But we knew the
game.
It comes at the last to be entirely a matter of experience. Any man can
walk in the woods all day at some gait. But his speed will depend on
his skill. It is exactly like making your way through heavy, dry sand.
As long as you restrain yourself to a certain leisurely plodding, you
get along without extraordinary effort, while even a slight increase of
speed drags fiercely at your feet. So it is with the woods. As long as
you walk slowly enough, so that you can pick your footing and lift
aside easily the branches that menace your face, you will expend little
nervous energy. But the slightest pressing, the slightest inclination
to go beyond what may be called your physical foresight, lands you
immediately in difficulties. You stumble, you break through the brush,
you shut your eyes to avoid sharp switchings. The reservoir of your
energy is open full cock. In about an hour you feel very, very tired.
This principle holds rigidly true of every one, from the softest
tenderfoot to the expertest forest-runner. For each there exists a
normal rate of travel, beyond which are penalties. Only, the
forest-runner, by long use, has raised the exponent of his powers.
Perhaps as a working hypothesis the following might be recommended:
_One good step is worth six stumbling steps; go only fast enough to
assure that good one._
You will learn, besides, a number of things practically which memory
cannot summon to order for instance here.
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