Scouting on Two Continents, Part 2

 

We continue with the lessons we can reap from Mr. Burnham. See Part 1, for full immersion.]

[On one attribute of “Old Man Lee,” one of Burnham’s mentors in reading the land as an Apache Scout.]

“Lee had made a careful study of the air currents that sweep through the deep canyons, and although the Indians found ways to conceal the tell-tale smoke clouds, they could not prevent the odour of burning mescal from hanging in the air and drifting for miles up and down the canyons. By tracing these odours, Lee could mark the most secret hiding places of the Indians.”

·        I can vouch for an aspect of this craft.

·        I have made two sojourns into canyon country seeking Sinagua ruins and camps off-the-beaten track—another adventure/exploration scheduled for this January.

·        I have used many a tip and tactic from these Old Hosses to help locate what is no longer mapped—from using “High Eyes” and “Mouse Eyes” to spot lost trails to watching for cairn remnants.

·        At the foot of canyon face, if one is paying attention to the eddies of wind and the growth swirls of juniper you can get a handle on wise areas to place campfire high on cliff face that would both be wind-resistant and concealed.

·        If one is paying attention, you can spot where the ancient soot may show darker in lines of manganese oxides in the cliff face.

·        Walk that down, pay close attention—and just maybe…magic.

[On the boulder hopping/rock-stepping of Apache and Sinagua.]

“…if the Apaches were suspicious of pursuit, they would not drop a single thread of mescal and would step from boulder to boulder, leaving so faint a mark on the rocks that only the most highly trained eye would ever notice the trace.”

[A remarkable observation in the next passage. One that anthropologists, and mere readers of history don’t quite touch, whereas a man of action who lived it understands that we must understand a subject as a whole not piecemeal.]

“It is imperative that a scout should know the history, tradition, religion, social customs, and superstitions of whatever country or people he is called on to work in or among. This is almost as necessary as to know the physical character of the country, its climate and products. Certain people will do certain things almost without fail. Certain other things, perfectly feasible, they will not do. There is no danger of knowing too much of the mental habits of an enemy. One should neither underestimate the enemy nor credit him with superhuman powers. Fear and courage are latent in every human being, though roused into activity by very diverse means. If, as a nation, we had the courage to write the pages of history as the events really occur, there might be some changes in value very startling to our cherished beliefs; but many errors are so firmly planted in the public mind that it is sacrilege to disturb them, and where they are harmless, it is probably better to let them rest. The idea that the Sioux Indians could fight the modern soldier without any training is an error of the same cloth as the recent pronouncement of the late William Jennings Bryan that “an army of a million men can leap to arms between the rising and the setting of the sun.” Armies are not made in that way. The old Sioux warriors who pitted themselves against such generals as Custer, Reno, Miles, and Crook all passed through much preparatory training. To begin with, they hardened the body systematically. They controlled the mind and set it on a definite object unswervingly. They well knew the uses of both love and hate in all their shades and degrees. Around the council fires, traditions and tales were poured into the ears of the Indian boy until the time arrived when he demanded to become a warrior. Each spring, a class of candidates would come before the medicine man for physical examination. If not strong enough, the youth would be sent back to the care of the squaws for another year. Those who passed the tests were put in close training, both mental and physical, until, on some clear, sunny day in June, the whole clan or tribe would gather on a slope of the prairie near a stream and pitch their tepees for the Sun Dance of the young braves.”

[On how “we” might fare with “savages” or other guerrilla factions if armament were equal.]

“When the exhausting test was ended, the youths were carefully tended by the squaws and nursed back to full strength in a few days. They were then passed over to the hands of older warriors for training with bow or gun, lance and horse, and in all the intricate lore of the plains. When they became proficient, they were divided into bands and sent to ambush each other’s horses and equipment, also to manoeuvre on a large scale under the orders and eyes of the great chiefs. If to the qualities and training possessed by these men had been added modern artillery and weapons, one would hesitate to guess how many of our troops would have been necessary to conquer them.”

·        We must not assume victory is always because “’Merica, damn right!” than it is, the armorers and quartermaster corps are up to superior snuff.

·        Never underestimate the Spirit of those who war with “less.”

[On the MUST of hard Physical, Emotional, Spiritual training. The MUST.]

“In the literature of the West, the hero, bad man, or sheriff is usually endowed by high Heaven with superhuman powers and has not found it necessary to go through long dreary months and years of training, like ordinary mortals; but I have never, in my experience, met either savage or white man whose natural traits without careful development would have made him distinguished. There are, however, great differences in ability, even among Indians. Those who become famous add to their natural inheritance long training in many things, especially in the hardening of the mind and body to stoical endurance. The great Indian chiefs were men of iron will as well as iron bodies.”

[In the next, I find it intriguing that Mr. Burnham, an “uneducated” man of the Southwest seems mighty familiar with the ways of “Oriental” calming disciplines. A man who left nothing unexamined!]

“I have often thought it would be well for the nervous European to cultivate a little of Oriental calm and self-control and with “Kismet” as his password, relax both mind and body at times and learn to sleep soundly even in the midst of danger.”

“To sleep at will is a fine art.”

·        A man who slept uncomplainingly on hard ground on two continents in harsh conditions.

·        Wonder what he would make of sound machines, CPAP Machines, melatonin, and water cooler “I slept horribly” stories?

[I offer a personal shaming of myself after this next passage.]

“I have often been asked how it happens that I neither drink nor smoke. My answer is that both liquor and tobacco have their uses, but I am of a nature that has never required a stimulant or a sedative. As a scout, I needed all my five senses and every faculty of my mind at highest efficiency at all times. There is nothing that sharpens a man’s senses so acutely as to know that bitter and determined enemies are in pursuit of him night and day. In many lines of endeavour, errors may be repeated without fatal results, but in an Indian or savage war, or in a bitter feud, one little slip entails the “Absent” mark for ever against a man’s name. I recall one scout who forfeited his life by his neglect for one instant to keep in the shade of a small oak tree. He was safe from sight so long as he kept in its shadow, but he became so intent on using his field glasses that he allowed a shaft of sunlight to betray him to the enemy.”

·        Despite photos to the contrary showing a stogie in my hand or in mouth—I no longer partake.

·        I recall reading this passage and several like it approximately 5 years ago and dumping my supply of “sensory killers.”

·        Just one more step in my “Grown Ass Man Who Wants to Be One of These Hosses when He Grows Up” journey.

“The senses and actions of every animal, bird, and insect, if studied, can be made to pay tribute to our store of human knowledge, and our own rather dull wits can be wonderfully informed. Solitude intensifies the perceptions. The herd with a thousand eyes trusts itself to a solitary sentinel with only two. Yet there comes a point where solitude, which entails total repression of the social instinct, turns upon its victim and destroys the alertness of brain it has built up; when, like a great wave, it uplifts only to engulf. I have met solitary sheep herders in the West whose eyes clung to the ground and who mumbled unintelligent words for hours at a time. Solitary confinement in prison brings insanity. Overtrained athletes become muscle-bound, and solitude in excess may make one thought-bound.”

·        Brilliant observation.

·        Crowd source sensory input by affiliating with our fellow creatures—“dumb animals” and humans alike.

Two Stories of Sensory Affiliation

Story 1

·        On my last canyonland trip, I’m on Day 3 of looking for a particular Sinagua camp my reading tells me is tucked in a particular slot canyon.

·        After more than a few false starts on cliff ledges that peter out the same time my fortitude at that height says, “Surely, to God no one would choose to place a camp here.’’

·        I come to a narrow alcove in the ledge where shadows have left the snow unmelted.

·        The snow above is trickling water to a small pool on an 8” ledge hundreds of feet above canyon floor.

·        I spot a small puma track in the snow around the pool trickle.

·        First, I think, “Hmm, narrow ledge plus puma—time to go.”

·        Then I see that the tracks lead from the snow in an untried direction—I think, “Hell, just 20 more yards of shimmying along this ledge then I’ll turn back.”

·        I break around a corner and…there it is a Sinagua camp embedded in cliff face.

·        That puma’s post-water path told me that semi-accessible ground had to be that way.

Story 2

·        Another day, I leave one Sinagua ruin high up canyon wall—a gorgeous Eastern Sun facing location that just allows the Rising Sun to illuminate perfectly the precisely placed rock doors.

·        Canyon base is a tangle of manzanita, every step is stop—untangle from the brush—take another step.

·        I’m on the track of a ruin my readings say that runs beneath a snowmelt waterfall.

·        In the midst of one of my entanglings, I come face to face with a lean and haggard face wearing an ancient backpack and carrying a gnarled walking stick.

·        We are both surprised—likely thinking the same thought, “What sort of madman leaves curated trails and ventures here?”

·        I say what I’m looking for.

·        He sorta grunts, “Yeah, there’s stuff like that around here, but they can be hard to find.”

·        I say, “Yeah, I just came from that one above us.”

·        He looks up then back at me, says, “You found that one?”

·        “Yes, it was glorious.”

·        “That one is hard to get to, most don’t do it, let alone know about it.”

·        We get into a conversation about my love for such things.

·        He goes from “tourist disdain” ala Edward Abbey to, “Perhaps this is a kindred spirit.”

·        He then says, the snow waterfall is hard to find.

·        I say, “I’m willing—my guess is that it has to be ensconced in a west wall to protect the snow and provide the fall.”

·        Him: “That’s right.” Pause. “ Want me to take you?”

·        “Hell, yeah.”

·        We go and after another hour of tangle—there she be! Glorious!

·        He then says, “There’s another one back here that most of the locals don’t even know about.”

·        “I’d love to see.”

·        Another trek—another glory.

·        While sitting in the midst of dwelling stones placed more than 2,000 years ago, I point to the piece of wood protruding from his pack wrapped in felt.

·        “That’s my Indian flute. Sometimes when I’m back here, I play.”

·        “Will you play for me?”

·        “I play for my friends.”

·        “Are we not friends? We have trekked together.”

·        He considers, smiles, says not another word and almost shyly pipes a 2–3-minute freeform etude that resounds mournfully off the canyon walls while we sit in an ancient abode.

·        The impromptu concerto is organic and mystical.

·        I never asked his name.

·        He never asked mine.

·        When I tell that story I call him Sedona Johnny.

·        Well, just like Mr. Burnham’s advice, Sedona Johnny allowed me to “borrow his eyes” so to speak to see more than I might have seen on my own.

We will return to more Lessons from Mr. Burnham in Part 3.

[Look for a Lifetime of Such Scoutcraft Lessons in our upcoming book Hombres Del Campo: Scoutcraft Lessons from Men of the Wilderness.]

Go get ‘em, Crew! Get after that Life, Burnham Style! Right Now!

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