18 
stern. This crew totals three hundred and 
twenty-five pounds, provisioned for two weeks 
the outfit adds two hundred pounds more. Five 
hundred and twenty-five pounds complete and all 
snugly stowed, with room to spare in a craft 
weighing itself but fifty-eight pounds and with 
said load drawing three and five-eighths inches of 
water. 
We’re off! The paddles dip to a few short 
strokes and then rise to wave a farewell to the 
unfortunate toilers left behind, then fall again 
to the steady cadence of dip and swing, that will 
carry us to Somewhere Else. 
With measure, swing an easy blade, 
Hold steady through foul or through fair. 
Strange waters we’ll ride, at new camps albide— 
’Long shores that we long for—Some¬ 
where. 
With the sun three hours past meridian, the 
first of our dozen days passes into history. The 
chill of declining afternoon adds zest to the pad¬ 
dling as we cross to Berkley and round the 
point. Here our light craft bobs like a chip 
amid the ugly broken wash from the many ferry 
boats shuttling the harbor. A fussy little 
steam launch from the Navy Yard at Ports¬ 
mouth, swiftly passing us close aboard, pitches 
us skyward and bottomward, in most unholy and 
unnatural manner as we take her wake; but we 
are fast leaving this chaos and turmoil behind. 
A mile above the last railroad bridge, we pass 
Deep Creek, the entrance to the Dismal Swamp 
Canal and beyond, naught reigns but the peace¬ 
ful river, the evening breeze gently ruffling its 
surface and its waters tenderly lapping among 
the reeds bordering its low flat shores, while 
from the higher banks the melodious crooning 
from the groves of pine trees, greets our ears 
with their low, sweet vesper hymn. 
At a bend in the river we disembark and cross 
to the shore over the oscillating surface of a 
log-boom and fill our large canvas pannier with 
water at the mill pump; then on again with 
paddles dipping the smooth stretch of quiet water 
aglow with the gold and crimson fires of sunset, 
and still on, until purple twilight softly settles 
over all; when with the romping, darting swal¬ 
lows, we skim the surface of the river and 
circle in toward the shore and a grove of ce¬ 
dars, where on a sandy knoll, carpeted by stag 
fern, wilted by the earlier frosts of autumn, we 
pull out and make our first camp. 
The canoe grates gently on the sand, Montie 
climbs out over the bow, but not before he has 
picked up the mast, extra paddle, fishing poles 
and thermos bottles and taken them along with 
him. He pulls the canoe out a bit further and I 
come over the top of the duffle with a bag of re¬ 
serve grub and the water pannier. We both 
draw her well up out of the water on to the 
beach and the rest of the duffle is carried up the 
bank in jig time and the empty canoe taken 
ashore and turned on her nose with her bottom 
to windward and the outfit placed beneath or 
handily near. 
Montie and I have camped for years with this 
outfit and our embarking and disembarking is 
always the same, each handling the same duffle 
on every occasion and the speed of our leisurely 
methods is really surprising. 
Taking the big axe from its pocket on the side 
of the chest, Montie is off for dry hard-wood, 
while I with knife and small axe, shave and 
curl-notch the kindlings and split a bit of small 
FOREST AND STREAM 
wood. The small fire is burning briskly as 
Montie fetches in the heavier supply and as I lay 
the fire, he is off again to provide the pile for 
the night. Less than six minutes has elapsed 
since the canoe first grated on the beach, no 
word spoken and no hurry. Often for days 
there will be no word between us, each occupied 
with his own line of thought and interests, and 
when moving double in the canoe, proceeding 
with uniformity and concord. Montie calls it— 
Indian. While I, well 1 term it recreation. 
While the fire is burning down to cooking 
condition, I open the mystic chest and lay out 
the cooking outfit, first driving a stake to sup¬ 
port the open lid horizontal and instantly I have 
a table. 
“Give us this day our daily bread.” I put the 
reflector oven together, grease and dust the bake 
pan, and stand it aside. The first smoke fuss 
of the fire has passed and I find Montie has cut 
and placed the fire-forks, laid the bar and 
notched a few pot-hooks, so I fill the large kettle 
and hang her on to b’ile. 
High in the eastern sky the moon is lighting 
our surroundings with splendor; but to add in 
closer detail, I unfold and prime the candle lan¬ 
tern and start her off with no thought of a mos¬ 
quito, as their season has long passed with that 
of the fly and other pests. 
At the chest again, I place two heaping cups 
of flour into the large bowl, add a dash of salt 
and some baking powder. The shortening 
follows, water is added and the whole stirred to 
a soft dough which is turned out on the baker- 
board and rolled to a half-inch thickness and a 
batch of biscuits cut out with the top of the 
mixer. What mixer? Why a tall round, ta¬ 
pered German silver affair. Ask any white 
jacketed lad who works before a mirror amid 
his array of crystal glasses which he polishes 
with a towel from time to time. The chest 
contains a mixer complete, and proves a mighty 
handy asset to a camp-kit. Flap-jacks and ome¬ 
lets are shaken together in a jiffy and mixed to 
the queen’s taste, and there’s many a handy 
wrinkle performed with this fittfe coadjutor. 
The batch of dough cuts just ten creamy white 
discs, whch fill the bake pan completely with a 
little round ball left Over, occupying the center 
of the pan. At the fire I find the kettle boiling, 
so I make the tea and hang her up to brew and 
keep hot. Next a hunk of pork is scalded and 
placed in the smaller kettle and hung over the 
fire to simmer. 
After a glance at the biscuits, which I find do¬ 
ing nicely, I turn from the fire to find Montie 
coming in with the last sticks of wood, which he 
commences to cut into fire lengths; but stops to 
sniff. “Gee, Mac!” He exclaims, “The wift of 
them biscuits sure make me feel empty like, how 
soon do we eat?” 
“As soon as I peel the potatoes, get ’em boiled 
and sh’oot off the head of a tin can and warm up 
its contents!” I answer, as I pick up the baker- 
board and bowl and go down to the river to 
cleanse them. An owl hoots at me from the 
other shore and a huge carp jumps within ten 
feet of me, while some small fry of the finny 
tribe, nibbles at my fingers as I work in the 
water. 
Back again at the fire I turn the biscuit pan, 
as the contents are browning nicely. The tea 
I find is settled to the bottom, so I pour the 
brew off carefully into the big bowl, throw out 
the tea leaves, rinse the pot with a little hot 
water and pour the cleared concoction back into 
the pot and again hang near the fire to keep hot. 
The pork is cooking nicely, and I add six 
peeled potatoes, with it for company, then turn 
out the golden brown biscuits into the large fric¬ 
tion tip tin in the chest and get ouit two little 
cubes of compressed essence of bovine, which I 
place in the soup bowl and sing out to Montie— 
“Set the table!” 
Montie sets the board and arranges the seats 
by getting out the cylinder folded sleeping bags 
and places them at each end of the table, then 
strolls over to the fire and looks us over with 
inquiring glances. 
A prod into the pot and the potatoes are found 
fit. Montie brings the bowls with the little cubes 
and each receives its portion of scalding water 
from off the pork and potatoes. The pot is 
then drained of all surplus water and in its 
stead goes the contents of a can which I open. 
It smells good, but however, it will get good 
and hot with the steam of the pork and po¬ 
tatoes, so we will hang the pot again near the 
fire while we start to Commence.—“Supper’s 
ready, Montie!” 
Our seats at table are restful and com’fy, you 
can lean back with every requisite at hand and 
no waiters to bother and help yourself. 
First course soup, ha! A dash of Worces¬ 
tershire can be added if you wish from the nar¬ 
row, tall receptacle in its leather loops in the 
chest. Hot foamy biscuits steam when you 
break ’em in two, and butter from its crock in 
the chest at your elbow. Such an environment, 
the moon, the stars and the orchestral symphony 
of the Great Master, the wind in the cedars, in 
the reeds, the call of His wild creatures and the 
low voice of the river, all blending in harmony. 
Next! The amber tea is poured, the biscuit 
and butter continue, the steaming pot is uncov¬ 
ered, the pork divided, also the now steaming 
hot stuff from the can, the remaining potatoes 
mashed and served. Go to it!—I say. Did 
you ever have saur-kraut and pork with mashed 
potatoes in the woods? Well. On fall and 
winter trips it’s very much to the good’ski, and 
sustaining for out door work. 
Desert—Oh! You mystic camp chest! Un¬ 
fasten the airtight jar and—lay it on. Home¬ 
made apricot marmalade spread on your bis¬ 
cuit. Sigh, lean back. Take your ease. Load 
your old pipe, get her going and lay back and 
study astronomy, gaze at the moon, content. 
You’ve had your supper. 
We had heard human voices, low and distinct, 
though subdued by distance, all during the even¬ 
ing, and as we are cleaning up, the well defined 
sound of oars reaches us. A boat is coming 
down river and shortly we have company in 
camp. They have seen our fire and had come 
down to investigate. We found we were on 
their ground, and for a time it would have been 
hard to determine whether we were welcoming 
them to our camp or they extending the noted 
southern hospitality of Virginia and welcoming 
us. Montie is still perplexed as to who was 
host. 
They were three gentlemen from Norfolk who 
had built a shack—as they called it—on the river 
shore of an extensive plantation and spent their 
idle hours about its environment fishing and 
gunning. Our outfit was open ana strewn about 
over a portion of their territory, so a demon- 
