THE ART OF CAMPING 
From the Utilitarian Standpoint 
BY CHARLES A. BRAMBLE 
(Copyright, 1906, by Charles A. Bramble) 
IV.—On Makino Camp 
ae|OTHING seems sim- 
f| pler, to a person who 
| | the choosing of a camp- 
| site, yet an astonishing 
number of uncomfort- 
‘| able camps are made by 
men until they have ac- 
quired considerable ex- 
perience. Often, when 
traveling on some wil- 
derness stream, or with 
a pack-train in the mountains, I have seen 
one of the men cast a longing eye at some 
spot as he passed, and then turn away to 
regretfully remark that it was a ‘bully 
good place to camp.” Yet, to the unprac- 
ticed eye it would not seem particularly 
desirable, not more so, perhaps, than a hun- 
dred other places seen ’ during the morning’s 
travel, but, had a halt been ‘made, it would 
no doubt have proved an excellent ground. 
Men who have lived in the open air seem to 
know almost instinctively where a camp 
could be made with comfort. Unfortu- 
nately there is a time for traveling and a 
time for camping, and, although it is wise 
never to delay until the last minute if you 
can help it, many a site has to be passed 
early in the afternoon and an inferior one 
put up with later on. 
The easiest way to indicate a good camp- 
ing ground, perhaps, is to point out the 
drawbacks of a bad one. One of the worst 
camps I have ever made was on the Ottawa 
River between Mattawa and Lake Timis- 
kaming. This was before the railway had 
penetrated to that region. I had for guide 
a well-known hunter and trapper, Mac- 
Donald, alias “Jimmie, the Duck,” and 
Jimmie was somewhat notorious for being 

has never tried it, than. 
careless of his comfort; he kept us paddling 
and portaging until it was almost dark, and 
then we had to pitch the tent upon a spit 
of shingle. There was no time to cut 
brush—it was late in October and twilight 
is very short in the latitude of upper 
Ottawa in that month—so we just spread 
a waterproof sheet on top of the cobble- 
stones and then rolled ourselves in our 
blankets. 
It was simply unbearable. We were 
dog tired, yet sleep was impossible. The 
tent had been very badly pitched, there was 
several degrees of frost, and the keen wind 
penetrated everywhere, while the stony 
couch made one’s bones ache and rendered 
sound sleep impossible. The moral of this 
is: ‘‘Don’t camp on a bed of shingles.” 
I would also add: “Don’t choose pure 
sand to camp on if you can help it, as it 
is very cold at night and very warm by 
day.” 
Another requisite is a level spot. Twice 
in my life I have failed to find places to 
camp in that were sufficiently level to permit 
of reasonable comfort. Once, on the Tra- 
cadie River, in New Brunswick, we ran 
until long after dark, and ended by camping 
on a steep bank because we were too tired 
to carry all the duffle to the plateau above. 
On another occasion, in northern British 
Columbia, we left camp at eight o’clock in 
the evening to climb a mountain that rose 
3,000 feet above the valley, with the idea 
of seeing the sun rise on the Cassear Range. 
[The sun rose at 1.30 A.M.] We were 
far above tree line, at the foot of a small 
glacier, by 10 P. M., so we decided to have 
an hour’s sleep and continue on to the 
summit in time to see the sun rise; but the 
ground was so steep that as soon as we 
