CHAPTER VII
GRUB
Variety
IN no department of outdoor life does the mistaken notion of "roughing it" work more harm. I have never been able to determine why a man should be content with soggy, heavy, coarse and indigestible food when, with the same amount of trouble, the same utensils, and the same materials he can enjoy variety and palatability. To eat a well-cooked dinner it is not necessary to carry an elaborate commissary. In a later chapter I shall try to show you how to combine the simple and limited ingredients at your command into the greatest number of dishes. At present we will concern ourselves strictly with the kind and quantity of food you will wish to carry with you.
Necessarily bulk and weight are such important considerations that they will at once cut out much you would enjoy. Also condensed and desiccated foods are, in a few cases, toothsome enough to earn inclusion—and many are not. Perishability bars certain other sorts. But when all is said and done there remains an adequate list from which to choose.
Luxuries
However closely you confine yourself to the bare necessities, be sure to include one luxury. This is not so much to eat as for the purpose of moral support. I remember one trip in the Black Hills on which our commissary consisted quite simply of oatmeal, tea, salt, and sugar, and a single can of peaches. Of course there was game. Now if we had found ourselves confined to meat, mush, oatmeal pones, and tea, we should, after a little, have felt ourselves reduced to dull monotony, and after a little more we should have begun to long mightily for the fleshpots of Deadwood. But that can of peaches lurked in the back of our minds. By its presence we were not reduced to meat, mush, oatmeal pones, and tea. Occasionally we would discuss gravely the advisability of opening it, but I do not believe any one of us down deep in his heart meant it in sober earnest. What was the mere tickling of the palate compared with the destruction of a symbol.
Take Your Pet Luxury
Somewhat similarly I was once on a trip with an Englishman who, when we outfitted, insisted on marmalade. In vain we pointed out the fact that glass always broke. Finally we compromised on one jar, which we wrapped in the dish towel and packed in the coffee pot. For five weeks that unopened jar of marmalade traveled with us, and the Englishman was content. Then it got broken—as they always do. From that time on our friend uttered his daily growl or lament over the lack of marmalade. And, mind you, he had already gone five weeks without tasting a spoonful!