ing knife and used them for tinder. One night as I
lighted a candle in my cabin, it came to me that a piece of it would be
handy to tuck in my pocket for emergencies. Ever afterwards I carried
several short, burned-down ends along on my excursions. I discovered
that one of these stubs, set solidly on the ground and lighted, would
start my fire under the most adverse conditions. But for them I would
have had many a cold camp.

I had read of the Eskimo igloos and I tried to make them. But the snow
at hand in my mountains was never packed hard enough to freeze solid so
building blocks could be cut from it. It is blown about and drifted
too much. I did get an idea from "Buck" in Jack London's "Call of the
Wild," that I adapted. On winter explorations I always carried
snowshoes, even though not compelled to wear them at the outset. These
made handy shovels. When ready to make camp I selected a snowdrift
three or four feet deep, and with my web shovel dug a triangular hole,
about seven feet long on each side. In the angle farthest from the
wind I built my fire. It soon assisted me in enlarging the corner.
Opposite it, I roofed over my dugout with dead limbs, thatching them
with green boughs, and finally heaping the excavated snow over all. I
had a practically windproof nest which a little fire would keep snug
and warm. True I had to fire up frequently throughout the night, for a
big blaze is too hot in a snow-hole, but I soon learned to rouse up,
put on more fuel, and drop back to sleep, all in a few minutes.

But the smoke nuisance in my early dugouts was terrible. Pittsburgh
had nothing on me! Many a morning I crawled out smelling like a smoked
ham, my eyes smarting, my throat sore and dry. Years later, my rambles
led me to Mesa Verde and the kivas of the cliff dwellers. Those
primitive people built fires deep underground, with no chimneys or
flues to conduct the smoke outside. They ingeniously constructed cold
air passages down to the floor of the kivas near the fire bowl. These
fed the fires fresh air, causing the smoke to rise steadily and pass
out through a small aperture in the roof. I tried this, and to my
delight, found it rid me of the strangling plague.

I had discarded my gun, but my camera was with me always. Frequent
dashing showers are common in the mountains. Often, too, I had to
cross swollen streams, and sometimes got a ducking in transit.
Matches, salt and camera plates were ruined