The others string out in a leisurely procession.It does no good to hurry.The horses will of their own accord stay in sight of one another, and constant nagging to keep the rear closed up only worries them without accomplishing any valuable result.In going uphill especially, let the train take its time.Each animal is likely to have his own ideas about when and where to rest.If he does, respect them.See to it merely that there is no prolonged yielding to the temptation of meadow feed, and no careless or malicious straying off the trail.A minute's difference in the time of arrival does not count.Remember that the horses are doing hard and continuous work on a grass diet.
The day's distance will not seem to amount to much in actual miles, especially if, like most Californians, you are accustomed on a fresh horse to make an occasional sixty or seventy between suns; but it ought to suffice.There is a lot to be seen and enjoyed in a mountain mile.Through the high country two miles an hour is a fair average rate of speed, so you can readily calculate that fifteen make a pretty long day.You will be afoot a good share of the time.
If you were out from home for only a few hours' jaunt, undoubtedly you would ride your horse over places where in an extended trip you will prefer to lead him.It is always a question of saving your animals.
About ten o'clock you must begin to figure on water.No horse will drink in the cool of the morning, and so, when the sun gets well up, he will be thirsty.Arrange it.
As to the method of travel, you can either stop at noon or push straight on through.We usually arose about half past four; got under way by seven; and then rode continuously until ready to make the next camp.In the high country this meant until two or three in the afternoon, by which time both we and the horses were pretty hungry.But when we did make camp, the horses had until the following morning to get rested and to graze, while we had all the remainder of the afternoon to fish, hunt, or loaf.Sometimes, however, it was more expedient to make a lunch-camp at noon.Then we allowed an hour for grazing, and about half an hour to pack and unpack.It meant steady work for ourselves.To unpack, turn out the horses, cook, wash dishes, saddle up seven animals, and repack, kept us very busy.There remained not much leisure to enjoy the scenery.It freshened the horses, however, which was the main point.I should say the first method was the better for ordinary journeys; and the latter for those times when, to reach good feed, a forced march becomes necessary.
On reaching the night's stopping-place, the cook for the day unpacks the cook-horse and at once sets about the preparation of dinner.The other two attend to the animals.And no matter how tired you are, or how hungry you may be, you must take time to bathe their backs with cold water; to stake the picket-animal where it will at once get good feed and not tangle its rope in bushes, roots, or stumps; to hobble the others; and to bell those inclined to wander.After this is done, it is well, for the peace and well-being of the party, to take food.
A smoke establishes you in the final and normal attitude of good humor.Each man spreads his tarpaulin where he has claimed his bed.Said claim is indicated by his hat thrown down where he wishes to sleep.It is a mark of pre-emption which every one is bound to respect.Lay out your saddle-blankets, cover them with your quilt, place the sleeping-blanket on top, and fold over the tarpaulin to cover the whole.At the head deposit your duffle-bag.Thus are you assured of a pleasant night.
About dusk you straggle in with trout or game.
The camp-keeper lays aside his mending or his repairing or his note-book, and stirs up the cooking-fire.The smell of broiling and frying and boiling arises in the air.By the dancing flame of the campfire you eat your third dinner for the day--in the mountains all meals are dinners, and formidable ones at that.The curtain of blackness draws down close.
Through it shine stars, loom mountains cold and mist-like in the moon.You tell stories.You smoke pipes.After a time the pleasant chill creeps down from the eternal snows.Some one throws another handful of pine-cones on the fire.Sleepily you prepare for bed.The pine-cones flare up, throwing their light in your eyes.You turn over and wrap the soft woolen blanket close about your chin.You wink drowsily and at once you are asleep.Along late in the night you awaken to find your nose as cold as a dog's.You open one eye.A few coals mark where the fire has been.The mist mountains have drawn nearer, they seem to bend over you in silent contemplation.The moon is sailing high in the heavens.
With a sigh you draw the canvas tarpaulin over your head.Instantly it is morning.
