212 BOOK OF A HUNDRED BEARS 



pan, and the pail for the coffee. You are at home 

 wherever there is wood, water and grass. There 

 are no ^^rates/' special or otherwise; no tips, no 

 cringing creature licking your boots for an extra 

 quarter. You have the bridal chamber without 

 charge. There are no masses or classes on the 

 trail. You are your own man, just as good or bad 

 as you really are, without varnish or gilding. 



My old friend Dan, who has ridden the trail 

 for thirty years, knows every path and pass in 

 the Rockies and Sierras and has become a phil- 

 osopher by virtue of the long loneliness of the 

 trail, where one has nothing to do but think about 

 things, says there are many tests of a man, but 

 the best is the trail. 



If he can sit his saddle without galling his horse, 

 or worrying his mouth; if he can do his ten hours a 

 day without a murmur and at nightfall see to his 

 horse before himself; if he can make his own bed, 

 pack his own blankets and cook his own grub; 

 if he can rise in the cold, early dawn of those high 

 altitudes, wash in ice-cold water, comb his hair 

 with a pine cone and still be cheerful and smiling; 



