The wilderness cure

Front matter

Writ* ~

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.

THE

Chapter X

The Cost of the Thing, . . , Appendix,

136 149

THE WILDERNESS CURE.

CHAPTEK I.

THE YOUNG MANS CASE.

Late in the autumn of 1877, a young man at work in a newspaper office in New York City found himself the possessor of an inconsequential cough. It came to him unsolicited, and, so far as he could discover, without sufficient — certainly without specific cause. Up to that time he had enjoyed fairly good health. He had stood the strain of a reporter's life and boarding-house fare, and while pretty steadily disregarding the precepts of the doctors, he was never obliged to call upon them for prescriptions. It was not until he had found more congenial employment in the office of a weekly journal — not until he had sown his few wild oats, married, and settled down to the cultivation of tame oats, that the medical men got their grip upon him.

The inconsequential cough was scarcely noticed at first. It caused its owner neither inconvenience nor 1* anxiety. In the consciousness of never having inherited anything, there was the comforting conviction that he could not have inherited consumptive tendencies. From no branch or root or twig of his genealogic tree was it possible to draw the wasting sap of phthisis. Still the cough, coming thus with no claim to kinship, stuck closer than a brother. At the end of a month or so, a physician prescribed some simple remedies. They were taken with no apparent effect. Another month went by. The ' cough had grown a trifle tiresome, but was still regarded as a small matter by its involuntary owner. It continued to be the only perceptible symptom of anything wrong. The young man lost neither flesh nor strength — at least, not to an appreciable degree. He went to the office, performed his usual duties without special effort, and was able to eat and sleep regularly. But he kept on coughing.

By the time the third month had been rounded the cougher had consulted other physicians, had taken three or four bottles of cod-liver oil, a gallon or two of rye whiskey with rock candy, and an amazing amount of good advice. The doctors found nothing very serious, they said, in the case. Perhaps a predisposition to pulmonary weakness — that was all. Exposure to the weather should be avoided, and possibly the climate of Florida or Nassau might prove of benefit. But there was no immediate necessity for leaving the city, and nourishing food, rest, and regularity of life would be pretty sure to overcome the trouble. So, still coughing, yet still free from anxiety regarding himself, the young man continued at his desk.

In March, 1878, some unpleasant accompaniments to the cough began to show themselves. "Work became more exhausting, and a walk of a mile produced a strong desire for rest. The young man gave up the habit of mounting stairs two steps at a time. Tenderloin steak lost its old-time flavor, and indeed all eating became somewhat of a task. The pulse often rose to the nineties, and at times a slight fever manifested itself. Night-sweats were also developed, although in a mild form. All this time cod-liver oil, whiskey, and a diet of special nutritive qualities were continued perseveringly. And so was the cough.

On the first of April came the sharp warning which less alarming symptoms had failed to convey. On the evening of that day, after an especially laborious siege of it in the office, the cougher was attacked with hemorrhage of the lungs just as he stepped from the Fulton ferry-house. He raised, perhaps, half a teacup of blood. He had an idea, at the time, that it was a quart. This hemorrhage brought relief so far as the cough was concerned, but it brought also a tardy realization of the clanger that threatened. The flow of blood was stopped by the use of common table-salt, and although the first attack was followed by a number of others, more or less severe, no other remedy was used. A day or two later, the young man locked his office desk and set forth in search of that unpurchasable luxury- — health. He went first to his father's home in the central part of New York State. There he remained about two months, and then, in conformity with the advice of his physician, Dr. William H. Watson, the present Surgeon-General of New York State, he journeyed to the White Mountains, New Hampshire. The period between his departure from New York and this mountain trip was marked by some noteworthy peculiarities of his case. At first, after his arrival at his father's house, he lost ground at a discouraging rate. It was fully two weeks before the hemorrhages were completely stopped. Meantime, his strength failed rapidly, the cough became extremely vicious, and the nights were made miserable through copious sweats, burning fever, and inability to sleep. In good time, however, matters began to mend. Under the treatment of his physician the patient regained his appetite, found the cough growing by degrees less troublesome, was able to sleep restf ully at night, and was entirely relieved from that sense of nervous prostration which is not uncommon in cases of hemorrhage.

So rapid was his gain, that in June the young man had reason to believe that he should speedily be rid of the cough which now again was the only reminder of disease. On his way to the mountains he spent a few days in Boston, and there submitted himself to a thorough examination at the hands of Dr. Gr. Hermann Merkel. The result of this examination showed that the lower part of the left lung was slightly consolidated, while the upper part of the right lung gave some faint indication of catarrhal difficulty. Neither lung was in anything like a seriously diseased condition. Indeed, a less practised ear than the doctor's might have failed to detect anything wrong in the delicate tissues. Journeying on to North Conway, the health-seeker spent the remainder of the summer, where, from his window, he could see the giant front of Mount Washington. In the dry, bracing atmosphere of that region, where the sandy soil sucks up the moisture, and no foul odors pollute the air, he gained steadily. It was not easy, either for himself or others, to regard him as an invalid in those days. He led no life of piazza indolence. He turned off his allotted portion of work every day, and wrote with unusual ease and freedom. A three-mile jaunt did not tire him. Hefreshing nights of sleep, and a regular appetite brought increased strength and added materially to his weight. And yet, through this cheering period, never, for a day, did the cough loosen its hold. At times, to be sure, it grew mild, and gave its victim long hours of respite ; but all the same it was there. There to irritate, to watch its chance, and in the end to break forth again with renewed viciousness. In September the young man believed himself so far restored to health as to justify his return to New York. He turned the scales then at 158 pounds, a gain of twenty pounds over his weight in April. He felt in all respects as well, physically and mentally, as ever. His capacity for work and beefsteak was at its maximum. The physicians interposed no obj ections to his return to office work. So he made his way back to New York in the cheering belief that he had done with cod-liver oil, quinine, and doctors' prescriptions. But he took with him the cough.

In the next three months he attended regularly to his duties, and did his best to shut out the too palpable truth that he was losing ground daily. At last, however, the sharp warning was a second time sounded. On the first of January, 1879, he was taken down with severe hemorrhages. For the two weeks following he was forced to keep his bed. All the bad symptoms came back — nervous prostration, weakness, loss of appetite, fever, debilitating sweats. It was with the dawn of the new year that Dr. Edward W. Vietor, of Brooklyn, took charge of the case. He gave the patient large hope of recovery, and devoted himself faithfully to the work of battling the insidious enemy. It will ever remain the conviction of the patient that without Dr. Yietor's skilful treatment and the untiring care of a devoted wife, his life would have ended at that time. As it was, hope's thermometer rose and fell alternately for many days. February found the young man seemingly on the straight road to recovery. And, indeed, for a period of two months or more, he was well enough to work daily, although not going to the office — well enough to enjoy his meals, to find comfort in books' companionship, and, in fair weather, in leisurely strolls about town. But through some slight overexertion, added, perhaps, to indiscreet exposure, this cheering condition of things was brought to a sudden end. Toward the latter part of March a congestive chill was followed by something unpleasantly like pneumonia. Then for a month the patient ran down at an alarming rate.

His physician saw the old foe gaining inch by inch, and foot by foot, until he felt the necessity for an immediate change of ground. The first thing was to get away from New York ; the second was to get into the Adirondack wilderness. So weak, that he could with difficulty make the journey, the patient set out once more in the search for health — this time with very small hopes of finding what he sought. He spent a month at his father's home, hoping thereby to pick up a little strength for what, in his condition, seemed a laborious undertaking. Instead, however, of gaining, he grew steadily weaker. Dr. "VVatson, who renewed his interest in the case, joined heartily in the project of visiting the Adirondacks. He very plainly told the friends of the young man that this was the one chance left — that if it failed. the long fight would be over. Enthusiastic as the doctor was over the Adirondack trip, he could not conscientiously hold out much hope in the present case. He made the fact emphatic, however, that the patient would die, and die speedily, if he remained where he was. Should he live to reach the St. Regis country, there was a chance — shadowy, no doubt, but still a chance — of recovery. Had the question been left for the young man himself to decide, the experiment would probably have remained untried. For it is to be confessed, that at this time (the early part of June, 1879), he had loosened his hold on hope and prepared himself, with what of philosophic calmness he could muster, for the coming of the end. Through many weary months he had held steadfast to the belief that he should find ultimate relief from his ailment ; but now that belief gave place to one equally deep-seated, that death would claim its own. Cheering words from those nearest and dearest to him, even the blessed falsehoods which it is the physician's duty as well as privilege sometimes to utter, neither comforted nor deceived him. He needed no physician to tell him that he was sinking rapidly. And surely, with days made weary by the racking cough, with no appetite for food, with alternate fits of burning fever and chilling cold, with utter prostration of the nerve-force, with nights devoid of rest, the body drenched in perspiration, and the cough still racking the tired lungs^ - with all these things, it is not to be wondered at that hope went out, and the fight seemed altogether an uneven and vain contest.

Still the wiser opinion of others prevailed, and on the sixth of June the patient started for the wilderness. Plattsburg was reached that evening, and the night spent at a hotel. At an early hour the next morning the journey was resumed — twenty miles of it over a backwoods railway, and forty by stage over a backwoods highway. Only by means of alcoholic stimulants, freely taken, could the patient have made this trip. As it was, when he stepped from the stage at " Paul" Smith's, his wasted body and bloodless face afforded reason enough for the sturdy guides to shake their heads ominously over this doubtful specimen of a " sportsman."

That was the seventh of June. This is the middle of December. And the young man ? Well, he lays down his pen to-day to go out for a seven-miles ride over the glistening snow. The thermometer is close to zero. The air is crisp and cold. It might freeze your dainty city ears, but it is nothing to the hardy backwoodsman. Nothing to the young man.

CHAPTER II.

THE WILDERNESS AND THE EXPERIMENT.

Distasteful as it is to parade one's bodily infirmities before the world, such a course seems to be the only one to follow in a narrative like this. Indeed, my little volume would surely fail of its purpose if it did not have a personal story to tell. If this story should seem largely egotistical that is to be counted the misfortune, not the vanity of the teller.

The description of my own case given in the preceding chapter, however untechnical, is at least unexaggerated. As it stands, it applies specifically to one victim; but with little alteration, no doubt, it would cover thousands of other cases. It has not been my object to make my condition worse than it was, nor shall it be my aim to color too rosily the curative virtues of the wilderness. The young man who, in June, found it no easy task to walk the length of the hotel piazza, in December could turn off a mile over snow-covered roads without exhausting his strength. But he is still far from robust health. The experiment has proved successful beyond the most hopeful anticipation, but it is to be remembered that it is an experiment still under trial. The man who has been afflicted with disease of twenty years' standing, and given np by the doctors, and who, after using six bottles of Dr. Lumbo's Liniment is, forthwith, able to lift a seven-octave piano, is not the writer of this book. Probably all of us who are doomed to long familiarity with pills and powders, have, in one shape or another, been informed of the merits of innumerable Dr. Lumbos, each with his infallible liniment. I regret to say, however, that personally I have never found that distinguished gentleman in the flesh, nor a drop of his liniment in the bottle. I did not find them when I came up here into the woods. Yet I heard of them — of a dozen of them — before I had got fairly settled in my room.

"D'yer want to know what '11 cure that there cough of yonr'n ? " inquired a solicitous backwoodsman, before I had been three hours in the wilderness.

"Yes, it would afford me infinite satisfaction to learn what would cure that cough."

"Cherry-bark and balsam," was the impressive answer. " Nothin' like it in the world ! Why, land o' the livin' there was a young feller come up here three years ago — "

But I spare you the proof of cherry-bark and balsam's magic properties, as illustrated in the case of that "young feller." His case is painfully familiar. Sometimes it is cherry-bark and balsam, sometimes it is buttermilk, sometimes it is dandelion tea — but whatever the remedy, the result is invariably the same. If any of my consumptive readers are emulous of the fame of Dr. Lumbo's patients, they will not come to the Adirondacks. I am persuaded, however, that there are in this country to-day ten thousand persons who, fighting the weary fight for health, would find cause enough for thanksgiving if they could penetrate this vast wilderness and breathe in the life-giving air day and night the year round. If it brought them that measure of strength which it has brought the writer, surely they, like him, would deem it a duty to write a recommendation of the medicine as sincere, if not as remarkable, as any ever given to Doctor Lumbo's Liniment.

The two weeks and more which we spent at " Paul " Smith's before getting into camp were wretched in the extreme. Nothing could have been worse than the weather. It rained almost incessantly the greater part of the time, and when not raining, it might with perfect consistency have snowed. The thermometer, on two or three occasions, sank below forty, and throughout it showed no- more disposition to rise than the guides did when once seated about the office fire. Even the few enthusiastic anglers who had come in for the June fishing needed the warm glow of ardent zeal to keep them at their honored pursuit. As for a weak and shivering invalid, he could only move listlessly about his room, or hug the fire tenaciously in the parlor. If anything, I found myself worse during this fortnight than I had been at any time before. The nights especially became periods of almost continuous suffering: So hard and constant was the cough, that sleep, except the restless and troubled dozing produced by opiates, was out of the question. The expectoration was copious, generally of a greenish tint, and so solid that it sank like a stone in water. Then the drenching sweats, alternated with burning fever and occasional chills, made up a list of more ills than any flesh should at one and the same time fall heir to. We found kind friends at the hotel, and the sympathetic interest manifested in my case by " Paul " Smith and his estimable wife surprised me more then than it does now, when I have come to know them better. Dr. Trudeau, whose own case is referred to elsewhere in this book, freely gave his professional services in my behalf, and I was fortunate, also, in coming under the care of the late Dr. Bronson, of New Haven. All that medical skill and constant care and tender nursing could do was done for me at that critical time. If it did not surprise others, it did me, that I pulled through.

It had been a part of the wilderness plan, and a very important part in our preliminary arrangements, to go into camp at the earliest moment practicable. For myself, I had a very confused idea of what " camping out " meant. The plan was vaguely suggestive of salt pork, rubber blankets, a bed of hemlock boughs, and much physical discomfort, which is perversely declared to be fun. However, the camp was indispensable to a fair trial of the Adirondack experiment, and so our preparations were made with as much haste as possible.

In the matter of selecting a camping ground we were peculiarly fortunate. The spot was a bluff on

Osgood Pond, rising thirty feet above the level o£ the water, and stretching like a peninsula into the pond. Pines, spruces, and the aspen poplar, known in the vernacular of the region as the "popple," abounded. The pond itself stretched about this neck of land so as to form a little bay, toward which the land extended in a gentle declivity. We thus had a breeze blowing across the water in front to the water in the back — a very important consideration in keeping clear of insect pests. The spot had never before been used for camping purposes, and that also was to be counted in its favor. For custom gives the first settler a sort of right of claim on Adirondack ground.

Our preliminary preparations were not elaborate, and were left necessarily for the most part to the guides employed to build the camp. We moved into our primitive quarters on the 21st of June. We found awaiting us two bark buildings and a canvas tent, built in a line along the bluff, and facing the picturesque little lake which nestles among the pinecovered hills. Osgood is the first of the ponds lying north of the Lower St. Pegis, and is reached by a three-fourths of a mile carry. To get to our camp, another three-fourths of a mile had to be travelled by boat ; or the entire distance could be covered by land, reckoned at about a mile and a half to the hotel. It cannot be said that Camp Lou, as we afterward called it, presented a very attractive appearance on that first Saturday afternoon. To be sure the scene about us was beautiful in the extreme ; but scenery was something which could not inspire us

THE WILDEKNESS AND THE EXPERIMENT. 23

much just then. As I have explained, our fortnight's sojourn at the hotel had not in any way benefited me. When I reached the camp, the walk up the gradual slope from the boat-landing to the tent was enough to exhaust my strength. Despite the physicians' assurances, I looked with suspicion on the canvas tent, and very seriously doubted whether it would afford protection against the rain and wind. Timely advice had prevented us from putting our faith in hemlock boughs, and we had a comfortable bed, with mattress, pillows, and the other appurtenances of civilized sleeping. But we slept very little that first night. The weather was warm and mugny, with an unmistakable hint of rain in the lowering sky. After an unrelished supper, we sat down disconsolately in the bark cabin and reflected that if this was the invigorating manner of life destined to restore health and strength, it was at least a questionable kind of invigoration. The one tallow candle burned dimly, and was finally extinguished altogether to keep away the midges— which, if you want to be understood here, you must call midgets. Our guides made a sorry attempt at enlivening the occasion by some reminiscenses of their backwoods life. Then, finally, clinging stubbornly to my own belief about the insecurity of the tent, and finding that a drizzling rain had already set in, I insisted upon having the bed made up in the cabin. This suited the midges exactly, and in the brief intervals of the night when the cough did not keep me awake, the persistent little insects did.

24 THE WILDERNESS CITEE.

We arose on the following morning to find the sky a mass of leaden clouds, and a penetrating rain still falling. With the conveniences at our disposal we made a rough and ready toilet and ate with doubtful appetite the breakfast which the guides had provided. Then wrapping ourselves in rubber coats, we sat down in the tent, more discouraged and more wretched even than on the night before. It was a long, dull, miserable day, brightened only for an hour by a visit from two of our hotel friends, whose goodness of heart prompted them to brave the abominable weather and seek us out to make sure that we still lived. That night we took to the tent, our former experience having satisfied me that the bark cabin was not a place for sleeping. And here came the first convincing proof of the benefit I was to derive from camp life. I found the tent as conducive of sleep as the cabin had been antagonistic to its enjoyment. To those accustomed all their lives to the stifling atmosphere of the ordinary chamber, it would be impossible to convey an adequate idea of the delicious purity of the air as inhaled under canvas. Always as fresh as if out of doors, the tent still shields the sleeper from the wind, and makes a draught, that everlasting promoter of colds, an impossibility. From that first night I became an enthusiast over canvas coverings. Xor were my forebodings with regard to the leaking of the tent in a single instance verified. Throughout all the four months and a half which we spent in camp, not once did the rain penetrate the tent. And this was due to no lack of test, for we had days when the drenching storms were enough to put the best shingled house to a severe trial. Moreover, our tent was neither new nor exceptionally secure. It was purchased at secondhand of a guide, and had done service for two or three years. The " fly " which protected it was made of ordinary cotton cloth and afterward immersed in linseed-oil.

For the first four weeks of camp life the only perceptible improvement in my condition was in the matter of sleep. Although still troubled at intervals by the cough, and by no means exempt from the sweats, still as a whole the nights brought a measure of rest which I had not known for many weeks. I had hoped to find a keener appetite for food in this out-door life, and some abatement of the cough. I cannot say that I expected these results, but the faith of others was so great that it gave me at least hope. But no such cheering symptoms manifested themselves. The cough — except, as I have already explained, during the night — remained as vicious as before. The fever became more constant, and that in the face of large doses of quinine recommended by the doctors. Instead of gaining, my appetite grew less and less, until most of the nourishment taken was in the form of beef-tea, milk, and raw eggs. Occasionally the sputa was colored with blood, and I was continually apprehensive of hemorrhage. Without energy enough even to find solace in reading, I passed the days listlessly in a chair, with no other desire than to be let alone. 2

So passed the first month. The weather was variable and very different from what I had been led to expect. The Fourth of July, for example, came and went, while we shivered over a roaring fire. Two weeks later, a hot wave struck us, which sent the mercury up among the nineties, even in the coolest spot of our pine-shaded ground. Along with these sudden and extreme changes of temperature, came a great deal of rain and some wind. The insects did what they could to bother us, and our lack of experience cost us many petty annoyances, which would seem silly to enumerate, but which are not trivial to the invalid.

With the second month a gain, very slight, but still appreciable, began to show itself. There were days when I could eat with fair relish, when the fever was wholly absent, and when my energy was sufficiently aroused to do a little work in the way of writing, and to take some slight physical exercise. Sometimes these good turns would cover a period of three or four days. Of tener, however, they gave way at the end of twenty -four hours to a condition wherein all the worst symptoms displayed themselves anew. At my best, it must be remembered that the cough was always present, and always persistent. At my worst there were also the fever, the nervous prostration, and a miserably impaired digestion.

At the close of the third month, that is, toward the latter part of September, I had made some unmistakable progress. With rare exceptions I sat down to my meals with a good appetite. I could walk half a mile without overtaxing my strength. Patience, atropine, and the pure air of the tent had about mastered the sweats. The nights, although sometimes wakeful, were still restful. I spent an hour or two every day in writing, and kept in motion enough to give me a fair amount of exercise.

From this time to the breaking up of our camp, November 3d, I continued to pick up a little, albeit a backward wave would at intervals strike me and temporarily chill my hopes. But when we took down the canvas tent in a driving snow-storm, nineteen weeks after we had first slept under its shelter, I felt that the camp life experiment had proved a success. I had gone in miserable, indifferent, and skeptical. I was not cured ; but I came out comfortable, alive, and full of hope.

CHAPTER III.

SOME DELUSIONS DISPELLED.

"When we first came into the wilderness, or more strictly speaking, when the idea of coming was first decided upon, a little definite information would have been of much practical value. A knowledge of what was needed for the trip, of what ought to be done after we had reached our destination and of what manner of life it was that we were to lead, would have saved us an undetermined amount of annoyance, disappointment, and unnecessary expense. In short, if some other fellow had recorded his experience before the summer I went into the woods, I should have blessed him, and I should not have written this little book.

The physicians had said, " You must go to the Adirondacks and camp out." Yery well. The Adirondacks it is. And a very little investigation was enough to show that the particular spot to go to must be " Paul " Smith's. So far the programme was simple. But at this point all exact information came to an abrupt end. There were the doctors themselves, but they had never visited "Paul" Smith's, and never camped out. Besides, they were not supposed to be encyclopedias of backwoods lore. Their duty ended with the command to go. There was Dr. Loomis's paper in the Medical Record. This I got hold of and read with profound interest, but while it gave large cause for hope, it left all minor details untouched, and confined its narrative to that simple, technical style, characteristic of the medical professor. There was the Rev. Mr. Murray's book. That certainly ought to contain some important facts. So I secured a copy and read it diligently. Facts I found, and some very excellent reading to boot ; but the possible tourist of Mr. Murray's imagination could not be an invalid. He was to journey over long " carries," run rapids, penetrate the unexplored forest, and shoot a deer whenever he was hungry. He was to provide himself with a rifle, with strong woollen trousers, a pair of woollen shirts, two pairs of woollen socks, soft felt hat, top boots, a rubber overcoat, and plenty of woollen blankets. This superabundance of woollen seemed a little mysterious for midsummer wear. But for Mr. Murray's traveller it was undoubtedly the thing. Mr. Murray further instructed his reader to make a bag of muslin in which to tie up his head and thus shield it against insects, and to procure a pair of stout buckskin gloves with gauntlets, along with a copious supply of tar and sweet oil. To his lady tourist he recommended short flannel skirts, Turkish trousers, and a soft hat like a man's. All this was undeniably good advice, but it did not exactly meet the case of the invalid.