches long without the gores. These pokes can be made so that the gores fold in and produce an ordinary-sized pack, or they may be pushed out like an umbrella so as to make a bag in which one can carry a good-sized boy.
Fig. 232D shows the broad band used by the men of the far north. The reader will note that the broad canvas bands come over the shoulders from the top of the pack; also that a broad breast band connects the shoulder bands, while rope, whang strings or thongs run through eyelets in the band and to the bottom of the pack. This is said to be the most comfortable pack used and has an interesting history; it was evolved from an old pair of overalls. There was a Hebrew peddler who followed the gold seekers and he took a pair of canvas overalls and put them across his breast, and to the legs he fastened the pack upon his back. The overalls being wide and broad did not cut his chest, as do smaller straps, thongs or whang strings.
But breast straps of any kind are not now recommended by all authorities. It is claimed that they interfere with the breathing and a fellow "mouching" along the trail needs to have his chest free to expand, for not only his speed but his endurance depends upon the free action of his lungs.
Figs. 226 and 226½ show the use of the celebrated tump strap. This tump strap is used from Central America to the Arctic Circle. The Mexican water carrier uses it to tote his burden; the Tete Bule Indian and the Montenais Indian in the Northeast also carry their packs with a tump line.
Fig. 226½ shows how the tump line is made. It is a strap or lash rope with a broad band to fit over the packer's head, and thus relieve the weight which the shoulders have to bear.
Fig. 218 shows the well-known portage pack basket which is used by the guides in the Adirondack regions. Fig. 219 shows the Nessmuk knapsack. Fig. 222 shows a pack harness of straps by which two duffel bags are borne on the back. Fig. 225 shows a duffel bag which is laced up at one end with a thong; also the end of the bag open.
The duffel bag is the ideal poke in which to pack one's, belongings. It is waterproof, it makes a good pillow, a far better pillow than an axe and pair of boots on which I myself have rested my weary head many a night, and it also makes a good cushion upon which to sit. The duffel bag may be procured from any outfitting establishment. The ones I own are now shiny with dirt and grease, gathered from the camps and forests extending from Maine to the State of Washington, from Northern Quebec to Florida. I love the old bags, for even though they be greasy and shiny, and blackened with the charcoals of many campfires, they are chuck full of delightful memories.
Fig. 220 is the old-time poke made of a bandanna handkerchief, with its ends tied together and swung over a stick.
This is the pack, a cut of which may be found in all the old newspapers antedating the Civil War, where runaway negroes are advertised. It is the sort of pack respectable tramps used to carry, back in the times when tramps were respectable. It is the kind of pack I find represented in an old oil painting hanging on my dining-room wall, which was painted by some European artist back in the seventeenth century. When fellows carry the runaway pack they are "traveling light."
Fig. 229 shows how to construct a makeshift pack. A rope of cedar bark is arranged with a loop C (Fig. 229), for the yoke the ends A and B are brought up under the arms and tied to the yoke C, which then makes a breast band.
For a long hike thirty pounds is enough for a big boy to carry, and it will weigh three hundred and fifty pounds at the end of a hard day's tramp. Heavy packs, big packs, like those shown in Fig. 223, are only used on a portage, that is, for short distance. Of course, you fellows know that in all canoe trips of any consequence one must cross overland from one lake to another, or overland above a waterfall to a safe place below it, or around quick water, or to put it in the words of tenderfeet, water which is too quick for canoe travel, around tumultuous rapids where one must carry his canoe and duffel. But these carries or portages are seldom long. The longest I remember of making was a trifle over five miles in length.
Remember that the weight of a load depends a great deal upon your mind. Consequently for a long distance the load should be light; for a short distance the only limit to the load is the limit of the packer's strength.
Many people are so accustomed to have other people wait upon them that they are absolutely funny when you meet them in the woods; when their canoe runs its prow up upon the sandy beach and there is a portage to make, such people stand helplessly around waiting for some red-capped porter to come and take their baggage, but the only red caps in the woods are the red-headed woodpeckers and they will see you in Germany before they will help tote your duffel across the portage.
When one gets into the real woods, even if it is only in Maine, Wisconsin, the Adirondacks, or the Southern pine forests, one soon discovers that there are no drug stores around the corner, the doctor is a long way off, the butcher, the baker, the candle-stick maker, trolley cars, telephone and taxi cabs are not within reach, sight or hearing; then a fellow begins to realize that it is "up to" himself to tote his own luggage, to build his own fires, to make his own shelters, and even to help put up the other fellows' tents, or to cook the meals. Yes, and to wash the dishes, too!
One reason we outdoor people love the woods is that it develops self-reliance and increases our self-respect by increasing our ability to do things; we love the work, we love the hardship, we like to get out of sight of the becapped maids, the butler and the smirking waiters waiting for a tip, and for the same reason the real honest-to-goodness American boys love a camp. Why bless your soul!—every one of them in his inmost heart regrets that he did not live away back in the time when the long-haired Wetzel, Daniel Boone and Simon Kenton roved the woods, or at least back when Colonel Bill Cody, Buffalo Jones and Yellowstone Kelly were dashing over the plains with General Miles, General Bell and the picturesque blond, long-haired General Custer.
Sometimes the author is himself guilty of such wishes, and he used to dream of those days when he was a barefooted boy. But, honest now, is it not really too bad that there are no longer any hostile Indians? And what a pity that improved firearms have made the big game so very shy that it is afraid of a man with a gun!
But cheer up, the joy of camping is not altogether ruined, because we do not have to fight all day to save our scalps from being exported, or even because the grizzly bears refuse to chase us up a tree, and the mountain lions or "painters" decline to drop from an overhanging limb on our backs.
Remember that all things come to him who will but wait: that is, if he works for these things while he is doing the waiting. The Chief has spent his time and energy for the last thirty odd years hammering away at two ideas: the big outdoors for the boys, and Americanism for all the people. Thank the Lord, he has lived long enough to see the boys stampede for the open and the people for Americanism.
Because of the stampede for the open, in which people of all ages have joined, there are so many kinds of camps nowadays: scout camps, soldier camps, training camps, recreation camps, girls' camps and boys' camps, that it is somewhat difficult for a writer to tell what to do in order to "Be Prepared." There are freight car side-track camps, gypsy wagon camps, houseboat camps, old-fashioned camp-meeting camps and picnic camps; the latter dot the shores of New Jersey, the lake sides at Seattle, and their tents are mingled with big black boulders around Spokane; you will find them on the shores of Devil's Lake, North Dakota, and in the few groves that are back of Winnipeg, Manitoba.
But such camps have little attraction for the real hard-boiled camper, and have no better claim to being the real thing than the more or less grand palaces built in the woods, camouflaged outside with logs or bark, and called "camps" by their untruthful owners; such people belittle the name of camp and if they want to be honest they should stick to the bungling bungalow—but wait a minute—even that is far-fetched; the bungalow belongs in East India and looks as much like one of these American houses as a corn-crib does like a church.
When we talk of camping we mean living under bark, brush or canvas in the "howling wilderness," or as near a howling wilderness as our money and time will permit us to reach; in other words, we want a camp in the wildest place we can find, except when we go to our own scout camp, and even then we like it better if it is located in a wild, romantic spot.