When a Westerner wants to tell you that he lacks
a thing, he informs you he is "afoot" for it. "Give
me a fill for my pipe," he begs; "I'm plumb afoot
for tobacco."

Consequently you think last of your own comfort.
In casting about for a place to spend the night, you
look out for good feed. That assured, all else is of
slight importance; you make the best of whatever
camping facilities may happen to be attached. If
necessary you will sleep on granite or in a marsh,
walk a mile for firewood or water, if only your
animals are well provided for. And on the trail you
often will work twice as hard as they merely to save
them a little. In whatever I may tell you regarding
practical expedients, keep this always in mind.

As to the little details of your daily routine in the
mountains, many are worth setting down, however
trivial they may seem. They mark the difference
between the greenhorn and the old-timer; but, more
important, they mark also the difference between the
right and the wrong, the efficient and the inefficient
ways of doing things.

In the morning the cook for the day is the first man
afoot, usually about half past four. He blows on his
fingers, casts malevolent glances at the sleepers, finally
builds his fire and starts his meal. Then he takes
fiendish delight in kicking out the others. They do not