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CHAPTER I

THE WILDERNESS TRAVELER

A sense of direction, therefore, I should name as the prime requisite for him who would become a true woodsman, depending on himself rather than on guides. The faculty is largely developed, of course, by much practice; but it must be inborn. Some men possess it; others do not—just as some men have a mathematical bent while to others figures are always a despair. It is a sort of extra, having nothing to do with criterions of intelligence or mental development, like the repeater movement in a watch. A highly educated or cultured man may lack it; the roughest possess it. Some who have never been in the woods or mountains acquire in the space of a vacation a fair facility at picking a way; and I have met a few who have spent their lives on the prospect trail, and who were still, and always would be, as helpless as the newest city dweller. It is a gift, a talent. If you have its germ, you can become a traveler of the wide and lonely places. If you have it not, you may as well resign yourself to guides.

The sense of direction in its simplest and most elementary phase, of course, leads a man back to camp, or over a half-forgotten trail. The tenderfoot finds his way by little landmarks, and an attempt to remember details. A woodsman adds to this the general "lay" of the country, the direction its streams ought to flow, the course the hills must take, the dip of strata, the growth of trees. So if the tenderfoot forgets whether he turns to right or left at a certain half-remembered burnt stub, he is lost. But if at the same point the woodsman's memory fails him, he turns unhesitatingly to the left, because he knows by all the logic of nature's signboards that the way must be to the left. A good mountaineer follows the half-obliterated trails as much by his knowledge of where a trail must go, as by the sparse indications that men have passed that way. I have traveled all day in the Sierras over apparently virgin country. Yet every few hours we would come on the traces of an old trail. We were running in and out of it all day; and at night we camped by it.

That is, as I have said, elementary. It has to do with a country over which your woodsman has already traveled, or about which he knows something. In the last analysis, however, it means something more.

The sense of direction will take a man through a country of which he knows nothing whatever. He travels by the feel of it, he will tell you. This means that his experience subconsciously arranges certain factors from which the sixth sense we are discussing draws certain deductions. A mountaineer, for example, recognizes the altitude by the vegetation. Knowing the altitude he knows also the country formation, and so he can tell at once whether the cañon before him will narrow to an impassable gorge, or remain open enough to admit of passage. This in turn determines whether he shall choose the ravines or ridges in crossing a certain divide, and exactly how he can descend on the other side. The example is one of the simpler. A good man thus noses his way through a difficult country with considerable accuracy where a tenderfoot would become speedily lost.

But if a sense of direction is the prime requisite, thoroughness presses it close. It is sometimes very difficult to command the necessary patience. At the end of a hard day, with the almost moral certainty that the objective point is just ahead, it is easy, fatally easy, when the next dim blaze does not immediately appear, to say to oneself—"Oh, it's near enough"—and to plunge ahead. And then, nine times out of ten, you are in trouble. "I guess this is all right" has lost many a man; and the haste too great to be sure—and then again sure—has had many fatal results. If it is a trail, then be certain you see indications before proceeding. Should they fail, then go back to the last indication and start over again. If it is new country, then pick up every consideration in your power, and balance them carefully before making the smallest decision. And all the time keep figuring. Once having decided on a route, do not let the matter there rest. As you proceed keep your eyes and mind busy, weighing each bit of evidence. And if you become suspicious that you are on the wrong tack, turn back unhesitatingly, no matter how time presses.

A recent expedition with a fatal termination illustrates this point completely. At first sight it may seem invidious to call attention to the mistakes of a man who has laid down his life in payment for them. But it seems to me that the chief value of such sad accidents—beyond the lessons of courage, endurance, comradeship, devotion, and beautiful faith—lies in the lesson and warning to those likely to fall into the same blunders. I knew Hubbard,