The Lovely Birch
Trees Gleam Where Your Camp Fire Is Kindled And The Larger
Evergreens Stand Like Sombre Sentinels On Watch Through The
Night.
But one sometimes learns a camper's life is not all
places of cool retreats, bright camp fires, dry beds of plush-
like boughs, with delicious breaths of birch, pine and mountain
wild flowers sifting through his tent.
Because the wood thrush
and cardinal sang while you ate your supper of well-cooked trout
is no sign you will be so highly favored the next time you pitch
your tent. Instead you often find unsuitable places for camping
with dust and heat in place of cool retreats; instead of the
cheerful campfire anticipated, you may work hard to get a
"smudgy smouldering fire." Your meal will in all probability
consist of raw salmon eaten at The Sign of the Smoke Screen;
while your dry bed of balsam boughs may turn out to be rain
trickling down your neck, Niagara-like, and your resting place a
veritable Lake Erie. Your fragrance of a thousand flowers may be
the pungent aroma of the skunk, borne by the evening breeze; and
your evening serenade perhaps will be made by an immense number
of "no see ems" whose shrill and infinitely fine soprano is paid
for in so many installments of blood, to say nothing of the
furious itching and nights of "watchful waiting." Even to enjoy
Nature in her finer moods you must always pay a price, and
people gain "beauty, as well as bread, by the sweat of their
brows."
But here we are at Crawford's notch, gazing at the mountains
that tower far above us.
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