Oct. 14, 1911.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
581 
Fall Camping 
Text and photographs by F. E. A. 
S UMMER has gone. We find consolation, how¬ 
ever, in knowing that we shall have six or 
eight weeks of autumn camping, when we 
can continue roughing it without the jibes of the 
fair weather campers, who are forced to hiber¬ 
nate after September. 
Sweating for our bread is made an easy task 
—the days are but minutes—for we live in the 
state of anticipation which in this case does not 
equal the realization of another week-end at 
camp. The previous camp was well attended; 
the weather was warm. There was the usual talk 
of “We certainly are going to camp this fall,” 
and we parted again with “I’ll see you next week.” 
Saturday arrives none too quickly, and our 
lunch is hurriedly eaten, for the days are grow¬ 
ing shorter. In cold weather more woolens are 
added to the outfit, and when we look at our 
valises containing them, we wonder whether 
dress of the Palisades makes us feel that our 
last camp of the year has come. 
On Saturday, Dec. 3, the wind as it whistles 
over the roofs and whirrs through the wires 
nearby welcomes the lone tramper as he ap¬ 
proaches the boathouse. Upon entering the in¬ 
door campers, seated by the fire, theorizing, 
pause long enough to sympathize with him. What 
matters it whether the ice has formed, and the 
float has been taken in? Freezing fingers and 
toes causes him to walk rapidly to get out of 
the wind. Slowly he makes his way northward, 
only to find he is the first one to reach camp. 
He scans the horizon; no one is in sight. The 
sun is getting lower and soon sinks behind the 
Palisades. A fire is the most welcome companion 
for the present. Quickly, there is a little flame, 
and finally, a blaze. Darkness has come on ; he 
gives the well known call, and no answer, so he 
heat out of the fire, and we begin to take off 
an extra shirt, then another. It is comfortable 
where we are, but a few feet away it is freez¬ 
ing cold. Wherever there is a camp-fire there 
are stories and arguments, and ours is not an 
exception. Stories of experiences on the trail or 
cruising come thick and fast, one more interest¬ 
ing and dangerous than the others. We vote our¬ 
selves into the Ananias Club, and then decide that 
we have had enough for the night. 
The wind warns that it will grow colder, and 
we go up the hill for a few logs, which ought to 
last for the night. Every one digs his hole, lays 
his sleeping bag in it just so, and then crawls 
into his blankets. The remaining two fix the 
fire, and then the last man asks if everything 
is all right, but there is not a sound from any 
bag. The fire is too hot at first, but the sleepers 
would sooner perspire in the beginning and be a 
little cool in the morning, than get up occasion¬ 
ally to fix it. 
During the night the wind has changed to the 
east, and drives the smoke and ashes into the 
lean-to. Soon we wake up, throw back the 
cover, get one touch of the wind and a mouth 
THE EVENING CAMP-FIRE. 
HOMEWARD BOUND. 
EARLY MORNING. 
our friends will “see us,” get “cold feet,” or 
have suddenly found that something important 
must be done this fall. We find a few at the 
boat house; they cannot go this week, but surely 
next. “Tide and wind out to-day, fellows,” 
hastens our departure. Not being time for the 
tide to come up the Jersey shore, we hug the 
New York side. It is well that we have omitted 
the tents, for in rounding Spuyten Duyvil we 
have taken in just a little more water than is 
to our liking at this season of the year. In the 
fleet there are different boats, and paddlers, too, 
and the speed man is beginning to lose the others. 
In our anxiety to catch him, we forget about 
the rushing tide and the squalls. Soon we arrive 
at camp, the outfits are unloaded, a fire started, 
and then we begin to enjoy another week-end. 
For a little variety we cut the outfit down to 
blankets and provisions and go back a few miles 
to the foothills where we have the trees as a 
covering and get along without the few con¬ 
veniences that we have by the riverside. This 
we liked so well that next fall, after the ice 
comes down, we shall “hike” through different 
parts of Jersey. Thus it goes from week to 
week. The trees have felt the effects of the 
frost, the west wind is keen, and the autumn 
piles the underbrush high, and the fire shoots 
skyward, a beacon, as it were, for any tired 
fe.low camper who might possibly think of turn¬ 
ing homeward. 
Suddenly, there is a call far to the south¬ 
ward. He listens; again, and he recognizes it. 
While answering he throws another load of brush 
on the fire, the reward for which is another 
shout, this time much louder. Up goes the lean- 
to, the fire is banked, some coals are pulled out 
so as to heat some cocoa for the fellow camp- 
mate. Just as the water bubbles, he hears, 
“Bring a light.” Without waiting to pull his 
canoe up on the beach, the new comer rushes 
for the fire and does an Indian war dance. The 
boat is covered with ice, and the painter is 
frozen stiff. We hear one yell, then another. 
Each has the same story: “I could not stay 
away, but was just about going to turn around 
when I saw the good old fire, and maj'be you 
think I did not puT.” 
Supper over, camp put in shape, we throw 
on the last log, fill our pipes and move our 
chairs closer to the fire. We are now contented, 
for our slight sufferings have been rewarded a 
thousand-fold. Our previous experience with 
the lean-to has taught us how to get the most 
full of smoke, prefer to take the chance of being 
smoked out, and then crawl deeper into our 
bags. We are awakened by our early riser, 
who has prepared a pot of cocoa as a tempter. 
A small church is four or five miles ’cross¬ 
country, and we run down the trail in order to 
work the stiffness out of our joints. When we 
return there is a grand rush for the grub-bag. 
The water in the pots is frozen; some we boil, 
others we chop out—depending upon whose pot 
it is. A mile north we pick out the judge, a 
lover of the woods and our Sunday visitor, who, 
too, could not resist the “call of the wild.” Be¬ 
hind him comes a fleet of canoes, containing 
those who spend their fall week-ends a few 
miles inland from Nyack, and come down before 
the ice forms. The day is spent in going for 
short walks, cutting out dead wood, and—look¬ 
ing into the fire. 
The sun is getting low, and we pack our out¬ 
fits. We crawl as closely to the shore as pos¬ 
sible until we are almost under the Palisades 
and slowly paddle homeward. We feel happy 
to be where we are, but sorrowful in knowing 
that it will be the last cruise for the year, as 
next week we shall have the ice, and can but 
wish ourselves across the river. 
