In other
words, if he carries a double tent, a cot, a folding bath; and
gives a little attention to a properly balanced food supply, he
has met the situation.
If, in addition, he takes canned goods, soda siphons, lime juice,
easy chairs and all the rest of the paraphernalia, he is merely
using a basic principle as an excuse to include sheer luxuries.
In further extenuation of this he is apt to argue that porters
are cheap, and that it costs but little more to carry these extra
comforts. Against this argument, of course, I have nothing to
say. It is the inalienable right of every man to carry all the
luxuries he wants. My point is that the average American
sportsman does not want them, and only takes them because he is
overpersuaded that these things are not luxuries, but
necessities. For, mark you, he could take the same things into
the Sierras or the North-by paying; but he doesn't.
I repeat, it is the inalienable right of any man to travel as
luxuriously as he pleases. But by the same token it is not his
right to pretend that luxuries are necessities. That is to put
himself into the same category with the man who always finds some
other excuse for taking a drink than the simple one that he wants
it.
The Englishman's point of view is that he objects to "pigging
it," as he says. "Pigging it" means changing your home habits in
any way. If you have been accustomed to eating your sardines
after a meal, and somebody offers them to you first, that is
"pigging it." In other words, as nearly as I can make out,
"pigging it" does not so much mean doing things in an inadequate
fashion as DOING THEM DIFFERENTLY. Therefore, the Englishman in
the field likes to approximate as closely as may be his life in
town, even if it takes one hundred and fifty men to do it. Which
reduces the "pigging it" argument to an attempt at condemnation
by calling names.
The American temperament, on the contrary, being more
experimental and independent, prefers to build anew upon its
essentials. Where the Englishman covers the situation
blanket-wise with his old institutions, the American prefers to
construct new institutions on the necessities of the case. He
objects strongly to being taken care of too completely. He
objects strongly to losing the keen enjoyment of overcoming
difficulties and enduring hardships. The Englishman by habit and
training has no such objections. He likes to be taken care of,
financially, personally, and everlastingly. That is his ideal of
life. If he can be taken care of better by employing three
hundred porters and packing eight tin trunks of personal
effects-as I have seen it done-he will so employ and take. That
is all right: he likes it.
But the American does not like it. A good deal of the fun for him
is in going light, in matching himself against his environment.
It is no fun to him to carry his complete little civilization
along with him, laboriously. If he must have cotton wool, let it
be as little cotton wool as possible. He likes to be comfortable;
but he likes to be comfortable with the minimum of means.
Striking just the proper balance somehow adds to his interest in
the game. And how he DOES object to that ever-recurring
thought-that he is such a helpless mollusc that it requires a
small regiment to get him safely around the country!
Both means are perfectly legitimate, of course; and neither view
is open to criticism. All either man is justified in saying is
that he, personally, wouldn't get much fun out of doing it the
other way. As a matter of fact, human nature generally goes
beyond its justifications and is prone to criticise. The
Englishman waxes a trifle caustic on the subject of "pigging it";
and the American indulges in more than a bit of sarcasm on the
subject of "being led about Africa like a dog on a string."
By some such roundabout mental process as the above the American
comes to the conclusion that he need not necessarily adopt the
other fellow's method of playing this game. His own method needs
modification, but it will do. He ventures to leave out the tables
and easy chair, takes a camp stool and eats off a chop box. To
the best of his belief his health does not suffer from this. He
gets on with a camper's allowance of plate, cup and cutlery, and
so cuts out a load and a half of assorted kitchen utensils and
table ware. He even does without a tablecloth and napkins! He
discards the lime juice and siphons, and purchases a canvas
evaporation bag to cool the water. He fires one gunbearer, and
undertakes the formidable physical feat of carrying one of his
rifles himself. And, above all, he modifies that grub list. The
purchase of waterproof bags gets rid of a lot of tin: the staple
groceries do quite as well as London fancy stuff. Golden syrup
takes the place of all the miscellaneous jams, marmalades and
other sweets. The canned goods go by the board. He lays in a
stock of dried fruit. At the end, he is possessed of a grub list
but little different from that of his Rocky Mountain trips. Some
few items he has cut down; and some he has substituted; but bulk
and weight are the same. For his three months' trip he has four
or five chop boxes all told.
And then suddenly he finds that thus he has made a reduction all
along the line.
