FOREST AND STREAM 
949 
This Is the Puzzler: How to “Put It Over” With the Least Effort. 
THE PACKING PROBLEM 
IT IS FOLLY TO FURNISH A MAN WITH EQUIPMENT TO BE USED IN 
THE WOODS WITHOUT PROVIDING SOME WAY TO GET IT THERE 
By C. L. Gilman 
But what if it was the sole choice! It proved 
to be the ideal one, “the only place worth living 
in,” “the oasis,” Madame Draulette’s “paradise.” 
For some reason, yet to be determined, it is free 
from insect pests. The clearing of a section of 
standing timber on the high bank of main Strut- 
ton Island made room for a dry, clean tenting 
ground and on the edge of a little grove here 
stands the Inspector’s house, a comfortable 
frame building that would grace one of our 
watering resorts. Back of this area a clearwater 
lake provides an abundance of fresh water, 
which is filtered through sandy soil to a well 
with a patent pump. 
A grove of spruces provide shelter from the 
sun, a shelter which is not often sought, for 
the sea breezes sweep through the place with 
a cooling freshness laden with the aroma oi 
the pines. And the dogs, huskie and Indian 
mongrel alike, are conspicuous by their absence 
An unwritten law forbids their landing on the 
island. 
Arriving at The Struttons by the company’s 
little broken-backed steamer, or in the slower, 
native-built sailboats, from any one of the neigh¬ 
boring posts is like getting out of the hot, 
crowded, noisy city street into the coolness and 
quiet of a shaded country lane. The measure 
of comfort found at The Struttons is just the 
measure of that other extremity of discomfort 
which you have experienced at the intermediate 
stopping places on your journey. 
At the Inspector’s table I feasted regally on 
whitefish and trout netted in the harbor, not 
two hundred yards from the door. After the 
arrival of the ship, when twenty live sheep had 
been landed on the island, fresh mutton was 
added to the daily fare, and wild strawberries 
gathered by the squaws on the little Strutton 
Island floated in bowls of Jersey cream. Each 
summer from Moose is brought a cow, and only 
rarely must the tinned products of the dairy be 
requisitioned for the host’s table. 
Every spring and fall, sea and freshwater 
ducks, including most of the representative spe¬ 
cies of the north, frequent the marshes and sand¬ 
bars at the west end of the island and regular 
hunts are prosecuted for the purpose of replen¬ 
ishing the larder. 
Once a year, usually in the latter part of 
August, but always governed by the ice condi¬ 
tions in Hudson Strait, the company’s steamer 
from Montreal arrives at Strutton. It brings >a 
twelve months’ supply of foodstuffs and trade 
goods, and its arrival is anxiously awaited by 
the representatives of the different posts, who, 
with their following of Cree retainers, flock to 
the islands in their sailing barges. This is the 
great event of the year and the sighting of the 
vessel’s smoke is the signal for the commence¬ 
ment of a series of celebrations that last until 
the cargo is discharged and the ship has sailed 
for the home land in the south. Fortunate in¬ 
deed is the traveler to the Bay who visits The 
Struttons at this period, for, though at all sea¬ 
sons the welcome to the stranger lacks naught 
of warmth or sincerity, at this time the ho.st is 
in a position to offer a brand of hospitality that 
is a little better than the best. 
Each summer the tourist traffic to the James 
Bay country—now the southern fringe of the 
last great Canadian hinterland—is greater than 
that of the year before. 
W HAT the average amateur canoe cruiser 
seems utterly incapable of getting 
through his head is that he’s got to 
carry the stuff. 
In an average day’s travel of twenty miles by 
canoe through the wilderness it is usually neces¬ 
sary, four or five times, to pick up the entire 
outfit, including the canoe, and carry it bodily 
around some obstruction in the stream or across 
some divide into another system of waterways. 
This is the “portage”—the acid test of the 
cruiser’s ability and the outfitter’s fitness to ad¬ 
vise in the selection of equipment. A portage 
trail is a quarter of a mile long, on the aver¬ 
age. A few are short and easy; many are long 
and hard. Nor is it a level, easy traverse, like 
a city sidewalk. Invariably it runs both up and 
down hill. The footing is alternately swatnny, 
slippery and uneven, dense brush overhangs the 
trail and recent windfalls frequently obstruct it. 
Before a man buys anything to be taken 
along on such a trip he must not only be sure 
that it will render service sufficient to pay for 
the labor of transporting it, but also be clear 
as to exactly how it can be carried. And the 
method of carrying does not refer to that specific 
article alone but to how its transnortation is to 
fit in with the transportation of the rest of the 
“duffle.” 
Inventors of “patent dingbats,” which, they 
think, will be just too lovely for anything in the 
woods, are prone to ignore the problem of get¬ 
ting them there entirely. Some few there are 
who, dimly sensing this factor, think to sob e it 
by attaching a handle something like that of a 
suit case somewhere on their contrivance. 
Evidently they expect that the happy possessor 
of their portable pesthouse, folding gas range 
or collapsible grand piano is going to take it by 
the hand and skip jauntily through the primi¬ 
tive like a travelling salesman running to catch 
the 5:15 train. Just what lie’s going to do about 
his grub, his tent and bedding, his canoe and a 
few other non-patented, but rather essential,, 
items while this is going on seems to never enter 
their minds. 
There is a portage trail, a nice, well-cleared, 
domesticated portage trail which has been tamed 
and pacified by several centuries of use and 
finally labeled and manicured by the State forest 
service which debouches on the river right in 
front of my shack. For four seasons hand-run¬ 
ning I have observed with great profit the meth¬ 
ods used by the Indians and white backwoods¬ 
men getting their stuff across it. 
Also, I never fail to scuttle across the river 
on the stepping stones and watch whatever par¬ 
ties of “sports” come my way. Their shocked 
surprise when they discovered that they’ve actu¬ 
ally got to pick up their outfit and walk and 
their hurt, pained and grieved realization that 
the purveyors of said outfit have failed to pro¬ 
vide so much as a handle to grab it by, are both 
funny and pathetic. 
Have you ever seen a fat, middle-aged man 
clasp a slippery canvas “carry-all” bag to his 
tummy and start, puffing, over an up-hill trail 
while a colony of mosquitoes took up permanent 
quarters on the back of his neck? 
