The pattern described above
A secondupperstrip is, in over-all dimensions, a duplicate of the first, but for the fact that it is 9 inches shorter. From the foot up and for a length of 78 inches it is identical with the first strip, but at that point it is cut short. A face opening is cut in the upper edge of the second strip, 10 inches across and 11 inches deep.
The pattern described above
These two strips are superposed and their overlying edges are sewed together. All edges are properly hemmed or bound.
As the user lies in the bag, his feet just reaching the bottom, his face is encircled in the face opening. The excess length of the under strip then becomes a flap, to fold over his head. Buttons and buttonholes may be provided, as indicated in the drawings, to secure the flap in such position.
The material for the outer layer is cut to the same pattern, with sufficient enlargement of dimensions to allow the outer bag to contain the inner bag and cover it smoothly.
The outer material will preferably be water-proofed balloon silk (“tanalite”); the inner material may be sateen, or blanketing, or down quilt. The designers suggest still another material: Australian wool wadding, encased in sateen.They say, “a brown sateen material is the best covering, as a very finely woven goods is necessary to keep the wool from working through. The bag does not need to be quilted, but should be ‘tied through’ about every six inches.”
The balloon silk outer bag should weigh about one and one-quarter pounds; the bag of sateen should weigh about two and one-quarter pounds. C. F. Hovey Co., 33 Summer St., Boston, and the Abercrombie & Fitch Co., Madison Ave. and Forty-fifth St., New York, have made bags to these specifications.
It remains only to add a word respecting the outer cover of balloon silk. Balloon silk, which in reality is a fine-woven cotton, is, relatively speaking, a delicate material, and furthermore it is not perfectly water-tight. The great advantage of lightness justifies its use. But the bag must be carefully handled, and after hard service the cover must be renewed.
Dr. Charles W. Townsend, of Boston, an experienced camper, writes:
“The sleeping bag is a home-made affair, that takes up only a small part of the room in a rucksack, and weighs four pounds. It is made of lamb’s wool wadding, lined with sateen, and covered with flannel. It is about six and one-half feet long and tapers, so as to be wider at the mouth than at the foot. With ordinary clothing, I have slept warm in it with a temperature of forty degrees. I have also a balloon-silk cover, which can be arranged to guy-ropes, to make a lean-to tent over my head, and gauze curtains for insects. I think that weighs two and one-half pounds.”
“The sleeping bag is a home-made affair, that takes up only a small part of the room in a rucksack, and weighs four pounds. It is made of lamb’s wool wadding, lined with sateen, and covered with flannel. It is about six and one-half feet long and tapers, so as to be wider at the mouth than at the foot. With ordinary clothing, I have slept warm in it with a temperature of forty degrees. I have also a balloon-silk cover, which can be arranged to guy-ropes, to make a lean-to tent over my head, and gauze curtains for insects. I think that weighs two and one-half pounds.”
Atentwill be carried when the route lies through unsettled country. In a sparsely settledregion, one will run the risk of heavy rain for a night or two, rather than bother with a tent; but in the wilderness, a tent is a necessity, for even such a tarpaulin as has been described as a suitable blanket cover, is not perfectly water-tight. One cannot sleep out in a driving rain storm. At a pinch, of course, one can make shift, and perhaps under rock ledge or shelter of boughs keep fairly dry; but after a wet night in the open, one needs assured protection the second night. The lightest tents are made of balloon silk; they weigh four pounds and upwards. Two men traveling together will have a tent in common and will distribute and equalize their burdens. As has been said, a tent affords warmth (particularly when carefully pitched, with a view to making it wind-tight) and, accordingly, blankets need not be so heavy. Though water-proofed balloon silk is not perfectly water-tight, one may keep perfectly dry in a balloon silk tarpaulin or sleeping bag, within a balloon silk tent.
A note onsleeping outis proper. In summer, when there is no rain, one should sleep under the open sky; he should choose as his sleeping place an exposed ridge, high and dry. In such a situation he will suffer least annoyance from mosquitoes, and, if the night be cool, he will be warmer than in the valley. Seldom in temperate climates is the night too warm for sleeping out of doors; but even on such a night the air on the hilltop is fresher. If it be windy, a wind-break may be made of boughs or of cornstalks (on a cool night in autumn a corn-shock may be made into a fairly comfortable shelter.) In case the evening threatens rain, one may well seek a barn for protection; if one is in the wilderness, he will search out an overhanging rock, or builda lean-to of bark or boughs. Newspaper is a good heat insulator, and newspapers spread on the ground where one is to lie make the bed a warmer, drier one. Newspaper will protect one’s blanket from dew. Be careful when lying down to see that shoes and clothing are under cover. If the night proves to be colder than one has anticipated and one’s blanket is insufficient (or if, on another tour, the days are so hot that walking ceases to be a pleasure—though they have to beveryhot for that), it may be expedient, at a pinch, to walk by night and rest by day.
Suchfoodas must be carried will be selected to save weight, so far as is consistent with nutriment. Rolled oats are excellent; so also is soup powder (put up in “sausage” form, imitating the famous Germanerbswurst), and dried fruits and vegetables, powdered eggs, and powdered milk. The value of pemmican is known. All these articles may be obtained at groceries and at sportsmen’s stores. Seldom, however, will one wander so far as to be for many days beyond the possibility of buying food of more familiar form. Shelled nuts, raisins, dried fruit, malted milk tablets, and lime juice tablets are good to carry on an all-day excursion.Food bagsof “paraffined” cotton fabric will prove useful. It is well to bear in mind that food may be distributed along the way, sent in advance by mail, to await at post offices one’s coming.
The special equipment of the mountaineer—alpenstock, ice axe, rope,crampons,scarpetti, etc.—need only be mentioned. They are not needed in climbing the mountains of eastern America, but only on giddy peaks, snowfields, and glaciers. Those interested will consult the works on mountaineering mentioned in the Bibliography.
From the pages of a pamphlet of the Appalachian Mountain Club this note is taken:
“Equipment does not end with the purchase of proper food, clothing, climbing and camping outfit. The prospective climber should give some thought to his physical and mental equipment. A strong heart, good lungs, and a reasonable amount of physical development and endurance are among the requisites and so, too, are courage, caution, patience and good nature. If in addition he is interested in topography, geology, photography, animal or plant life, by so much the more is his equipment, and consequently his enjoyment, increased.”
“Equipment does not end with the purchase of proper food, clothing, climbing and camping outfit. The prospective climber should give some thought to his physical and mental equipment. A strong heart, good lungs, and a reasonable amount of physical development and endurance are among the requisites and so, too, are courage, caution, patience and good nature. If in addition he is interested in topography, geology, photography, animal or plant life, by so much the more is his equipment, and consequently his enjoyment, increased.”
As to speed of walking and distance, see below,page 51; as to preliminary walking, in preparation for a tour, seepage 53.
One hardly needs the admonitions, eat plain food, sleep long, and keep body and clothing clean. The matter offoodbecomes complicated when one has to carry the supply of a day or two or of several days with him. Be careful to get, so far as possible, a large proportion of vegetable food—fresh vegetables and fruit.
When walking, the system requires large amounts of water, and, generally speaking, one shoulddrinkfreely. If one stops by a roadside spring on a hot day, he should rest a few minutes before drinking, and, if the water be very cold, he should drink sparingly. It is refreshing before drinking, and sometimes instead of drinking, to rinse mouth and throat with spring water. In the Alps the guides caution one not to drink snow water. In settled regions, drink boiled water only, unless assured of the purity of thesource. Beware of wells. It is a matter of safety, when traveling, to be inoculated against typhoid fever. Practice restraint in the use of ice cream, soda water, sweets, coffee, and tea.
The pedestrian should be careful to get as muchsleepas normally he requires at home, and somewhat more. He may not be so regular in hours, for he will find himself inclined to sleep an hour at midday, and at times to walk under the starlight, to be abroad in the dawn. And a walking tour would be a humdrum affair, if he did not yield to such inclination.
Abathat the end of the day—a sponge bath, if no better offers—is an indispensable comfort. While on the march one will come upon inviting places to bathe. Bathe before eating, not immediately after. If the water is very cold, it is well to splash and rub one’s body before plunging in. If much bathing tends to produce lassitude, one should limit himself to what is necessary.
Don’t overdo; on the march, whentired out, stop at the first opportunity—don’t keep going merely to make a record. Don’t invite fatigue. If, in hot weather, free perspiration should fail, stop immediately and take available measures to restore normal circulation.
Lamenessin muscles is due to the accumulation of waste matter in the tissues; elimination may be aided and lameness speedily relieved by drinking hot water freely and by soaking one’s body in a warm bath: the internal processes are accelerated, in freer blood circulation, while much is dissolved out through the pores of the skin. At the end of a long hard walk, the most refreshing thing is a drink—not of ice water, not of soda water, but a pint or so of hot water. Rubbing oil as a remedy for lame muscles is hardly worthcarrying; alcohol is a mistake. Bruised muscles should be painted lightly with iodine.
Care of feet.Always wash the feet thoroughly at the end of a tramp, and dry carefully, particularly between the toes. If the skin cracks and splits between the toes, wash at night with boric acid and soften with vaseline. It is better to allow toenails to grow rather long, and in trimming cut them straight across.
When resting at noon take off shoes and stockings, and, before putting them on again, turn the stockings inside out. If the weather be mild, let the feet remain bare until about to set out again; if there be water available, bathe the feet immediately on stopping. If, on the march, the arch of the foot should grow tired, consciously “toe in.”
If there is rubbing, binding, squeezing, with consequent tenderness at any point, stop at once, take off shoe and stocking, and consider what is to be done. It may suffice to protect the tender spot, applying a shred of absorbent cotton secured with a strip of adhesive tape; perhaps the thickness of the stocking may be changed, or the lacing of the shoe be eased or tightened. Bytighterlacing sometimes the play of the foot within the shoe may be diminished and undesirable rubbing or squeezing overcome. Talcum powder sprinkled on the foot will help to relieve rubbing, and soap rubbed on the stocking outside, above the tender place, is efficacious.
Sometimes, in spite of forethought, one may find one’s self walking in ill-fitting shoes; for example, the shoes though broad enough may be too short, and one’s toes in consequence may be cramped and squeezed in the toe of the shoe—particularly on down grades—until they become tender and even blistered. If then other expedientsfail, one has to examine his shoe carefully, determine precisely where the line of binding strain lies, and then—remembering that the shoe as it is, is worthless to him—slit leather and lining through, in a line transverse to the line of strain.
Should a blister, in spite of care, develop, let it alone, if possible. Don’t interfere with nature’s remedial processes. But, if one must go on walking with the expectation that the blister unless attended to will tear open, then one should drain it—not by pricking it through, however. Take a bright needle, sterilize it in the flame of a match, and run it under the skin from a point to one side, and so tap the blister. Then cover the area with adhesive tape. If there is abrasion, paint the spot with iodine, or apply a few crystals of permanganate of potassium and a drop or two of water, then cover with absorbent cotton and adhesive tape.
Be careful, on setting out in the morning, that any soreness or lameness of the preceding day has been met by the measures described.
Corns are caused by wearing tight or ill-fitting shoes. If one has a corn, he should get rid of it before attempting distance walking, and should thereafter wear shoes such as to assure him immunity.
Forsunburn, use talcum powder or cocoa butter. Do not expose large areas of the body to sunburn.
Acrampin the side may easily be relieved by drawing and retaining a deep breath, and bending over.
Thebowelsshould be kept open, and will be, if one orders his food aright. Constipation is to be carefully guarded against. One may, in spite ofhimself, after hard walking in hot weather, find difficulty. A harmless emergency relief is an enema of a few ounces of the colorless inert oil now sold under such names as “Russian” oil and “Nujol” (the Standard Oil Company’s preparation).
Medicinesare to be used only in emergency: cascara for constipation, or, in case of a sudden violent onset of illness, calomel; capsicum plaster for internal inflammation. But hot water within and without will generally relieve distress, and is the best remedy. Butdo not experiment; if a physician is available, call him.
Ammonia is an antidote for insect stings.
Snake-bites are, newspaper reports to the contrary, very, very rare. The bite of a poisonous serpent (rattlesnake or copperhead) requires heroic treatment. Suck the wound, cut it out immediately with a sharp knife, fill the incision with permanganate of potassium crystals and drop water upon the permanganate.
Care of clothing.Underclothes and stockings worn today may be washed tomorrow at the noon hour. Shirt, trousers—and underclothing too—should go to the tub every few days, as opportunity offers.
Shoes should be cleaned each day, washed in cold water and greased. If wet they should be carefully dried in gentle heat. Leather is easily ruined by scorching; never dry a shoe in heat unendurable to the hand. Shoes packed in newspaper overnight will be measurably dried by absorption. Keep the leather pliant with grease or oil, but not saturated. If one is going to walk through bogs, or in shallow water, then his shoes should be copiously oiled, but ordinarily one should oil his shoes with sparing hand.
Dr. Finley, President of the University of the State of New York, and Commissioner of Education, finely says:[1]“It is figurative language, of course, to speak of God’s ‘walking’ with man. But I do not know where to find a better expression for the companionship which one enjoys when walking alone on the earth. I should not speak of this if I thought it was an experience for the patriarchs alone or for the few. A man does not know one of the greatest satisfactions of life if he has not had such walks.”
The prophets of the cult—Hazlitt and Stevenson—are quite eloquent on the point, that the first joys of walking are reserved for those who walk alone; even Emerson cynically observes that a dog may on occasion be better company than a man. But the solitary Thoreau admits that he sometimes has a companion, while sociable Lawrence Sterne prettily says, “Let me have a companion of my way, were it but to remark how the shadows lengthen as the sun declines.”
Ordinarily, we prefer—most of us—to walk in company; if the tour is an extended one, continuing through many days, we certainly do. And nothing is more important than the choice of companions. A mistake here may be a kill-joy. Daily, hourly intercourse rubs individuality upon individuality, till every oddity, every sensitive point, is worn to the quick. Be forewarned, then, and be sure of one’s companions. Conversely, let a man be sure of himself, resolutely refusing to find offense, or to lose kindliness, good humor, and good will. “’Tis the best of humanity,” says Emerson, “that goes out to walk.”
A common interest in things seen, stimulated perhaps by reading matter carried along, may be the selective process in making up a party; but friendship underlies all.
A proved company of two, three, or four is best. With greater numbers, the party loses intimacy and coherence; furthermore, if dependent on hospitality by the way, difficulties arise. A housewife who willingly provides for two, may hesitate to entertain six.
If there be one in the party who has an aptitude for it, let him keep ajournal(in the form of letters home, perhaps). Such a record, illustrated by photographs, is a souvenir to afford long-continued delight.
When walking in out-of-the-way places it is the part of prudence always to have a companion; for, otherwise, in case of mishap, a man might be in sorry plight, or even in actual danger.
Give me the life I love,Let the lave go by me,Give the jolly heaven aboveAnd the byway nigh me.Bed in the bush with stars to see,Bread I dip in the river—There’s the life for a man like me,There’s the life for ever.Let the blow fall soon or late,Let what will be o’er me;Give the face of earth aroundAnd the road before me.Wealth I seek not, hope nor love,Nor a friend to know me;All I seek the heaven aboveAnd the road below me.Or let autumn fall on meWhere afield I linger,Silencing the bird on tree,Biting the blue finger.White as meal the frosty field—Warm the fireside haven—Not to autumn will I yield,Not to winter even!Let the blow fall soon or late,Let what will be o’er me;Give the face of earth aroundAnd the road before me.Wealth I ask not, hope nor love,Nor a friend to know me.All I ask the heaven aboveAnd the road below me.Robert Louis Stevenson.
Give me the life I love,Let the lave go by me,Give the jolly heaven aboveAnd the byway nigh me.Bed in the bush with stars to see,Bread I dip in the river—There’s the life for a man like me,There’s the life for ever.Let the blow fall soon or late,Let what will be o’er me;Give the face of earth aroundAnd the road before me.Wealth I seek not, hope nor love,Nor a friend to know me;All I seek the heaven aboveAnd the road below me.Or let autumn fall on meWhere afield I linger,Silencing the bird on tree,Biting the blue finger.White as meal the frosty field—Warm the fireside haven—Not to autumn will I yield,Not to winter even!Let the blow fall soon or late,Let what will be o’er me;Give the face of earth aroundAnd the road before me.Wealth I ask not, hope nor love,Nor a friend to know me.All I ask the heaven aboveAnd the road below me.Robert Louis Stevenson.
Give me the life I love,Let the lave go by me,Give the jolly heaven aboveAnd the byway nigh me.Bed in the bush with stars to see,Bread I dip in the river—There’s the life for a man like me,There’s the life for ever.
Give me the life I love,
Let the lave go by me,
Give the jolly heaven above
And the byway nigh me.
Bed in the bush with stars to see,
Bread I dip in the river—
There’s the life for a man like me,
There’s the life for ever.
Let the blow fall soon or late,Let what will be o’er me;Give the face of earth aroundAnd the road before me.Wealth I seek not, hope nor love,Nor a friend to know me;All I seek the heaven aboveAnd the road below me.
Let the blow fall soon or late,
Let what will be o’er me;
Give the face of earth around
And the road before me.
Wealth I seek not, hope nor love,
Nor a friend to know me;
All I seek the heaven above
And the road below me.
Or let autumn fall on meWhere afield I linger,Silencing the bird on tree,Biting the blue finger.White as meal the frosty field—Warm the fireside haven—Not to autumn will I yield,Not to winter even!
Or let autumn fall on me
Where afield I linger,
Silencing the bird on tree,
Biting the blue finger.
White as meal the frosty field—
Warm the fireside haven—
Not to autumn will I yield,
Not to winter even!
Let the blow fall soon or late,Let what will be o’er me;Give the face of earth aroundAnd the road before me.Wealth I ask not, hope nor love,Nor a friend to know me.All I ask the heaven aboveAnd the road below me.
Let the blow fall soon or late,
Let what will be o’er me;
Give the face of earth around
And the road before me.
Wealth I ask not, hope nor love,
Nor a friend to know me.
All I ask the heaven above
And the road below me.
Robert Louis Stevenson.
Robert Louis Stevenson.
Any day—every day, if that were possible. Says Thoreau, “I think that I cannot preserve my health and spirits, unless I spend four hours a day at least [in the open]”; and, again, he says of himself that he cannot stay in his chamber for a single day “without acquiring some rust.”
Recall Thoreau’s Journals. Their perennial charm lies largely in this, that he is abroad winter and summer, at seedtime and at harvest, in sun and rain, making his shrewd observations, finding that upon which his poetic fancy may play, finding the point of departure for his Excursions in Philosophy.
“The first care of a man settling in the country should be to open the face of the earth to himself by a little knowledge of Nature, or a great deal, if he can; of birds, plants, rocks, astronomy; in short, the art of taking a walk. This will draw the sting out of frost, dreariness out of November and March, and the drowsiness out of August.”—Ralph Waldo Emerson, “Resources.”
“The first care of a man settling in the country should be to open the face of the earth to himself by a little knowledge of Nature, or a great deal, if he can; of birds, plants, rocks, astronomy; in short, the art of taking a walk. This will draw the sting out of frost, dreariness out of November and March, and the drowsiness out of August.”
—Ralph Waldo Emerson, “Resources.”
The Daily Walk.Walking is to be commended, not as a holiday pastime, merely, but as part of the routine of life, in season and out. Particularly to city-dwellers, to men whose occupations are sedentary, is walking to be commended as recreation. Will a man assert himself too busy?—his neighbor plays a game of golf a week; he himself, perhaps, if he will admit it,is giving half a day a week to some pastime—may be a less wholesome one.
It is worth a man’s while to reckon on his walking every day in the week. It may well be to his advantage, in health and happiness, to extend his daily routine afoot—perhaps by dispensing with the services of a “jitney” from the suburban station to his residence, perhaps by leaving the train or street car a station farther from home, perhaps by walking down town to his office each morning.
The Weekly Walk.The environs of one’s home can scarcely be too forbidding. A range of ten miles out from Concord village satisfied Thoreau throughout life. Grant the surroundings of Concord exceptional—Thoreau’s demands were exceptional. Those who will turn these pages will be for the most part city folk; the resident of any of our cities may, with the aid of trolley, railway, and steamboat, discover for himself a dozen ten-mile walks in its environs—many of them converging to his home, some macadam paved and so available even in the muddy season, and any one of them possible on a Saturday or a Sunday afternoon.
What could a pedestrian ask more? A three-hour walk of a Saturday afternoon—exploring, perhaps, some region of humble historic interest, studying outcroppings of coal or limestone, making new acquaintance with birds, bees, and flowers, and enjoying always the wide sky, the sweep of the river, the blue horizon. No other recreation is comparable to this.
It is pleasurable to walk in fair, mild weather; but there is pleasure on gray, cold, rainy days, too. To exert the body, to pit one’s strength against the wind’s, to cause the sluggish blood tostream warm against a nipping cold, to feel the sting of sleet on one’s face—to bring all one’s being to hearty, healthful activity—by such means one comes to the end, bringing to his refreshment gusto, to his repose contentment.
The consistent pedestrian will score to his credit, every week throughout the year, ten miles of vigorous, sustained tramping. Five hundred miles a year makes an impressive showing, and is efficacious: it goes far to “slam the door in the doctor’s nose.”
The Walking Tour.Apart from, or, better, in addition to the perennial weekly walking about one’s home, there is the occasional walking tour: a two or three-day hike, over Labor Day, perhaps, or Washington’s Birthday; and then there is the longer vacation tour of two or three weeks’ duration.
With important exceptions, we, in our northern latitudes, arrange our walking tours in summer time. And, so far as concerns the exceptions, it will here suffice to remind ourselves of mountain climbing on snowshoes in winter, of ski-running and skating, and of the winter carnivals of sport held in the Adirondacks, in the Alps, and in the Rocky Mountains. In our southern states, however, no disadvantage attaches to winter; to the contrary, over a great part of that region, winter is the pleasanter season for the pedestrian. But summer is the season of vacations, and is, generally speaking, the time of good roads, fair skies, and gentle air. Then one can walk with greatest ease and freedom.
The choice of the particular fortnight for the “big hike” may be governed by all sorts of considerations; if the expedition be ornithological, and there is free choice, it will be taken in Mayor June, or perhaps in September; if to climb Mt. Ktaadn, it will preferably be in August. Again, one’s employer may, for his own reasons, fix the time. It is well, therefore, to formulate general statements, helpful in making choice of place, when once the season has been fixed.
In early summer, from the time the snow melts till mid July, the north woods are infested with buzzing, stinging, torturing mosquitoes; to induce one to brave these pests, large countervailing inducements must needs appear. Mountaineering in temperate latitudes is less advisable in the early summer than later; there is more rain then, and nights are cold, and, in the high mountains, soft snow is often an impedance. Throughout much of our country, June is a rainy month. In May and June, accordingly, and early July, one should by preference plan his walk in open settled country, in the foothills of mountain ranges, or across such pleasant regions as central New York or Wisconsin.
Late July, August and September are, for the most part, hot and dusty. At that season, accordingly, the great river basins and wide plains should be avoided; one should choose rather the north woods, the mountains, or the New England coast.
For the pedestrian September in the mountains and October everywhere are the crown of the year; the fires of summer are then burning low, storms are infrequent, the nip in the air stirs one to eagerness for the wide sky and the open road.
“The world has nothing to offer more rich and entertaining than the days which October always brings us, when after the first frosts, a steady shower of gold falls in the strong south windfrom the chestnuts, maples and hickories: all the trees are wind-harps, filling the air with music; and all men become poets, and walk to the measure of rhymes they make or remember.”—Ralph Waldo Emerson, “Country Life.”
“The world has nothing to offer more rich and entertaining than the days which October always brings us, when after the first frosts, a steady shower of gold falls in the strong south windfrom the chestnuts, maples and hickories: all the trees are wind-harps, filling the air with music; and all men become poets, and walk to the measure of rhymes they make or remember.”
—Ralph Waldo Emerson, “Country Life.”
If one is so fortunate as to have his holiday abroad, he will find the Italian hills or the Riviera delightful either in early spring or in late autumn; he will find the Alps at their best in midsummer; and, at intermediate seasons, there remain the Black Forest and the regions of the Seine, the Rhine, and the Elbe. As for Scotland and Ireland, no one has ventured to say when the rains are fewest.
“Can you hear what the morning says to you, and believethat? Can you bring home the summits of Wachusett, Greylock, and the New Hampshire hills?”—Ralph Waldo Emerson, “Country Life.”
“Can you hear what the morning says to you, and believethat? Can you bring home the summits of Wachusett, Greylock, and the New Hampshire hills?”
—Ralph Waldo Emerson, “Country Life.”
It is well, and altogether pleasantest, on the hike, to be under way early in the morning; and sometimes—particularly if the day’s march be short—to finish all, without prolonged stop. Ordinarily, it is preferable to walk till eleven or twelve o’clock, then to rest, wash clothing, have lunch, read, sleep, and, setting out again in the middle of the afternoon, to complete the day’s stage by five or six o’clock. Afterward come bath, clean clothes, the evening meal, rest, and an early bed.
But one’s schedule should not be inflexible; one should have acquaintance with the dawn, he should know the voices of the night. One forgets how many stars there are, till he finds himselfabroad at night in clear mountain air. An all-night walk is a wonderful experience, particularly under a full moon; and, in intensely hot weather, a plan to walk by night may be a very grateful arrangement.
Dr. John H. Finley, of the University of the State of New York, writes in theOutlook[3]reminiscently of walking by night:
“But the walks which I most enjoy, in retrospect at any rate, are those taken at night. Then one makes one’s own landscape with only the help of the moon or stars or the distant lights of a city, or with one’s unaided imagination if the sky is filled with cloud.“The next better thing to the democracy of a road by day is the monarchy of a road by night, when one has one’s own terrestrial way under guidance of a Providence that is nearer. It was in the ‘cool of the day’ that the Almighty is pictured as walking in the garden, but I have most often met him on the road by night.“Several times I have walked down Staten Island and across New Jersey to Princeton ‘after dark,’ the destination being a particularly attractive feature of this walk. But I enjoy also the journeys that are made in strange places where one knows neither the way nor the destination, except from a map or the advice of signboard or kilometer posts (which one reads by the flame of a match, or, where that is wanting, sometimes by following the letters and figures on a post with one’s fingers), or the information, usually inaccurate, of some other wayfarer. Most of these journeys have been made of a necessity that has prevented my making them by day, but I have in every case been grateful afterward for the necessity. In this country they have been usually among the mountains—the Green Mountainsor the White Mountains or the Catskills. But of all my night faring, a night on the moors of Scotland is the most impressive and memorable, though without incident. No mountain landscape is to me more awesome than the moorlands by night, or more alluring than the moorlands by day when the heather is in bloom. Perhaps this is only the ancestors speaking again.“But something besides ancestry must account for the others. Indeed, in spite of it, I was drawn one night to Assisi, where St. Francis had lived. Late in the evening I started on to Foligno in order to take a train in to Rome for Easter morning. I followed a white road that wound around the hills, through silent clusters of cottages tightly shut up with only a slit of light visible now and then, meeting not a human being along the way save three somber figures accompanying an ox cart, a man at the head of the oxen and a man and a woman at the tail of the cart—a theme for Millet. (I asked in broken Italian how far it was to Foligno, and the answer was, ‘Una hora’—distance in time and not in miles.) Off in the night I could see the lights of Perugia, and some time after midnight I began to see the lights of Foligno—of Perugia and Foligno, where Raphael had wandered and painted. The adventure of it all was that when I reached Foligno I found that it was a walled town, that the gate was shut, and that I had neither passport nor intelligible speech. There is an interesting walking sequel to this journey. I carried that night a wooden water-bottle, such as the Italian soldiers used to carry, filling it from the fountain at the gate of Assisi before starting. Just a month later, under the same full moon, I was walking between midnight and morning in New Hampshire. I had the same water-bottle and stopped at a spring to fill it. When I turned the bottle upside down, a few drops of water from the fountain of Assisi fellinto the New England spring, which for me, at any rate, has been forever sweetened by this association.“All my long night walks seem to me now as but preparation for one which I was obliged to make at the outbreak of the war in Europe. I had crossed the Channel from England to France, on the day that war was declared by England, to get a boy of ten years out of the war zone. I got as far by rail as a town between Arras and Amiens, where I expected to take a train on a branch road toward Dieppe; but late in the afternoon I was informed that the scheduled train had been canceled and that there might not be another for twenty-four hours, if then. Automobiles were not to be had even if I had been able to pay for one. So I set out at dusk on foot toward Dieppe, which was forty miles or more distant. The experiences of that night would in themselves make one willing to practice walking for years in order to be able to walk through such a night in whose dawn all Europe waked to war. There was the quiet, serious gathering of the soldiers at the place of rendezvous; there were the all-night preparations of the peasants along the way to meet the new conditions; there was the pelting storm from which I sought shelter in the niches for statues in the walls of an abandoned château; there was the clatter of the hurrying feet of soldiers or gendarmes who properly arrested the wanderer, searched him, took him to a guard-house, and detained him until certain that he was an American citizen and a friend of France, when he was let go on his way with a ‘Bon voyage’; there was the never-to-be-forgotten dawn upon the harvest fields in which only old men, women, and children were at work; there was the gathering of the peasants with commandeered horses and carts in the beautiful park on the water-front at Dieppe; and there was much besides; but they were experiences for themost part which only one on foot could have had.”
“But the walks which I most enjoy, in retrospect at any rate, are those taken at night. Then one makes one’s own landscape with only the help of the moon or stars or the distant lights of a city, or with one’s unaided imagination if the sky is filled with cloud.
“The next better thing to the democracy of a road by day is the monarchy of a road by night, when one has one’s own terrestrial way under guidance of a Providence that is nearer. It was in the ‘cool of the day’ that the Almighty is pictured as walking in the garden, but I have most often met him on the road by night.
“Several times I have walked down Staten Island and across New Jersey to Princeton ‘after dark,’ the destination being a particularly attractive feature of this walk. But I enjoy also the journeys that are made in strange places where one knows neither the way nor the destination, except from a map or the advice of signboard or kilometer posts (which one reads by the flame of a match, or, where that is wanting, sometimes by following the letters and figures on a post with one’s fingers), or the information, usually inaccurate, of some other wayfarer. Most of these journeys have been made of a necessity that has prevented my making them by day, but I have in every case been grateful afterward for the necessity. In this country they have been usually among the mountains—the Green Mountainsor the White Mountains or the Catskills. But of all my night faring, a night on the moors of Scotland is the most impressive and memorable, though without incident. No mountain landscape is to me more awesome than the moorlands by night, or more alluring than the moorlands by day when the heather is in bloom. Perhaps this is only the ancestors speaking again.
“But something besides ancestry must account for the others. Indeed, in spite of it, I was drawn one night to Assisi, where St. Francis had lived. Late in the evening I started on to Foligno in order to take a train in to Rome for Easter morning. I followed a white road that wound around the hills, through silent clusters of cottages tightly shut up with only a slit of light visible now and then, meeting not a human being along the way save three somber figures accompanying an ox cart, a man at the head of the oxen and a man and a woman at the tail of the cart—a theme for Millet. (I asked in broken Italian how far it was to Foligno, and the answer was, ‘Una hora’—distance in time and not in miles.) Off in the night I could see the lights of Perugia, and some time after midnight I began to see the lights of Foligno—of Perugia and Foligno, where Raphael had wandered and painted. The adventure of it all was that when I reached Foligno I found that it was a walled town, that the gate was shut, and that I had neither passport nor intelligible speech. There is an interesting walking sequel to this journey. I carried that night a wooden water-bottle, such as the Italian soldiers used to carry, filling it from the fountain at the gate of Assisi before starting. Just a month later, under the same full moon, I was walking between midnight and morning in New Hampshire. I had the same water-bottle and stopped at a spring to fill it. When I turned the bottle upside down, a few drops of water from the fountain of Assisi fellinto the New England spring, which for me, at any rate, has been forever sweetened by this association.
“All my long night walks seem to me now as but preparation for one which I was obliged to make at the outbreak of the war in Europe. I had crossed the Channel from England to France, on the day that war was declared by England, to get a boy of ten years out of the war zone. I got as far by rail as a town between Arras and Amiens, where I expected to take a train on a branch road toward Dieppe; but late in the afternoon I was informed that the scheduled train had been canceled and that there might not be another for twenty-four hours, if then. Automobiles were not to be had even if I had been able to pay for one. So I set out at dusk on foot toward Dieppe, which was forty miles or more distant. The experiences of that night would in themselves make one willing to practice walking for years in order to be able to walk through such a night in whose dawn all Europe waked to war. There was the quiet, serious gathering of the soldiers at the place of rendezvous; there were the all-night preparations of the peasants along the way to meet the new conditions; there was the pelting storm from which I sought shelter in the niches for statues in the walls of an abandoned château; there was the clatter of the hurrying feet of soldiers or gendarmes who properly arrested the wanderer, searched him, took him to a guard-house, and detained him until certain that he was an American citizen and a friend of France, when he was let go on his way with a ‘Bon voyage’; there was the never-to-be-forgotten dawn upon the harvest fields in which only old men, women, and children were at work; there was the gathering of the peasants with commandeered horses and carts in the beautiful park on the water-front at Dieppe; and there was much besides; but they were experiences for themost part which only one on foot could have had.”
In answer to a request for a contribution to this handbook, Dr. Finley replies generously, and to the point:
“I have never till now, so far as I can recall, tried to set down in order my reasons for walking by night. Nor am I aware of having given specific reasons even to myself. It has been sufficient that I have enjoyed this sort of vagrancy. But since it has been asked, I will try to analyze the enjoyment.“1. The roads are generally freer for pedestrians by night. One is not so often pushed off into the ditch or into the weeds at the roadside. There is not so much of dust thrown into one’s face or of smells into one’s nostrils. More than this (a psychological and not a physical reason) one is not made conscious by night of the contempt or disdain of the automobilist, which really contributes much to the discomfort of a sensitive traveler on foot by day. I have ridden enough in an automobile to know what the general automobile attitude toward a pedestrian is.“2. Many landscapes are more beautiful and alluring by moonlight or by starlight than by sunlight. The old Crusader’s song intimates this: ‘Fair is the sunlight; fairer still the moonlight and all the twinkling starry host.’ And nowhere in the world have I appreciated this more fully than out in Asia Minor, Syria, and Palestine, where the Crusaders and Pilgrims walked by night as well as by day. But I have particularly agreeable memories, too, of the night landscapes in the Green Mountains.“3. By night one is free to have for companions of the way whom one will out of any age or clime, while by day one is usually compelled, even when one walks alone, to choose only from the living and the visible. In Palestine, for example,I was free to walk with prophet, priest, and king by night, while by day the roads were filled with Anzacs and Gurkhas and Sikhs, and the like. Spirits walk by day, but it takes more effort of the imagination to find them and detach them. One of my most delightful night memories is of a journey on foot over a road from Assisi that St. Francis must have often trod.“4. There is always the possibility of adventure by night. Nothing can be long or definitely expected, and so the unexpected is always happening. I have been ‘apprehended’—I do not like to say ‘arrested’—several times when walking alone at night. Once, in France, I was seized in the street of a village through which I was passing with no ill intent, taken to a guard-house and searched. But that was the night of the day that war was declared. Once, and this was before the war, I was held up in Rahway, toward midnight, when I was walking to Princeton. I was under suspicion simply because I was walking, and walking soberly, in the middle of the road.“5. By day one must be conscious of the physical earth about one, even if there is no living humanity. By night, particularly if one is walking in strange places, one may take a universe view of things. Especially is this true if the stars are ahead of one and over one.“6. Then it is worth while occasionally to see the whole circle of a twenty-four hour day, and especially to walk into a dawn and see ‘the eye-lids of the day.’ I had the rare fortune to be on the road in France when the dawn came that woke all Europe to war. And I was again on the road one dawn when the war was coming to its end out in the East.“7. There are as many good reasons for walking by night as by day. But no better reasonthan that one who loves to walk by night can never fear the shadow of death.“You will ask if I have any directions to give. I regret to say that I have not. I seldom walk with else than a stick, a canteen of water, and a little dried fruit in my pocket—and a box of matches, for sometimes it is convenient to be able to read signboards and kilometer posts even by night.”
“I have never till now, so far as I can recall, tried to set down in order my reasons for walking by night. Nor am I aware of having given specific reasons even to myself. It has been sufficient that I have enjoyed this sort of vagrancy. But since it has been asked, I will try to analyze the enjoyment.
“1. The roads are generally freer for pedestrians by night. One is not so often pushed off into the ditch or into the weeds at the roadside. There is not so much of dust thrown into one’s face or of smells into one’s nostrils. More than this (a psychological and not a physical reason) one is not made conscious by night of the contempt or disdain of the automobilist, which really contributes much to the discomfort of a sensitive traveler on foot by day. I have ridden enough in an automobile to know what the general automobile attitude toward a pedestrian is.
“2. Many landscapes are more beautiful and alluring by moonlight or by starlight than by sunlight. The old Crusader’s song intimates this: ‘Fair is the sunlight; fairer still the moonlight and all the twinkling starry host.’ And nowhere in the world have I appreciated this more fully than out in Asia Minor, Syria, and Palestine, where the Crusaders and Pilgrims walked by night as well as by day. But I have particularly agreeable memories, too, of the night landscapes in the Green Mountains.
“3. By night one is free to have for companions of the way whom one will out of any age or clime, while by day one is usually compelled, even when one walks alone, to choose only from the living and the visible. In Palestine, for example,I was free to walk with prophet, priest, and king by night, while by day the roads were filled with Anzacs and Gurkhas and Sikhs, and the like. Spirits walk by day, but it takes more effort of the imagination to find them and detach them. One of my most delightful night memories is of a journey on foot over a road from Assisi that St. Francis must have often trod.
“4. There is always the possibility of adventure by night. Nothing can be long or definitely expected, and so the unexpected is always happening. I have been ‘apprehended’—I do not like to say ‘arrested’—several times when walking alone at night. Once, in France, I was seized in the street of a village through which I was passing with no ill intent, taken to a guard-house and searched. But that was the night of the day that war was declared. Once, and this was before the war, I was held up in Rahway, toward midnight, when I was walking to Princeton. I was under suspicion simply because I was walking, and walking soberly, in the middle of the road.
“5. By day one must be conscious of the physical earth about one, even if there is no living humanity. By night, particularly if one is walking in strange places, one may take a universe view of things. Especially is this true if the stars are ahead of one and over one.
“6. Then it is worth while occasionally to see the whole circle of a twenty-four hour day, and especially to walk into a dawn and see ‘the eye-lids of the day.’ I had the rare fortune to be on the road in France when the dawn came that woke all Europe to war. And I was again on the road one dawn when the war was coming to its end out in the East.
“7. There are as many good reasons for walking by night as by day. But no better reasonthan that one who loves to walk by night can never fear the shadow of death.
“You will ask if I have any directions to give. I regret to say that I have not. I seldom walk with else than a stick, a canteen of water, and a little dried fruit in my pocket—and a box of matches, for sometimes it is convenient to be able to read signboards and kilometer posts even by night.”
Stevenson speaks contemptuously of “the championship walker in purple stockings,” and indeed it is well to heed moderate counsel, lest, in enthusiasm forwalking, one misses after all the supreme joys of awalk. At the same time, there is danger of too little as well as of too much. To loiter and dilly-dally (to borrow again Stevenson’s phrase) changes a walk into something else—something more like a picnic.
Really to walk one should travel with swinging stride and at a good round pace. Ten or twenty miles covered vigorously are not half so wearying to body nor to mind as when dawdled through. One need not be “a champion walker in purple stockings” covering five miles an hour and fifty miles a day.
If one is traveling without burden, he should do three and a half to four miles an hour; if he carries twenty pounds, his pace should be not more than three and a half; and if he carries thirty, it should be three miles an hour, at most. When traveling under a load, one has no mind to run; on an afternoon’s ramble, one may run down gentle grades “for the fun of it,” but on the hike it is best always to keep one foot on the ground. The perennial, weekly, conditioningwalk should require about three hours; and the distance covered should be at least ten miles. On a tour, continued day after day, one should ordinarily walk for five, six, or seven hours a day, and cover, on the average, fifteen to twenty miles. With three weeks to spare, one has, say, ten to fifteen walking days—rain may interfere, there are things to be seen, one does not want to walk every day. At the average rate of twenty miles a day—which one can easily do under a fifteen-pound pack—the distance covered should be 200 to 250 miles. If one carries thirty pounds, he travels more slowly, and makes side trips, and covers a stretch of say a hundred miles of country.
The figures given are applicable to walking in comparatively level regions; in mountain climbing, of course, they do not hold. To ascend three thousand feet in elevation, at any gradient, is at the least a half-day’s work; it may be much more. Furthermore, in mountaineering at great and unaccustomed altitudes—8,000 feet and upwards—great care must be taken against over exertion. One who has had experience in ascending Alpine peaks will remember that, under the leadership of his guides, he was required to stop and rest for fifteen minutes in each hour, to eat an Albert biscuit, and to drink a swallow of tea mixed with red wine.
Professor William Morris Davis, in “Excursions around Aix-les-Bains,” gives the following notes upon speed in mountain-climbing:
“While walking up hill, adopt a moderate pace that can be steadily maintained, and keep going. Inexperienced climbers are apt to walk too fast at first and, on feeling the strain of a long ascent, to become discouraged and “give it up”; or ifthey persist to the top, they may be tempted to accept bodily fatigue as an excuse for the indolent contemplation of a view, the full enjoyment of which calls for active observation. Let these beginners remember that many others have shared their feelings, but have learned to regard temporary fatigue as a misleading adviser. There is no harm done if one becomes somewhat tired; exhaustion is prevented by reducing the pace when moderate fatigue begins. Let the mind rest on agreeable thoughts while the body is working steadily during a climb; when the summit is reached, let the body rest as comfortably as possible while the mind works actively in a conscious examination of the view. Avoid the error of neglecting the view after making a great effort in attaining the view point.“An ascent of 400 or 475 m. [1300-1550 feet] an hour may ordinarily be made on a mountain path; where paths are wanting, ascent is much slower; where rock climbing is necessary, slower still. Descent is usually much shortened by cutoffs at zigzags in the path of ascent: the time of descent may be only a half or a third of that required for ascent.”
“While walking up hill, adopt a moderate pace that can be steadily maintained, and keep going. Inexperienced climbers are apt to walk too fast at first and, on feeling the strain of a long ascent, to become discouraged and “give it up”; or ifthey persist to the top, they may be tempted to accept bodily fatigue as an excuse for the indolent contemplation of a view, the full enjoyment of which calls for active observation. Let these beginners remember that many others have shared their feelings, but have learned to regard temporary fatigue as a misleading adviser. There is no harm done if one becomes somewhat tired; exhaustion is prevented by reducing the pace when moderate fatigue begins. Let the mind rest on agreeable thoughts while the body is working steadily during a climb; when the summit is reached, let the body rest as comfortably as possible while the mind works actively in a conscious examination of the view. Avoid the error of neglecting the view after making a great effort in attaining the view point.
“An ascent of 400 or 475 m. [1300-1550 feet] an hour may ordinarily be made on a mountain path; where paths are wanting, ascent is much slower; where rock climbing is necessary, slower still. Descent is usually much shortened by cutoffs at zigzags in the path of ascent: the time of descent may be only a half or a third of that required for ascent.”
One should not set out on any tour, whether in the mountains or elsewhere, and, without preparation, undertake to do twenty miles a day. During the weeks preceding departure, one should be careful not to miss his ten-mile weekly hike; and he should, if possible, get out twice a week, and lengthen the walks.
In planning his itinerary, he will not fix the average distance and walk up to it each day. Let him go about the matter gradually—fifteen miles the first day, twenty the second; on the third day let him lie by and rest, and on the fourth do twenty again. With the fourth day he will find his troubles ended. The second day is, usually,the hardest—ankles tired, feet tender, shoulders lame from the burden of the knapsack; but, by sticking at it bravely through the afternoon, the crest of difficulty will be overpassed.
In this matter of speed and distance, figures are to be accepted with freedom. Individuals vary greatly in capacity. The attempt has been made to give fair estimates—a rate and range attainable by a fairly vigorous, active man, with clear gain. The caution should be subscribed, “Do not try to do too much.”
These are tests of endurance in speed, in distance, or in both; the play of the habitual pedestrian. Discussion of the matters ofspeedanddistancegives opportunity for the introduction, somewhat illogically, of this and the following sections.
There is, in the environs of a certain city, a walk of ten miles or better, a favorite course with a little company of pedestrians. No month passes that they do not traverse it. Normally, they spend two hours and a half on the way; if some slower-footed friend be of the party, it requires an hour more; their record, made by one of their number, walking alone, is two hours and twelve minutes.
Fired by the example of a distinguished pedestrian, who in the newspapers was reported to have walked seventy-five miles on his seventy-fifth birthday, one of the company just mentioned essayed to do the like—a humbler matter in his own case. He is, however, so far advanced into middle age that he won with a good margin the trophy of the League of Walkers, given to everymember who covers thirty miles afoot in a single day.
Mr. George Goulding, the Canadian world’s champion, has generously contributed the following paragraphs on Competitive Walking. The definition of a “fair gate,” taken by Mr. Goulding for granted, is, “one in which one foot touches the ground before the other leaves it, only one leg being bent in stepping, namely, that which is being put forward.”