THE standardized ideal hiker's outfit does not exist. He who would attempt to furnish specifications for one would at once be sus­pected of greenness in the art of walking. On certain fundamentals there is a fairly general agreement among the veterans. In the main, though, their points of agreement would mostly be upon the obviously undesirable things  —  patent-leather boots, for example. But there they would part, one demanding high-laced boots and heavy soles, another light-soled bals, another sneakers, and in the mere matter of hobnails and calks there is vast room for dissension.

And who would venture to assert at any tramper's camp-fire convention that caps were preferable to hats; that "knickers" had "anything on" trousers, with or without leggings; that heavy stockings counted more than light ones in favor of sound feet; that woolens, winter or summer, could muster more votes than cottons? And yet, since every novice craves suggestions in this line, while all old-timers enjoy their derisive snort at the whimsies even of their pals, I am inclined to indulge them both, not with any thought of composing a tramper's decalogue, but just to show how cranky and peculiar one of this ilk can be. Of one thing in this connection there is every assurance, to wit, that the tramper is among the broadest-minded of beings  —  at least on the subject of outfit. Not that he is wont to accept the dicta of any other man, or of any group of men in this, but in the light of his own experi­ence he modifies and re-forms his notions, even from year to year. It might almost be suspected of him that he was whiffle-minded, were it not for the saving grace that he re­gards it as an especially good joke on him­self when he begins to scoff at that which but yesteryear was one of his most treasured and trusted allies for a holiday along the trail.

One of the beauties of tramping is that it does not call for an expensive or elaborate outfit. Of course, if you want to dress the part in smart fashion it can be done, but a suit of old clothes, a cap or old soft hat, a small pack-bag to hold the extras, and a reliable pair of easy boots is outfit enough to see you through. To begin with, buy the best map you can find of the region you are planning to cover. For some few sections much fre­quented by trampers, the various walking clubs, like the Appalachian Mountain Club for the White Mountains of New Hampshire, and the Green Mountain Club for Vermont, have issued special trail maps of a high type of excellence. In most sections of the coun­try the United States Geological Survey's topographic maps are the best obtainable, and they are cheap at ten cents apiece. The latest editions are very complete as to trail information, although the earlier issues leave much to be desired in this respect and need revision.

Now for that bit of brag about my own pet kit. Mind you, I do not set this outfit up as the "best ever." My only claim for it is that it is the result of some years of experimenting, and that it fits my own case to a T. An item of considerable importance is the pack-bag that will carry the incidentals. Some prefer a form such as is used by prac­tically every knight of the road in Europe. But there is only one way to carry such a bag, and that is on your back. Just try to carry one in your hand some day when you are striding through the streets on the way to a train, and note how viciously it will swing and twirl, and thump into your calves. My bag packs square, knapsack fashion, but it hangs on the shoulders like the Euro­pean article, and with the aid of a leather handle riveted to the top it carries by hand with the docility of a grip or suit-case. More­over, your stuff packs in it. In an ordinary pack-bag things have a way of working around, and even of turning over. No pack will ride properly unless it is hung from the center of its top between the shoulders, and no sling-straps are comfortable that in any way bind the wearer's chest. My bag is of brown waterproofed duck fifteen inches long, twelve inches high, and four inches wide. It weighs in itself but a pound and a half. Nothing smaller would carry what, for me, are the absolute necessities.

For head-covering my choice is a sound, but light-weight, felt hat, with a four-inch crown, and a two and a half-inch brim that will turn down over the eyes. Such a hat is cool and sheds rain. A sportsman's hat of stitched brown duck, of similar dimensions, is likewise comfortable, and some are very weather-proof. Moreover, they are inexpen­sive.

A sack coat, not heavy, but of a suffi­ciently close-woven material to repel wind, and preferably without a vestige of lining. Never mind a waistcoat. It is a nuisance, if you will believe me.

Trousers of a material similar to the coat, preferably with two fob pockets, one for watch, the other for compass, and two hip pockets with flaps to button down. If the plebeian "pants "seem more suggestive of the hobo than of the hiker, the possible psy­chological influence of the nattier "knickers "should by no means be ignored. The man who feels himself unfittingly attired may find his holiday sadly marred thereby.

The military spiral puttee, either of wool or of gabardine, is a most useful article, once the knack of winding them on securely has been acquired. With knickerbockers they are superior to long knitted stockings, which have a trick of catching and tearing in the brush. Their clapboard effect tends to shed rain admirably, and their close-fitting tops prevent that same rain from trickling down into your boots, as is the case with ordinary leggings. But beware of knitted puttees. Snags have as close an affinity for them as for the long knitted hose.

In the matter of shirts there is likewise a wide choice. My own taste runs to medium-weight flannel with a removable collar. A collar, even a soft one, is often an irksome thing in walking. On the road in a warm day the neckband is unbuttoned and turned in all around down to the second button, and a handkerchief knotted loosely about the neck. For the thoroughly conventional ones an undershirt is an essential. Except in high mountain country I confess to its omission on a summer tramp. Always my underwear is of medium-weight wool, and for me it pays in more ways than one. But you do not have to, you know.

Now for the running-gear, most impor­tant of all. I happen to be one of those who believe firmly in the virtue of a medium-weight all-wool sock, and hand-knit if it can be had. What I call medium-weight might be regarded as heavy by some. Hence, let us be specific and say that six ounces to the pair is what I consider just right. They are a perfect cushion against the "'ammer, 'ammer, 'ammer of the 'ard 'ighway," and if you get wet in such foot-covering it does not particularly matter.

Boots: It really takes more courage to speak out in meeting on this subject than it does to take sides on the moot question of wool versus cotton. One thing is certain: they must be easy and well-broken-in, but not old and unreliable. My own boot speci­fications are as follows: chrome tanned calf­skin, blucher cut, five-inch tops, half bellows tongue, no linings anywhere, no box and no toe cap, heavy single sole (fourteen iron), sewn, of course, well extended under ball, and with extra wide shank, the heels welted and very broad, with tread as wide as the seat, and not more than three lifts high. Except that it is somewhat lighter, it is much Like the 1918 campaign boot of the army.

Boots on these lines have many virtues. They are light yet stout, and if wet they dry out over night, as they have no linings to hold moisture. If they are a full width larger than ordinarily worn there will be room for the heavy socks. It is a good plan to try them on over the thick socks and with a stout elk insole inserted in addition. That insole is an added protection to the foot where single soles are used, and there may be times, as, for instance on a very cold day, or in slushy going, when two pairs of socks will be comforting. On such occasions pull out the insoles and thus make room for the added socks.

In his pockets the tramper usually has as many knicknacks as the average schoolboy. There is the map to begin with, folded into a moisture-proof envelope. To carry greenbacks and railroad tickets, and similar easily pulped material, a large envelope-shaped rubber tobacco-pouch is perfection. A good compass is essential, and one with a floating pearl dial is very generally re­garded as preferable to the needle variety where accurate courses in degrees are not essential. With such a compass there is no room for guessing as to which end points north. An equally good jackknife is of daily use. Your watch, of course, you will take; a moisture-proof box of matches, even if you do not smoke; and a drinking-cup, perhaps of the folding rubber variety.

So much for what you carry about your person. Now what goes into the pack-bag? Into my own there go only such things as have really proved their worth on a variety of trips, and they are as follows:

An all-wool cardigan jacket weighing a pound and a half;

A pair of old leather street gloves, two ounces;

One suit of woolen underclothes, a pound and a quarter;

A large silk handkerchief, one ounce;

One pair of wool socks, six ounces;

An extra outer woolen shirt, ten ounces;

A pair of sneakers in a silesia bag with draw­string, one pound;

A small whisk-broom, three ounces;

A cotton lunch-bag, paraffined, with tie-strings, two ounces;

A draw-string bag containing a toilet kit con­sisting of a celluloid soap-box, small comb, small nail-brush, small sponge rolled in piece of rubber sheeting, toothbrush and shield, dentifrice, in all eight ounces;

A ditty-bag of denim in which are found such useful articles as a four-inch carborundum whetstone (one side coarse, the other fine), a mending-kit, a pouch of buttons and safety pins in assorted sizes, extra shoe­strings, absorbent cotton compressed to a cubic inch, a yard of one-inch zinc-oxide adhesive tape, to a total weight of nine ounces;

A waterproof cape, one pound and a half; Camera films, six ounces;

Total dead weight, including the pack-bag itself, just about an even ten pounds.

No man with the fishing instinct would regard his outfit as complete without a five-ounce pocket rod, a feather-weight reel, and a few flies and leaders. To flip a fly now and then over the pools of some mountain stream would add immeasurably to his hap­piness. How could he better employ a bit of cloudy weather that might enforce a brief respite from the trail?

Atop of the pack you will also carry your coat on most days.

He who takes to the road with such an outfit is in a fair way to live the simple life. Here is really everything that he needs, and scarcely a superfluous ounce. After making a trip or two with it, a man would groan woefully when some day he made a journey which necessitated a trunk; but I will ven­ture that the trunk would be smaller than he ever took before, because he will have learned to get on happily with fewer things.

Nevertheless, I can hear some one ex­claim over the one extra handkerchief, and one pair of spare socks, not to mention the entire absence of a "nighty." Of course, it is possible to carry more if you enjoy packing a big load, but what is the use, pray, of carrying around a lot of soiled clothes in your pack? Why not wash out the handkerchief and socks each night, and have them dry and fresh in the morning? Those who put you up along the road are seldom such hardened wretches that they will deny your socks a chance to dry behind the kitchen stove. A ten-pound bundle is not very big or weighty, to be sure, and I have not infrequently carried more myself when my pride was sufficiently sensitive about possible appearances at hotel dinner tables. Under such conditions I have been known to burden my back with a whole extra suit of light khaki. Nevertheless, ten pounds on your shoulders is sufficient to let you know that it is there almost every day, especially if the sun is a bit warm. Then you will be glad that it is not twelve pounds that you have to tote. Just try it once for luck and see how fully these few things can be made to serve you.

Did some one note the absence of a field-glass, an item generally regarded as of prime importance in every tourist's equip­ment? If you must take a glass I would suggest that it be as small and light a pair of opera size as will content you, for they are heavy things at best. And how often do you think they would be needed unless you are a close student of bird life? Thoreau hit the nail on the head when he gave his rea­sons for not carrying a glass on his walking trips in the highlands. He said: "It was not to see a few particular objects, as if they were near at hand, as I had been ac­customed to see them, that I ascended the mountain, but to see an infinite variety far and near, in their relation to each other, thus reduced to a single picture." And yet had Thoreau lived in these days it is a fore­gone conclusion that he would have a pair of small bird- glasses stowed somewhere about his person.

In case this all interests you, perchance you would like to examine the kit a little more in detail, and to know some of the reasons for this or that.

 The cardigan jacket needs no apologies. With its multitude of air cells it rivals an overcoat for warmth. It rolls up snugly, and, with a rubber band around it, "stays put" in the pack. A pair of your last win­ter's street gloves will be very useful at times.

The underclothes will demand a word of explanation. It has already become apparent that I am a member of the wool cult, but no one has to take my word for it that wool is not uncomfortably warm in summer  — for me. I am not trying to make converts.

Take cotton ones if you prefer. It is only needful here to explain the presence of those extra "flannels," and by the same token to account for the absence of pajamas or night­shirt. If it must be known, then, I sleep in those underclothes. Every third or fourth day an opportunity may be sought to have the daytime set and the outer shirt washed. More than once I have managed to have this done overnight. Sometimes I have had to do it myself, in a stream if I could not bor­row a tub. At the worst, it only means giving yourself a breathing-space of a day, or a chance to see some local sights. Meantime there is the night set to wear, along with the extra outer shirt, into which I have changed every evening on cleaning up for supper. These things now become the day wear, the freshly washed ones the night set, and the fresh shirt the dress-up gar­ment. If one is very conventional, otherwise fussy-particular, this plan will seem hor­rible. Very well, the remedy is plain: carry a bigger pack if you think that you can be more comfortable that way, or simply stay at home and fondle your clothes. I am only trying to tell of one way in which the thing can be done with light baggage. Probably there are better ways that never occurred to me.

Of the socks and handkerchief it has al­ready been indicated that they get a daily washing at the same time that I indulge my body in the luxury of a warm bath, on com­ing in from the road or trail at night. The bath has often to be done in a hand-bowl with sponge accompaniment, for porcelain tubs do not flourish everywhere even in these days. The extras go into commission while the others are drying. The sneakers serve as slippers into which I shift in the evening to give my feet a rest. But they are superior to slippers, because, while being light and soft, they are at the same time sufficiently tough to walk in should any accident befall my boots at a point remote from cobblers. Slip­pers would weigh but little less, would oc­cupy about as much room in the pack, and would be useless on the road in an emer­gency.

The whisk-broom is a necessity in the rural "deestricts" of this enlightened land, unless one would go unbrushed. The food-bag is one purloined from the commissary department of my camping outfit, and its presence here merely indicates that I prefer to take my noonday snack cold, that I may eat it when and where I will along the way. The toilet kit speaks for itself. As a bearded man I escape the necessity for carrying a razor.

Little need be said of the ditty-bag. Since every one will admit that a jack-knife is not of much use unless it is sharp, the presence of the little whetstone is readily understood. The mending-kit referred to is a particularly compact affair consisting of a brass tubular case, the size of a twelve-gauge gun-shell, containing a long, hollow spindle. In this spindle are the needles, held in place by a close-fitting cap, and on the outside in, sec­tions, are wound the silk, thread, and darn­ing yarn. There is also room for a thimble on the spindle end. An ingenious chap could make one from two brass gun-shells, one ten-gauge, the other twelve, which will slip one over the other. As for plaster and ab­sorbent cotton, all I can say is that in spite of reasonably sound and reliable feet there comes a time, now and again, when, for one reason or another, a blister will start some­where. A prompt and quick repair the first minute that the trouble is felt will save a lot of bother. That plaster then takes the place of the motorist's tire-repair kit.

Finally, to keep man and pack dry when showers burst, the waterproof. The best thing that I know in this line is a light­weight, circular-cut rubber cape, long enough to hang below the knees, and full enough to allow it to go easily over the pack and yet button down the front.

Now pick up your stick and be off! By the way, who is going with you? That is extremely important. Let the partner be chosen by the specifications written many years ago by Thoreau. His requirements in a comrade for such a jaunt were "a silent. but sympathizing companion, in whose com­pany we retain most of the advantages of solitude, with whom we can walk and talk, or be silent, naturally, without the necessity of talking in a strain foreign to the place." His further comments in this connection are as amusing as they are sagacious. "I know of but one or two persons," he wrote, "with whom I can afford to walk. With most, the walk degenerates into a more vigorous use of your legs (ludicrously purposeless) while you are discussing some weighty argument, each one having his say, spoiling each other's day, worrying one another with conversation. I know of no use in the walking part of this case, except that we may seem to be getting on together toward some goal. But of course we keep our distance all the way; jumping every wall and ditch with vigor in the vain hope of shaking our companion off, trying to kill two birds with one stone, though they sit at opposite points of the compass; to see nature and do the honors to one who does not."