208 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Aug. ii, 1906. 
On Camping Out. 
As a Woman Finds It. 
Have you ever mentioned the word “camping" 
in a casual sort of a way and noticed the .effect 
on various people? To some, principally those 
without experience, it is a mere word—a word 
with rather a vague meaning, and one which 
awakens little if any interest. To others, it is, 
perhaps, the most suggestive word in the Eng¬ 
lish language. At its mention, their faces will 
light up and immediately you feel a common 
bond of interest, although their experiences 
may be in no way similar to yours. Indeed, it 
would be almost impossible to find two people 
to whom the word brings the same images. One 
immediately thinks of the little cabin by the 
lake and of the pine forests; another of the 
more comfortable cottage at a fashionable re¬ 
sort; you, perhaps, of the tents pitched on a 
broad plain, of the fishing and hunting, while 
to me it brings pictures of the mountains, of 
rushing streams and ragged trails. But to all 
of us it brings a sense of rest and freedom; it 
is like a breath of fresh, cool air. 
A great many people to whom the outdoor 
life appeals are still so held down by the con¬ 
ventionality of our modern way of living that 
thej r cannot tear themselves away or exist for 
any length of time without many of its com¬ 
forts. To them “roughing it" is out of the 
question, and life in a summer cottage is the 
most attractive, where they can enjoy a change 
and rest, live a normal life and still not be de¬ 
prived of what they consider “the necessities.” 
But how our ideas of the necessities differ! And 
how amused we are, after a summer spent in 
camping, to find, ourselves considering as 
luxuries those things which hitherto we have 
looked at as absolute necessities! I have been 
interested to watch, in my own experience, the 
way in which each year’s camping has de¬ 
creased my list of necessary articles. I used to 
think that good, comfortable spring beds, water¬ 
proof tents, camp chairs, stoves and a dozen 
other things were necessary. After a year or 
two I came to the conclusion that chairs and 
stoves could easily be dispensed with, and after 
last summer, which was spent in tramping 
through the Canadian Rockies, I decided that 
nothing was a necessity but sufficient warm 
clothing, enough food to sustain the body, and 
at night a fire and six feet of level ground to 
sleep on. Even the adjective level I finally 
eliminated, after an incident which occurred 
during the last of the summer. Several of our 
party had been climbing a mountain since early 
in the afternoon, expecting to reach the ridge 
before night, but darkness came upon us and 
we found that it was impossible to continue the 
ascent, without losing our direction. Two of 
the men went in search of a camping spot, but 
after an hour returned, saying that there was no 
level place to be found. It seemed perfectly 
impossible to spend the night there, for we 
were right on the slant of the mountain, and the 
ground was covered with rocky shale. There 
was but one thing to do—make the best of it. 
Sleep seemed out of the question, but after 
tramping all day, we were so tired that before 
long we were forced to lie down. After re¬ 
moving a few of the sharpest stones, I spread 
my blanket on the declivity, propped my feet in 
a balsam shrub to prevent rolling down the 
mountain, and in almost no time I was asleep. 
To be sure, I felt a little stiff in the morning, but 
I can truly say that I never slept more soundly 
or wakened feeling more refreshed. Of course, 
when it was possible, we did not deny ourselves 
the luxury of living in tents, sleeping on soft 
balsam beds and having plenty of substantial 
food, but we found that we could not only live 
and keep well, but be supremely happy when we 
were sleeping on the hard ground and making 
three meals a day of bannock, boiled rice and 
tea. 
Surely there is nothing from which one may 
gain as many benefits as from a summer spent 
in camping. Leading such an absolutely 
normal physical life cannot help but reflect on 
our mental and moral life. Our brains are 
cleared from the cobwebs that have gathered 
during the year, and we are able to look at every¬ 
thing more clearly. We find how much easier 
it is to distinguish the right from the wrong 
and to see the things which we are striving for. 
We come back to our winter’s work with a 
greater enthusiasm and a better grasp on life 
and on ourselves. And to me, the memories and 
recollections which are constantly arising are 
worth most of all. When we find ourselves 
tired, irritated and discouraged, suddenly some 
vision of the previous summer will come before 
us—a picture of the winding trail, of the camp¬ 
fire at night or of the canoe drifting on the quiet 
waters. And as we relive those days spent 
in the wide outdoors, our minds are refreshed 
and inspired. E. E. R. 
In the Bull Ring at Tia Juana. 
Some fifteen miles south of San Diego, Cal., 
and just over the line, in Mexico, is Tia Juana, 
consisting of several stores dealing in “souvenirs” 
principally, a so-called hotel, and the bull ring. 
Dr. Wm. B. MacCracken, formerly of New York 
and Yonkers, now resident in San Diego, attended 
one of the "bull fights” recently, and writes in 
a private letter as follows: 
It was at Tia Juana, just over the line in 
Mexico, and there was a big crowd—tourists 
and natives and visitors from resorts up the 
coast, and I joined the hurrying throng and 
tried to imagine myself in far-off sunny Spain. 
But from first to last, my poetic license was 
hampered by the unresponsive facts. Narrow 
gauge cars, filled to suffocation, an hour’s delay 
and every body shivering from a sudden drop 
in the temperature. Now that town—three 
stores, one hotel ( !) three adobes and the ring— 
is bounded on the north, at the line between 
Mexico and the United States, by the Tia Juana 
River, ordinarily a sandy gully, hardly to be 
distinguished from the rest of the sandy road, 
but a torrential rain one week before had trans¬ 
formed it into a real raging torrent, and it was 
not certain that the wagons could cross—no 
wire connection with the outside world. However, 
there were the wagons, everything from a Mexi¬ 
can burro and two wheels, to a prairie schooner 
and a five-seat six-horse tally-ho, which I 
favored as my personal choice, and secured on 
a run. We led the van, and it was great. 
Divided into four broad streams of two to 
three feet in depth, the muddy water looked 
tame enough; but once in, one found it swirled 
past swift and strong, and presto, at one edge 
there was for ten feet a ford' five feet deep. That 
was fun, and one saw then the need of the soap 
boxes on the lowest wagons. 
The crowd thinned out in that big ring, and 
my two dollar seat was among the tenderfeet, 
but I consoled myself for the easy mark, when 
I found a few real senoritas. After a half hour 
of fearful Spanish (?) music by a tenth rate 
San Diego American band, the trap door 
opened and poured out the matador and his 
troupe, resplendent in many colors, high heeled 
ladies’ shoes and many smiles. The first bull 
was a funny little brown fellow, with a Della Fox 
curl that made his face look as if it was twisted, 
and a roman nose. Somebody had evidently 
hurt his feelings outside, and as he trotted into 
the ring, he looked not exactly angry, but some¬ 
what annoyed. 
The gathered audience gave him a slight attack 
of stage fright, and he would doubtless at the 
moment have cheerfully retired to seclusion 
again; but one of the toreadors waved his opera 
cloak(fiery red and made of oil cloth) tauntingly, 
and that settled the issue. With a roar, “him 
for a high ball,” lie charged the countryman of 
old Columbus. That gentleman said nothing, 
but his actions showed plainly the current of 
his thoughts. “Me for the barricade,” said his 
legs, and he “beat it” with enthusiasm. The 
bull got there second. He was puzzled, and 
didn’t think it was fair, for after trying for a 
few minutes to look through the boards, he 
turned back to the ring with a face that said 
plainly, “Now what do you think of that?” Of 
course, he was for going straight home, when 
suddenly, right in the middle of the ring, just 
the same as before, stood what he no doubt 
decided was the very same impudent fellow with 
the very same opera cloak. Well, how he 
cheered up and started for that easy mark. 
Down went his head for the solar plexus, and 
sure enough, he landed this time—right on the 
middle of the cloak. He tried a left counter 
and a right uppercut, sparred out and tried for 
a clinch, but there was “nuthin’ doin’,” only the 
cloak, and finally he walked away in disgust, and 
for a time refused to be comforted. At last a 
fat fellow used his patience, and he decided he 
could do him anyhow. Fatty thought he would 
make it more interesting if he ran, and he did. 
Ten yards from the barricade, he stepped on 
his cloak, and down he went and the bull ran 
right over him. Well, there was no one near 
him but the bull, and I thought he would just 
poke a horn through his middle and carry him 
around the ring. But the toreador just lay still 
and watched, and the bull looked him over and 
walked away—and I counted my pulse—it was 
out of sight. 
After just such fun for a little while, they stood 
in front of him, when he would run to them, 
and a toreador poked a feathered dart over 
his head into his shoulder a time or two, and 
then the matador, with great preparation, and 
after several makebelieves, reached over his 
head and slipped the sword into his lung. There 
was no pain, but the plain symptoms of internal 
hemorrhage, a faraway look that deepened 
gradually into a swoon, his legs weakening until 
he sank down, and then, like Byron’s dying 
gladiator, “the arena swims around him, he is 
gone.” And there followed two others about 
the same way. It was a real bull fight all right, 
but the crowd was slim for the ring, and it was 
not a Spanish crowd, it lacked the color and 
the cigarros and the Castilian atmosphere, and 
I was glad when it was over; And yet we have 
“sport” that is not a bit less brutal nor more 
excusable, for the bull gets little more than 
a teasing; and it is where they have horses in 
the ring that the scene is really unpleasant. 
