44 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[Aug. 11, 1887. 



CAMPING ON THE EASTERN COAST.-I. 



FOR more than six weeks straight on end the Scribe 

 had camped in a little 8x4 stateroom, where, although 

 not a largo man, he could seldom manage to turn around 

 without bumping the crazy bone of his elbowB. And all 

 the time he had been waiting and watching for a chance 

 to get out and away to the woods for a little genuine 

 camp life. It had been on the programme that when the 

 yacht reached a point in southern Florida where she 

 could be safely left in charge of her crew, the Skipper 

 and the Scribe should go to the woods, make camp in the 

 pleasantest spot to be found and proceed to possess their 

 souls in peace and comfort. And now that the time had 

 come the Scribe promptly suggested that the Skipper 

 in the dinghy and himself in the canoe should wind 

 themselves through the puzzling and interminable 

 channels, marshes, Dayous and lagoons that lay between 

 the ocean and the pine woods for one week at least of 

 dry, wholesome, open air outing. Rather to his surprise 

 the Skipper failed to see it. He was quite comfortable 

 where he was. He had his choice of two fine boats, with 

 a stout sailor man to pull him wherever he chose to go, let 

 alone that the dinghy had a leg o' mutton sail and was 

 fast under canvas. With a good breeze she could beat the 

 canoe under paddle about one mileinthree, by Avhich it 

 happened that the Scribe, attempting to keep company, 

 was constantly getting left and was only too glad to ac- 

 cept a tow, winch, to say the least, was humiliating to an 

 enthusiastic canoeist. It was one thing to sit in the stern 

 sheets of the "captain's gig" and handle the taaseled tiller 

 ropes while Pilot Joe pulled a vigorous oar against wind 

 and tide, and another thing quite to bring up the rear in 

 an 181b. canoe with the double blade. On more than one 

 occasion the Scribe, after following the gig all day, 

 reached the yacht after dark nearly exhausted ; and the 

 Skipp r was apt to improve the occasion something after 

 the following manner: "Well, old boy, we're home again. 

 Tired, eh? Well, you've nothing to do but turn in and 

 sleep till morning. Joe will take care of your canoe and 

 duffle ; and you haven't got to break your back toting 

 nightwood and getting browse for your bed. Al will at- 

 tend to that." (Al is the steward, and a better one would 

 be hard to find. It is true that he keeps my little room in 

 apple-pie order. And he also brings me a small cup of hot 

 coffee every morning before I turn out. It is very 

 aesthetic, very high-toned, and after the manner of yacht- 

 ing everywhere, I suppose.) 



In response to the Skipper's suggestive remarks the 

 Scribe -lets himself out to the following effect: "It is as 

 you say, Captain, I may cauip in my little stateroom and 

 be waited on to any reasonable extent, without the trouble 

 of making camp and getting night wood. But my soul 

 wearies of damp sea air and dead sea-levels, let alone that 

 an endless landscape of saw-grass, dead brush and muddy 

 water channels is not inspiriting to one who loves the 

 living forest. A wax candle in a small stateroom is a 

 weak substitute for the bright camp-fire thatwarrns your 

 feet and lights the camp through the dark watches of the 

 night. As to chopping and toting night wood, why that 

 is only one of the pleasures of camping out, which", with 

 hunting, fishing and coolring, just rounds out the time. 

 Let us lay all means have one week of it." 



But the Skipper would not be entreated, and perhaps he 

 was right. He was both owner and captain, and much 

 experience had taught him that any vessel in commission 

 needed the constant presence of a commander. Also, he 

 was under the impression that a roomy stateroom with all 

 the modern conveniences and good attendance was quite 

 as comfortable as an open camp with its inevitable con- 

 comitants of sand flies, mosquitoes and red bugs, not to 

 mention the probable contingencies of contrary winds, 

 smoke and violent thunder storms. He volunteered, 

 however, to lead the way up Spruce Creek with Joe for 

 pilot, and as Spruce Creek was the most promising stream 

 for a camping ground in all that region, the Scribe closed 

 with the offer at once. 



Spruce Creek is a tributary of Halifax River, which it 

 enters just opposite the neat bttle hamlet called Ponce 

 Park. Standing on the little Avharf at the park and look- 

 ing to the northwest you have a broad stretch of dead 

 mangrove keys under your eyes, with a distant line of 

 living forest in the background. Through a labyrinth 

 of keys and muddy channels you work your way to the 

 green woods, after a weary paddle of three miles, and 

 you need a pilot to get there. 



And so it happened that on the I Oth of the last Febru- 

 ary as ever was, the Nessmuk, Jr., was following the 

 captain's gig up the intricate channels of Spruce Creek to 

 the bay, three miles above. The bay is an expansion of 

 the creek (it would be a river anywhere ha Europe), and 

 is about a mile wide in any direction. There is a little 

 settlement on the west side, and on the north, just where 

 the stream enters the bay, the ruins of the "old bridge." 

 The new bridge is a half mile higher up, and above this 

 the creek is a respectable stream with well defined banks, 

 which rise in some places to a height of 50ft. Near the 

 east end of the ruined bridge is a clean, dry shell ham- 

 mock, and near at hand, under a large live oak, is a spring 

 of very good water — for Florida. On the bank of the 

 creek in the edge of the hammock is a capital camping 

 ground, and here, after a few minutes spent in prospect- 

 ing, the Scribe commenced putting up a camp, while 

 Pilot Joe started a fire on a pile of shell oysters (about 

 three pecks of them), for roasted oysters are the Skipper's 

 weakness; and when he goes for a day's outing, Al has 

 standing orders to fill a bag with the bivalves and stow it 

 away m the forward locker, with a well filled lunch 

 basket and a bottle of wine. 



Roasted oysters are good, but they should be washed 

 clean, spread evenly instead of being piled pyramid 

 fashion, and the fire should be made of dry, hard wood 

 instead of flashy palmetto stems. As it was, the oysters 

 on top were dried up, those on the bottom did not open 

 their shells, and only a portion in the center were well 

 roasted. There were enough, however. And after the 

 empty wine bottle had been turned over to the Scribe for 

 a water bottle and the party had done justice to the 

 Skippe 's Lone Jack, the gig went off up stream to try for 

 channel bass, sea trout and big-mouth bass. For just 

 here, where the tide meets and pushes back the stream, 

 there is a long stretch of water where you may catch 

 fresh and salt-water fish in the same reaches. It was 

 nearly sundown when the gig came back, and the Scribe, 

 who had worked like a beaver, had as cosy a camp as one 

 need wish to see; but the Skipper declined to stay the 

 night in camp and let Joe come for him in the morning, 



incidentally bringing a few supplies for the camp. But 

 they had made a very fair day of it_, too. The Skipper 

 had taken half a dozen fine fish, weighing from l^to 5ibs,, 

 and they had "saved" a bushel of oranges from some 

 man's grove. Joe is an excellent forager. 



"I am heineously unprovided. Oh for a smart young thief of 

 two or three and twenty! Where shall I find me one that can 

 steal well?" -Fallstaff. 



I think Joe wotdd have filled the bill. 



The sun was shining through the pine tops in the west 

 as the party in the gig pulled out for the yacht, leaving a 

 camp supply of fish and oranges, with a promise to come 

 back on the third day with a supply of bread and bacon, 

 of which the camp was short. The Scribe watched the 

 boat until the flash of her oars was lost in rounding the 

 point where the stream leaves the. bay, and then turned 

 to the camp with a feeling of relief and freedom easily 

 understood by any old woodsman who has bunked for six 

 weeks at a stretch in the little stateroom of a small yacht. 



The night was fine, there was a glorious moon, and no 

 lack of animal life about the bay or in the hammocks on 

 either side of it. Marsh hens, herons, owls and chatter- 

 ing: coons, with an occasional guttural bellow from a 

 'gator kept the camp from seeming lonely, and the fire of 

 seasoned oak was on its good behavior. "It is good to be 

 here," murmured the Scribe, as he stretched hirnself on 

 the blankets and pulled drowsily at the pipe. "To-mor- 

 row I'll see— what's in these — 'er — hammocks— if I aint — 

 too tired." And the Scribe was asleep. 



It was like coming home after a weary cruise to waken 

 at early dawn, rouse up the fire and brew a cup of clear 

 strong coffee, and then lazily listen to a mockingbird 

 singing insanely but sweetly from the oak by the spring, 

 and a cardinal in his best coat warbling from a hickory 

 right by the corner of the tent, while a pair of chewinks 

 foraged for crumbs within a yard of the back log. 



And the old, old story was taken up once more: the 

 storey that is acted over and over again but never tires. 

 Loafing sdently through the woods, sitting on a log, get- 

 ting an occasional shot at a squirrel or rabbit, lounging 

 about camp, cutting night- wood and "fixing up." A real 

 woodsman is always "fixing up" the camp when there is 

 nothing else to do, and the camp is always growing more 

 easy and comfortable the longer it is occupied. There 

 was no lack of interest or incident to fill out the time. It 

 was only a mile to the nearest orange grove, and there 

 -was good fishing in the stream, the best and gamiest fish 

 being the sea trout or weakfish. There were ducks on the 

 bay and squirrels in the hammock near camp, while on 

 the other side of the stream there was a large hammock 

 with better hunting. 



Two miles up stream there is a high ridge known as 

 "Mount Altitude," and following up the ridge for a half 

 mile you strike the "Big Hammock," concerning which 

 you will be told some big stories (mostly lies) of bear-, deer, 

 turkeys and panthers. The natives will tell you of a 

 panther that was shot in this hammack, so large that it 

 required four stout men to hang him up, and even then 

 the head did not clear the ground. "I think," said a tall 

 cracker who assisted at the skinning, "he must 'ave 

 weighed more 'n 3001bs." He evidently believed what he 

 said, and another man who helped hang the beast up cor- 

 roborated his story. Mr. N. Hasty, the founder of Ponce 

 Park, who saw and measured the panther, says, "Yes; I 

 tliink it was the biggest panther that has been killed in 

 this part of Florida in the thirteen years I have lived 

 here. It measured about 9ft. from tip of nose to end of 

 tail, and weighed, I should say, about 15()lbs. I have 

 known much larger ones to be killed in the Adirondacks." 



The Scribe made a point of prospecting the Big Ham- 

 mock from end to end and from side to side. He found 

 two trails crossing it, one from north to south, the other 

 from east to west, and it was not more than a mile and a 

 half in extent the longest way. A fair day's walk was 

 sufficient to do the famous hammock pretty thoroughly. 

 There is a fine brook running through it from northwest 

 to southeast, and in the soft soil along the margin were a 

 few old tracks of deer, with one small bear track. A sol- 

 itary gobbler opened his call within 50yds. of the trail, 

 whereupon the Scribe got out his call and gently played 

 t wo or three of his most seductive squawks. There was 

 a faint, rapid patter of receding footsteps in the hammock, 

 and that gobbler was heard no more. The peculiar "yelp- 

 ing" of the Scribe usually has that effect on the turkey 

 tribe; and why and wherefore no one understands except 

 the turkeys. The yelping is admitted by the best judges 

 to be a good imitation, and it deceives the home turkey 

 every time. Perhaps the wild one has a nicer ear. 



The Scribe seated himself on a log, filled his pipe, and 

 proceeded to muse and moralize after the following man- 

 ner: "Well, here I am, in a hammock in southern 

 Florida, trying to call the turkeys, which, like spirits 

 from the vasty deep, the more they are called the more 

 they don't come. On the contrary, quite the reverse, dash 

 'em. It's just as well. In the last fifty years I have 

 learned a good many shiftless, thriftless accomplishments 

 connected with woods life ; but my worst enemy can't 

 accuse me of being a turkey hunter, and I'm glad of it. 

 Who ever knew a successful turkey hunter to own a de- 

 cent coat, and a whole pair of boots? What can you ex- 

 pect of a crank who will leave the fresh track of a buck 

 to follow a turkey track, knowing that the bird can run 

 like the wind, and when he is tired of running can end 

 the race by flying clear away ? Long ago — in the 40's — I 

 hunted in Eaton county, Michigan, wdth a partner night 

 Ez Putnam, and Ez was a most inveterate turkey crank. 

 Time and again he came into camp after an all day hunt, 

 covered with ignominy and turkeys that we had no use 

 for ; and this when the tracking was just perfect, and 

 deer so plenty that you could seldom follow a single track 

 without getting mixed. For more than two weeks he 

 kept this up, dining which time he only killed two deer, 

 though there were still-hunters in the same range who 

 averaged more than a deer per day. Of course we were 

 hunting for sport — but with an eye to market — and tur- 

 keys were of little value in Marshall, which was our ship- 

 ping point. 



I remonstrated, mildly at first; then firmly, and finally 

 with sarcasm and even abuse. He took it patiently, even 

 penitently, as though he had been a confirmed inebriate 

 with a strong desire to reform. His excuse was that he 

 couldn't help it. He had been "drawed into it" by old 

 Ned Cooper, the best (or worst ) >' urkey hunter in the State, 

 and somehow he found it a hard thing to break off. "You 

 see," he explained, "I go out at dayhght and find a big 

 deer's track; I just swear myself to follow it till I get the 

 deer, and in an hour or two I run afottl of a flock of tur- 



keys and get a fan* standin' shot. Of course I cut loose, 

 and then the rest of the flock tree up, some of 'em in 

 plain sight. Would you, would any man, go off and 

 leave 'em without shootin? I reckon not. And when a 

 man has got two or three turkeys to tote along, it stands 

 to reason he aint goin' to run after deer very fur that day. 

 That's how it is." 



Such woodland depravity might be pitied or condoned 

 even; but it would hardly wash in camp, when turkeys 

 were about worthless, while venison saddles were quick 

 sale at ten cents per pound. So Ez and I made an equit- 

 able divvy of the plunder and dissolved. And that was 

 more than forty years ago. I wonder on which side of 

 the Dark Divide is he working his turkey call now? For 

 no land devoid of turkeys could be a heaven to him. 



This much by way of digression. 



As the Scribe finished smoking and stowed away the 

 pipe, his ear caught the soft crash and rustle of a squirrel 

 traveling along the treetops, a sound that every woods- 

 man knows so well. It was a beautiful gray or hammock 

 squirrel, and he was making straight for the trail which 

 he was destined never to cross; for just as he let himself 

 out for an extra hazardous leap, half a dozen chilled shot 

 crashed through his sleek gray pelt, and he fell dead at 

 the edge of the trail. It seemed a brutal thing to do. 

 But when the average sportsman gets loose in the woods, 

 with an empty stomach under his shooting jacket and a 

 scatter gun in his hands, beautiful plumage and sleek fur 

 are poor protection against his savagery. 



The Scribe sauntered up the trail to the northward, 

 crossed the creek with its miry bottom, climbed the steep 

 bank where the hammock ends and the scrub begins, and 

 followed out to where the scrub peters out to thin wire 

 grass, dwarf palmetto and flat pine lands. Nothing can 

 be more dreary and monotonous than these "flat lands" 

 as they are called. They have a scattering growth of 

 southern pine, too small for lumber, usually. The soil is 

 absolutely worthless, there is no shade (the pine tops are 

 too thin), and no life save an occasional woodpecker. 

 Even the half wild cattle and wilder hogs avoid the 

 flat lands. Only one thing can be said in their favor. 

 They afford excellent roads — when not under water. 



A mile of such traveling was enough, and the Scribe 

 turned back. Just as he was entering the scrub a small 

 bevy of quail darted across the trail, scurrying for shel- 

 ter, and quick work with the first barrel saved a brace of 

 them. A slow, cautious walk down the trail to the bank 

 where the canoe had been left, gave another squirrel, 

 which was plenty for camp use, and the Scribe descended 

 the high, steep bank, found the canoe safe and paddled 

 leisurely down stream, stopping a while at Mt. Altitude 

 to see an old darkey catch sheepshead, which were of the 

 largest size, and again at the bridge to see a white lad 

 throw a light Spanish cast-net for mullet in deep water, 

 at which he was very successful, and then to camp. 



A few minutes suffices to start a lively fire, put on the 

 camp kettle and dress a gray squirrel for supper. Unlike 

 his big brother, the fox squirrel, he lives almost entirely 

 on hickory nuts, by which it happens he is of superior 

 quality as regards flavor, fat and tenderness; and, in fact, 

 there is no better game brought to the camp-fire than the 

 gray or hammock squirrel of' Florida. The fox squirrel 

 is twice as large, often weighing S^lbs.; but he lives 

 mainly on acorns and the seeds of pine cones, and, though 

 very good in a stew, is inferior to Iris smaller brother, 

 either broiled, stewed or fried. And here, dropping the 

 impersonal, let me say that, dur ng more than fifteen 

 months spent in the woods and wilds of Florida, I never 

 saw a fox squirrel at work on a hickory nut. I doubt if 

 he can get at the inside of one. As to the gray squirrel 

 of the South, he only differs from his congener of the 

 North in having a lighter brush and weighing an ounce or 

 two less. 



The Florida quail also weighs less by an ounce than his 

 Northern cousin, and he is a handsomer bird withal. I 

 shot a good many during the two winters I camped on 

 the Gulf coast, and to say the truth I always felt a little 

 ashamed of murdering such cute, beau tif til things for a 

 few ounces of meat, knowing in my conscience that hog. 

 and hominy was quite as good fare as I deserved. 



To conclude with a few lines on camp cookery. Don't 

 go back on the frying-pan ; it is the main, and the best 

 cooking utensil in camp. But, to fry well is something: 

 of a knack, and requires care. Small game and fish are 

 apt to curl up and warp away from hot iron, which ren- 

 ders it difficult to get the right brown on either. To 

 obviate this fit your fish or game so it will lie flat in the 

 pan, have the fat hot, but not hot enough to scorch, have 

 a tin plate that will just fit easily into the frying-pan, 

 and press it on to the contents of the pan firmly, with a 

 stone on the plate heavy enough to keep it in position. 

 When nicely browned on one side, turn, and brown the 

 other. It is rather an old dodge ; but I constantly run 

 across outers who complain that they cannot make trout, 

 squirrels, etc., lie flat enough in the pan to brown prop- 

 erly. Only the hind quarters of squirrels, rabbits and 

 opossums should be fried ; and these, as well as birds, 

 should be first parboiled until tender. Nessmuk. 



FRAGMENTS FROM A LETTER FILE. 



Am glad to know that "Uncle Lisha's Shop" is to appear in 

 book form. I'm good for one. I've been out West and up to the 

 Sault since I wrote you, but did not have any fishing. The war- 

 riors who sling the dip-net at the Sault for whitefish demanded 

 $4 per half day to paddle his white brother where perhaps he 

 might catch a fingerling, and my exchequer didn't warrant any 

 such disbursal. 1 have been out ou Lake Erie once or twice after 

 pike and bass, with fair success. 



There are two gentlemen here In my room and three more on 

 tbe verandah just outside the door. All are smoking and talking, 

 and have been for two hours. I have been trying to write, how 

 much of a success you will see if you, by any possibility, can read 

 the inclosed. I cannot write, smoke, laugh at the proper point in 

 a story, and do it all properly at the same time. 



The one question with me is, will it pay me to go so far? i. e., 

 shall I find the fishing sufficiently good? I must have fishing from 

 a boat, because I am not able to walk. This has led me to think 

 much of Lake St. Joseph. As to roughing it— in the sense of plain 

 food, sparsely furnished rooms, etc.— I am quite prepared for all 

 that. My physical condition forbids exposure. If the fishing is 

 good, that is the thing for which I chiefly care. 



Outing depends upon several things for success. The very first, 

 think, is good fellowship and a desire to enjoy everything con- 

 ducive to health. And it is all conduoive to health if not spoiled 

 by a. capricious man. 



