528 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
rod. 6, 1906. 
A DaLy on the Trail. 
Its Joys and Its Discomforts. 
You scarcely know what it is that has wakened 
you—perhaps the first rays of the sun that are 
creeping over the ridge, or the crackle of dry 
sticks; but at any rate you push back your 
blanket and lie there lazily for a moment, watch¬ 
ing the sun flicker through the trees and trying 
to calculate the time. The guide is ahead of 
you, for a little fire is burning brightly and a 
kettle of something already cooking. There he 
comes now with an armful of fire-wood. At the 
sight of his energetic figure and remembering 
that the hardest part of the trail is to be covered 
to-day, you jump, or rather, pick yourself up 
carefully, for the cool, frosty night and the not 
altogether comfortable bed on the hard ground 
have made you feel a trifle stiff. How good 
the fire feels, and how good the “something” 
smells! which, upon investigation, proves to be 
a kettle of grouse. The guide says it is about 
cooked. So rousing your companions, you run 
for a wash in the mountain brook—in water so 
cold that it makes your teeth chatter as you dash 
it up again and again; but it succeeds in making 
you feel fully awake and so keen for the day’s 
tramp, that you eat breakfast and go through the 
morning routine—putting out the fire, making 
up your pack with a feverish haste, and in less 
than an hour you are ready to start. 
Is there anything quite like this feeling? The 
exhilarating mountain air, the cool fragrance of 
thei pines, together with your own vigor and 
freshness after a night’s sleep in the open, make 
you feel so exuberant that it is impossible not 
to start off at a fast pace—so fast, that after a 
few moments you are forced to stop, tired and 
breathless, wondering as you do why you can 
never learn to be moderate at the outset. Then 
follow hours of a certain monotony, and yet 
every moment is different. It is hard to ex¬ 
press the charm you feel as you tramp on and 
on, with the little trail ever stretching ahead, 
curving and disappearing in yonder thicket, now 
taking you through dense timber of immense 
cedar trees draped and festooned with gray 
bearded moss, until it all seems like a mystical 
fairy-land, now coming on ■ a clear, rushing 
stream, where invaribly you stop, bend the rim 
of your hat and scoop up a drink or pause to 
pick the huckleberries, still glistening with the 
dew. Occasionally the guide indicates that you 
may rest if you wish, and although you may not 
feel particularly tired, you take off your pack, 
and with a feeling of joy, throw yourself down 
on the thick carpet of needles, burying your 
face in them, while you drink in the warm fra¬ 
grance. or lying on your back and looking up 
through the dark green branches to the blue of 
the sky, where the white, fleecy clouds are sail¬ 
ing past. It seems scarcely a moment until you 
must be off again—but what a moment it was! 
Now as the climb up the steep slope of the 
ridge begins, the trail becomes rougher, the 
foothold is bad, and your pace must be some¬ 
what slackened. It is a hard pull; but about 
noon, after the last hundred feet of stiff climb¬ 
ing, the top is reached. You sit down mechan¬ 
ically, too tired and exhausted to speak, but 
drinking in with every breath the wonder of the 
view before you. Stretching at your feet are the 
fir-covered slopes, in the valley like a silver 
thread, the rushing stream, and beyond, slopes 
and ridges rising higher and higher until they 
thrust their ragged peaks into the very heavens. 
A breeze, seeming to come from the “eternal 
snows,” brushes your cheeks, which brings back 
your vigor, and about the same time your 
physical serises, so that suddenly realizing how 
powerfully empty you are, you pull from your 
ruck sack the cold bannock and raisins, for this 
noon you will not take the time to cook a meal. 
In the afternoon you follow the ridge for 
some time, then cross the valley and begin the 
ascent on the other side. Gradually you seem 
to take less notice of the beauty around you, the. 
details do not impress you, and even the excite¬ 
ment of your companions over the fresh bear- 
tracks fail to awake any interest. About 4 
o’clock the breeze dies down, and it becomes op¬ 
pressively hot. You walk on as if in a stupor, 
looking neither to right nor to left, only con¬ 
scious that your pack is growing heavier each 
moment; that your feet feel bruised and sore, 
and that the flies and mosquitoes are becoming 
thicker and thicker. Some one behind starts up 
a rousing song, and as you join in for a few 
moments, your spirits rise only to drop again 
with a sickening thud as the last note dies out. 
You pull at your shoulder straps to ease the 
ache in your back, but in a moment are forced 
to bend all your e'nergies to fighting the mos¬ 
quitoes which make the air black. It is then 
that you say with Stewart Edward White that 
“You are a fool”; then that you think in despair 
of all the home comforts which you might be 
enjoying; that you curse yourself for coming 
into such a place of your own free will, and 
vow to get out of it at the earliest opportunity. 
How much longer is it going to continue? It 
is almost dark, and still that persistent, iron-clad 
guide goes on. Will he never stop? You 
notice the frequent streams and tell yourself 
what excellent camping places they would make, 
but in spite of all your misery, you have too 
.much self-respect left to propose a stop. Finally, 
after a few more moments, which have seemed 
like hours, the guide pauses, looks over the 
ground at the left and asks your opinion about 
stopping there or trying to make a few more 
miles. Summoning all your self-possession to 
keep back the too apparent eagerness, you say 
in your calmest tone that it would probably be 
hard to find a better spot for the night camp. 
The guide looks at you closely through his 
squinting eyes, and perhaps there is a shadow of 
a smile on his lips as he throws off his pack, 
which means, “Well, you know what it means, 
and throw off yours, too.” 
Then you are off for fire-wood, and as you 
come back, you see the fire flickering through 
the fast gathering dusk and the tall, straight 
tree trunks. What cheer and comfort that little 
blaze brings, and how quickly you forget your 
fatigue; in fact, forget everything but the con¬ 
suming hunger! Every one bends his energies 
toward the preparation of the meal, for after 
such a long day’s tramp, the kettles will be 
taxed to their utmost. The guide will make the 
bannock, for no one else has achieved the art of 
making it light and brown, while you busy 
yourself with the bacon and rice. ' At last all is 
ready, and seated around the fire, each with a 
can which he fills alternately with rice and tea. 
scarcely a sound is heard save the clink of 
spoons and the sighs of satisfaction. The bacon 
may be burned or the rice poorly cooked, but 
every one vows he never ate anything better, 
for at such a time there is no criticism unless 
the quantity gives out. When every kettle has 
been emptied and the last vestige of bannock 
has disappeared, you are forced to stop, much 
against your will. And then comes the hour of 
keen enjoyment—almost the best of the day— 
when the men smoke, when thrilling stories are 
rehearsed, a few songs are sung, or, as is often 
the case after a hard day, every one is inclined 
to be silent, while he watches the blue flames 
leap higher and higher until nothing but glow¬ 
ing embers remain. It is then that you think 
over the day, weighing carefully the discomfort 
and happiness it has brought and if any one can 
doubt which overbalances—you, at any rate, can¬ 
not. You recall, with a certain amusement and 
pity, the misery of a few hours ago, wondering 
that you could ever have thought that it was 
not worth while—not worth this one hour of 
absolute contentment. 
The fire has died out. You stake your claim 
for the night—it doesn’t matter much how good 
a one it is : —pull up your blankets, and only for 
a moment longer are conscious, conscious of the 
hooting of an owl in the distance, of the gurgle 
of the little stream and of the stars shining far 
above. 
The Noon of the Year. 
“Spirit of nature! thou 
Life of interminable multitudes; 
Soul of those mighty spheres 
Whose changeless paths .thro’ heaven’s deep silence lie; 
Soul of that smallest being, 
The dwelling of whose life 
Is one faint April sun-gleam— 
Man, like these passive things, 
Thy will unconsciously fulfilleth. 
Like theirs, his age of endless peace, 
Which time is fast maturing, 
Will swiftly, surely come; 
And the unbounded frame which thou pervadest 
Will be without a flaw, 
Marring its perfect symmetry.” 
—Shelley’s Queen Mab. 
From the middle of August until September 
hangs a silver rime on her clusters of gold- 
flushed leaves, there exists a period which dis¬ 
seminates throughout the being of creation at 
large an infinite sense of fulfillment. The throb 
of crickets at noon, the cool ringing whisper of 
cicadte at sundown, and the trumping of bull¬ 
frogs after dark, reassure humanity. Like a 
child it stoops to pluck the flower of to-day, con¬ 
fident of the morrow, and perhaps better than at 
any other season does man realize the divinity 
of labor. He sees the fruits of his toil, heaped 
and being heaped against the ice-bound horizon 
of winter. They glow in the sunlight, and he 
works on, with grateful senses, conscious tha/t 
a world of truth slumbers in his breast. 
More particularly in the northen portion of 
our state, where mid-summer attains to such un¬ 
marred perfection, is this transient pause, as it 
were, on an autumnal threshold, acutely percept¬ 
ible. A nerveless, unimpassioned quietude sleeps 
over tjhe Adirondack wilderness. Nature is re¬ 
laxed; and except for the faint lisping of kinglets, 
chickadees, or migrating warblers, no sounds 
break in upon this hour of repose. The earth 
respires with measured regularity, and especially 
toward nightfall come those still smooth hours 
when the landscape is veiled in blue mists, and 
the bellowing of a cow in the distance sounds 
strangely heroic and sonorous, like the challenge 
of the Cretan bull as it emerged from the sea. 
Even the clanking of her bell re-echoes melodious 
