my first trips, boylike,
I ladened myself with blanket roll, cooking utensils and an unnecessary
amount of food. I soon found, however, that besides tiring me early in
the afternoon and robbing me of my zest for scenery, my pack limited
the scope of my operations, for with it I did not dare attempt many
precipitous slopes where a single slip might land me in eternity. I
found, too, that without it I could practically double the length of a
day's journey, and arrive at the end of it still fresh enough to enjoy
things. So I soon simplified my camp equipment. Campfires took the
place of blankets, a pocketful of raisins, a few shelled peanuts, some
sweet chocolate bars provided satisfying feasts. Eventually, when I
became adept at snaring game, I made a spit of twigs and roasted the
game over hot coals.

Sometimes this primitive method of camping was inconvenient, but it was
lots of fun. It was pioneering! What boy has not wished himself
Robinson Crusoe? Somehow, in this way I retrieved that early frontier
period passed before my birth. So I met the challenge of the
mountains, met whatever emergencies arose, with such resourcefulness as
I could muster; made my own way with what ingeniousness I possessed,
and lived off the land. Indians could do no more!

Having given up my gun, I learned other, and for me, at least, more
reliable methods of taking game for food. Setting snares was an
intriguing sport, but when I did not have time for it, I resorted to a
more primitive method, stone-throwing. Of course there were days when
neither of these methods succeeded, when the meal hour had to be
postponed, while I whetted my appetite, rather superfluously, with more
miles of tramping. I was surprised to find I could go foodless for
several days and still have strength to plod ahead and maintain my
interest in the scenery.

The cottontail of the Rockies is the commonest and easiest source of
meat, not only to the camper, but to the rabbit's cannibalistic
neighbors. He is a sort of universal food--a sort of staff of life to
the animal world. But for him famine would stalk the big killers.
Fortunately for himself and for his preying foes, he is most prolific,
and holds his own, in numbers at least, despite man and beast.
Occasionally some ravaging disease carries his kind off by the
thousands, then starvation faces those dependent on him for food. The
killers have to seek other hunting grounds, frequently far from the