228 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Sept. 15, 1894. 
CHICAGO AND THE WEST. 
[From a Staff Correspondent.] 
Camp "Forest and Stream's" Fourth Annual. 
Chicago, III., Aug. 1,— In former years I have told of 
the summer camping seasons which, in company with an 
elderly gentleman who, my friends tell me, has a strong 
facial resemblance to myself, though quite unlike me in 
disposition or in morals, I have spent each year for some 
time back in one of the loveliest spots in the great pleas- 
ure ground which stretches from Chicago to Lake Superior, 
and from Lake Michigan to the Mississippi. Sometimes 
there have been friends with us, different friends from 
year to year, but always we two have kept the fire alive 
together, and we hope, to do so for many years to come. 
I believe I have told how we discovered our spot— how we 
intended to run the Fox River on a fishing trip, but got 
to the village of Mukwonago, discovered Phantom Lake 
and never left it. The next year we did not leave it, nor 
the next,' nor the next, nor the next, in spite of cottages 
built on our camp-fires, and of the great Phantom Inn, 
which took from us our best lookout knoll and two of our 
very best springs of living water. 
In fact, we never could find a better place for our little 
summer c-.mp, though it falls to my lot in the year to see 
a considerable amount of out-of-door country. I have 
followed the Wisconsin Central Line, on which the village 
of Mukwonago is situated, until it was lost in the pine 
woods, and I have followed other lines in all sorts of 
directions out of Chicago, but I never could find a place 
which suited quite so well. This year, on account of the 
high degree of popularity— to which Dr. Ennis had 
brought the Phantom Inn, we vowed we would go some- 
where else. But when it came to duplicating the place 
where J. B. H. and Al. got the seventeen small-mouths, 
or the spot where the Chief-with-two-Stomachs, of be- 
loved gu-tatorial memory, got the four 61b. bass one 
afternoon, or the little lake where the same Chief got the 
bass last year which divided the Natchaug Silk Co. $25- 
prize for big-mouth bass (61bs. 2oz.), or the creek where 
we got the small-mouths on the fly, or the place where 
we caught the big-moutbs on the fly — why, when this 
was demanded of me as high hustler in general of camp 
sites, it was sufficient to give me pause, as they say in the 
school of advanced thought. To be sure, there were fish 
being taken in many counties near by, but could we be sure 
of as many in as much variety? Others might not be able 
to wheedle the trained bass of those much fished waters 
into camp, but we had always done, always taking the 
largest bass of the season for that section, and as large as 
we heard of in any other section near by. Moreover, 
as J. B. H. remarked, where could we find grass so 
green as that which grew round our former camp- 
fires? Where should we look for oak trees as 
large and rugged and beautiful? Where should we 
find as much wildness with as much seclusion? It 
might be all very well, he reasoned, to go further north, 
and get mascallonge, but in doing that would we not sac- 
rifice ham and eggs, which latter are an excellent thing in 
camping? We might go into the pine woods, and get 
more aroma, but we would also get more mosquitoes, and 
less good bread and butter. We might get more water 
and more work, but where could we find as pleasant 
scenery, as good a return for lazy men's work, and as gen- 
erally lovable a land for a camp of rest? Could we any- 
where find a prettier country than the rolling hardwood 
hills of Waukesha and Walworth counties in Wisconsin? 
Lastly, J. B. H. demanded of me, where were we to find, 
elsewhere, a spring of ice-cold silver purity like the Kel- 
logg spring; where should we duplicate the Beulah spring 
by the roadside to the lake, and how could we be sure of 
finding another lake with eight springs flowing into it, 
as our small lake had? In addition, were there not cer- 
tain waters further inland which had not yet had their 
proper exploration? Quite aside from that, where was to 
be found a country where shag bark, hickory bark and 
oak chips could be picked for broiling fuel, almost, so to 
speak, at the back door of the tent? And after all, asked 
J. B. H., was I really sure there was anywhere else in the 
world a glade so lovely as the one where the big oaks 
made the tangle of shadow back of our last camp? And 
could I get butter, eggs, fresh vegetables, bass, fruit, 
friendship and perfect water, all along with such a glade 
if I did find it? & 
After J. B. H. asked me all these questions I hunted for 
a while looking for a spot as good as ours, and with no 
hotel near it, but at length I gave it up. The late days of 
June found us once more at the Wisconsin Central Depot 
in Chicago, with our small camp outfit checked through 
to Mukwonago. Old man Dillenbeck, as genial and pro- 
fane as ever, brought the same old many-seated rig, as 
jouncy and jolty as ever, and we piled in our baggage and 
drove through the woods for the west shore of the lake, 
over roads as dusty and stony as ever. We passed the lit- 
tle white schoolhouse on the hill, shook hands once more 
with our old friend Moxon, who guards the road leading 
down to the lake on that side, got of him full consent and 
a jag of straw for our camp, and in ten minutes after 
that were in the leafy solitude of the west shore of Phan- 
om. 
Not so rough as the Rockies, not so wild as the pine 
woods of Superior, not so fashionable as the Adirondacks 
was our locality, but someway the grass looked wonder- 
fully green and the woods looked wonderfully inviting. 
As we pulled the last small bundle out of the wagon I 
saw J. B. H. stand up and look about him with a sigh of 
satisfaction, and then I knew it would nave been unwise 
for me to have settled upon any other camping spot in the 
world but this. J. B. H. looked about him. Then he 
cut off a chew of tobacco (he can't bite it off any more) 
and sighed peacefully again, and I reckon he was happy. 
We discovered a tent upon our camping spot of last 
year, and at this we looked with hostility. But from it 
came four boys, and in a moment we recognized the 
Waukesha youngsters whom we had chartered to catch 
frogs for us the year before. They were out on their 
annual summer camping trip, and seemed rejoiced to 
see us. J. B. JEL, who loves all human beings, being 
much different from myself, greeted them as old friends. 
They all turned to and helped us pitch camp, and such 
a raising of tents and driving of pins never was before, 
because it was past sundown and J. B. H. had mildly in- 
timated that he was hungry. 
The Pitching of the Tent. 
Very often when folks go into camp they tumble every- 
thing out in a mix upon the ground in all sorts of bundles, 
boxes and packages, bags, barrels and bales. Not so with 
our rigid system of housekeeping. We had everything 
packed in reverse order to its time of use, and so did not 
have to turn everything upside down. Aside from our 
provisions, two carrybags contained about all we used, 
including our two little Protean tents, one of which we 
used for a store room. Of late, however, we have grown 
very stylish, what with tinned soups, preserved fruits and 
the like. We even have marmalade, strawberry jam and 
the like, and crackers that come a pound in a tin box 
(you buy the box). Think of that— olives, even, and 
lemons and things! Of course all this takes another sack 
or two. Well, anyhow, our two original oarrybags re- 
mained about the same. It was a comfort to take out 
first the camp lantern (for we knew it would be nearly 
dark when we got into camp), and then the floor cloth of 
the tent, and then the small camp axe, and then the 
handy set of iron tent pins (better than any wooden ones), 
and then the tent, and then the blankets. Being full- 
handed with our crew of boys, we had our white house 
up in a jiffy, with the upper floor door stretched tightly 
down over a bulging mattress of fresh straw which cov- 
ered the entire floor. Meantime, the mess bag was opened 
and a small basket, carefully carried in hand from the 
village, was brought in requisition. Bacon and eggs must 
be the main fortification that first meal. It only remained 
to build the fire. 
The Building of the Fire. 
Now, the building of the fire is a thing to be done only 
after due form and ceremony. If we had sought out the 
exact spot for the pitching of the tent, observing minutely 
the slope of the circumjacent territory, and determining 
the main watershed with care of the most uncompromis- 
ing sort, the selection of that precise spot, which, of all 
the many spots about, should be the site of our little 
hearthstone, was a matter to be undertaken with a caution 
and a wisdom hot in the least less great. In the proper 
camp the position of the fire is never to be changed, let 
the wind blow as it listeth. At least, such is our rule, and 
the laying of our fire was the final setting up in place of 
the iclwns, the establishment of the Lares and Penates. 
Your transitory fire has no such significance. Realizing 
these things, J. B. H. chewed tobacco very vigorously as 
he walked over the slope of the hill in front of our tent, 
foot by foot, looking studiously around. At length he 
made a cross mark with his heel, and I knew there was 
where the coffee and bacon were going to be found the 
rest of that trip. I would not for the world have deprived 
J. B. H. of the lighting of the first fire in camp. That is 
his privilege, and I believe there is no one act in his entire 
year in which he takes bo absolute and unadulterated a 
delight as he does in this lighting of the first fire in our 
annual camp. 
J. B. H. searched about him, and appeared with a cer- 
tain stone — which I believe he had located the year before 
— and with a neat tap broke it into two flat halves. These 
he bedded well in the earth, for a sort of porch to our little 
cooking fire. Then he selected a certain stick, rejecting 
many, and cut therefrom a little bunch of shavings, scorn- 
ing all paper, kerosene or kindling wood as unprofessional. 
These small shavings he set aflame, and added thereto dry 
twigs and bits of our excellent hickory bark. In a few 
moments the First Fire was under way. Watching it for 
a few moments in serene satisfaction, with legs sprawled 
out flat on the ground, J. B. H. took another chew, if I 
recollect right, though it may have been the same chew. 
Then he set out upon yet another important ceremonial. 
The Choosing: of the Coffee Stick. 
This was nothing less than the choosing of the coffee 
stick. We are people of staid and regular habits and 
there is nothing hit-or-miss about our camp. When J. B. 
H. once selects a stick with which to lift off the coffee pot 
from the fire, that stick, as I have said before, remains 
sacred to that purpose for the remainder of the trip, and 
to burn it would be camp sacrilege. I have this year 
added to the bundle of coffee sticks which lie on the elk 
antlers in my office, the stick of 1894. It is a straight 
piece of hickory limb, because that happened to be the 
first thing J. B. H. put his hand on. It has not the knots 
and curves of some of our other sticks, but I think it 
carries with it about as pleasant memories as any. And 
I assure all readers that it made most excellent coffee. 
Many persons think that coffee berries and water have 
most to do with good coffee, but this is really not the case 
at all. 
The First Meal In Camp. 
And now the bacon sizzled, the eggs sputtered, and 
there arose from the coffee pot an aroma, the most divine 
that ever greeted human nostril. Our first meal in camp 
was ready. 
I wonder if there ever does anything, anywhere, taste 
half so good as this first meal in camp. All the zest of 
novelty, of anticipation, unites with the feeling of joy at 
being again away from work, the comfort of relaxation, 
and moreover the hunger born of the labor of getting into 
camp. The last meal in camp does not taste well, no 
matter if it were cooked by a chef, because then you are 
going away, and you feel sad. But the first one — really, 
let us not think of any other, for the time at least. And 
let some skillful pen try elsewhere to tell about it, 1 shall 
not ever say how many eggs we fried, nor how many cups 
of coffee we drank. But it was all very pleasant, there 
by the lantern light. We ate classically, lying at full 
lengh on our stomachs, as the Ancient Greeks did, not 
having yet discovered any boards to make a table. I am 
not scholar enough to quite approve the Greek idea of 
lying on the stomach while you eat. It may be classical, 
but I don't think it gives a fellow a chance. In the morn- 
ing we built a table, an elegant one, full three fet square, 
with legs driven into the ground. I do not read that the 
Greeks had any board fences, and this may account for 
the fact that they didn't have any tables. 
Conservatism in Camp Cookery. 
I had brought into camp this year, in a special effort to 
have the best equipped camp we ever had, one of the com- 
plete and very excellent Buzzacott camp cooking outfits, 
the smallest size, but of the same sort as that supplied to 
the United States army. This outfit will cook anything, 
from beef gizzard down to charlotte russe, and will cook 
all over and around itself, bread, meat, coffee and pota- 
toes, all at the same time and all on a space about a foot 
square. We found it really the ne plus ultra of a camp 
cooking outfit, and I would want nothing better. I poured 
out the more than half a hundred ingredients which go 
into the compact steel box which makes the oven, and 
laid out a bewildering supply of utensils for sharpening, 
carving, straining, stewing, frying, boiling, broiling and 
serving, enough to make J. B. H.'s eyts take on an inquir- 
ing cast. But when I came to set out a nice square- 
cornered pan for the frying of the eggs, do you think he 
would use it? Not a bit of it. He said he always had 
been used to eating eggs fried in a round skillet, had fried 
them that way himself, had always seen his wife fry them 
that way and his mother before that fry them the same 
way, and that was good enough for him. Eggs fried in a 
square pan might be good, but he didn't believe it and 
wouldn't risk it. In short, he wanted the old skillet, and 
wanted it right away, and a bit crestfallen, I had to~go 
and get it. Happily I had been wise enough to bring 
both outfits along, and could fish out the old black spider 
which had served us in the past. 
J. B. H. was good enough to approve of our new coffee- 
pot, because it held enough and had a wide bottom. Our 
old coffee-pot with its round bottom, he had stigmatized 
rightly for three years as being all that a coffee-pot should 
not be. I could never get J. B H. to let me show him 
how many things I could cook at once on the new outfit, 
and he preferred to burn his fingers rather than use the 
new hooked lifters which would have obviated all that, 
but he deigned to approve of the little six-legged wrought- 
iron stand which makes the "stove" in the Buzzacott 
outfit. We discovered that by its use we saved nearly all 
our fuel. We cooked with less than one-quarter of the 
fire we ever had used before, and when we left the camp 
our afihes could almost have been covered with the brim 
of one's hat. This was quite a revelation, even to J. B. H., 
long used to building little fires for cooking. I am in 
hopes next year to get him to use some of the things 
which I tried furtively from time to time to smuggle into 
c- mmission about our fire. Maybe he will, next year. 
You can't do these things all at once. I kind of think he 
had his eye on the flat-backed stew kettle this year. 
After supper we joined our young neighbors at the big 
camp-fire they had built of old stumps, and had a pleas- 
ant talk with them. We found that the young rascals 
were keeping a very slovenly camp, and not bearing to 
see them growing up in bad ways, we gave them some 
valuable advice about policing thftir camp, which they 
dutifully obeyed, burning up a lot of rubbish they had 
left knocking around, and tidying up their camp to a very 
respectable degree. They assured us that frogs were 
abundant this year, and what with this assurance and the 
six dozen speckled croakers we had brought up with us, 
we felt pretty well off for bait. 
In short, we felt pretty well off for everything. What 
we did in the way of big bass I shall tell later. But 
already this first night we were eminently well pleased 
that we had decided again upon coming to Mukwonago. 
For see, about us the shade was as thick as though we 
were miles deep in a wild forest. We could barely hear 
the lapping of the lake, and from our quiet hill could not 
even see the lights of the dreaded hotel. We were very 
well content. The boys said they had dug out the old 
spring at the bottom of our hill, and that the water was 
better than ever, at which J. B. H. smiled cheerfully. 
They also said that no one was catching any bass, at 
which we both smiled cheerfully, because we knew very 
well that most summer people can't catch bass any more 
than a cow can catch a mouse. We knew the bass were 
only waiting for people who lived in tents and madesmall 
fires. 
"I'm glad they aren't catching 'em," said J. B. H., 
grimly, "but I shouldn't wonder if we do it." With 
which he took another chew, and turning his face to the 
fire stood gazing calmly into it, as one who had settled at 
least one point to the satisfaction of his own mind. And 
so Camp Forest and Stream's fourth annual seemed to 
me very well begun. 
Bait-Casting Record Broken.- 
Mr. F. B. Davidson, secretary of the Chicago Fly-Cast- 
ing Club, and about the whitest sort of fisherman one is 
apt to scare up of a summer day, writes me the following 
very interesting letter. So long as records are to be 
broken, there can not be any better man to break them 
than Mr. Davidson, or any who will wear his honors more 
modestly. He says: 
"Some time ago I noticed in Forest and Stream, in 
Mr. Cheney's notes, an item in reference to the world's 
bait-casting record, of llOj^ft., average of five casts, held 
by Mr. E. C. Sturgis, of Chicago. On Aug. 18, at the 
Chicago Fly-Casting Club's weekly club contest, I was 
fortunate enough to fracture this record slightly, and also 
to put several points on the longest single cast on record, 
viz., 170ft., made, I believe, by Mr. Leonard. I intended 
to write you last Sunday, but did not remember what 
Mr. Sturgis's record was, and started to look up the item 
in Forest and Stream. After spending all Sunday 
morning and several hours during the afternoon in look- 
ing through my back numbers, 1 found I had forgotten 
what I had started out to find, having become too inter- 
ested in the reading matter. During the week I obtained 
the figures for his record, and give you mine below; 
147 — 1 = 146 ft. 
177 — 6 = 171ft. 
155 — 13 = 148ft. 
140 — 4 = 136ft. 
161 — 0 = 161ft.-757ft. Average 151%ft. 
"At the succeeding weekly club contest, Aug. 25, 1 made 
my former record look rather insignificant by making 
the following average: 
163 — 11 = 153ft. 
173 — 0 = 173ft. 
171 — 4 = 170ft. 
174 — 5 = 169ft. 
176 — 4 = 172ft.— 836ft. Average 167' 6 ft. 
"You will notice that four of the casts exceed Mr. 
Leonard's single cast of 170ft. The above figures are 
taken from the club records, and the officers of the club 
will certify to their correctness. I don't like this idea of 
blowing my own horn, but as secretary of the rlub, and 
in order to have the club get credit for holding the record 
both for average and longest single cast, I am forced to 
state officially what I have done as a member of the club. 
Kindly publish the figures as given above in FOREST AND 
Stream as a basis for records in the future. 
"The boys are doing good work at these weekly meet- 
ings, 85$ out of a possible 100$ in accuracy and distance 
fly-casting, being considered rather below grade. The 
club does not give as much attention to long distance fly- 
casting, for, as a rule, it is not the kind of casting that 
catches fish. 
