Humankind poses only part of the backpacker's problems in Harriman; there are animals to contend with, too. In the Allagash Wilderness Waterway in Maine moose may charge canoeists; in Canada's north woods a man must keep a wary eye out for bear, but in Harriman the enemy is raccoons. They're bold, numerous, fat on good garbage and appear to assume that the sole purpose of campers is to feed and entertain them They can startle the hell out of you on a quiet night by knocking over garbage cans and upsetting pots and pans in their search for edibles.

Another drawback of Harriman is that every hiking trail crosses either park road or the Palisades Interstate Parkway, and on a busy weekend there is only one way for the intrepid backpacker to get across—on a dead run, with gear flapping and banging.

And because this is civilization, there are also officers of the law around. One biting January weekend when the snow lay thick on the ground and lakes were covered with great sheets of ice, I was camping at Island Pond with group, of teen‐age boys and girls from an outdoor organization known as PATH (Protectionists and Trail Hikers). As night fell the woods were lost in world of winter silence. Stars splashed against the black sky. Our campfire bathed us in its radiated warmth. It was a festive occasion, full of songs and stories and sly nudges and girls who were grateful for the chill so the boys could protect them from the weather.

Suddenly a flashlight shone out of the night, followed by a deep voice:

“Just what the hell are you folks doing here?”

The voice belonged to a husky policeman, striding through the snow to our campsite. The singing stopped.

“Doing? Camping.” “In the winter?” “It's not summer.”

“Listen. You can't camp here in the winter. Now, pack up and get out.”

The back of my neck began to crawl. It was not much above zero, 10 o'clock at night, and our cars were parked several miles away. “We're not leaving. You must be crazy. These kids are staying here.”

“Look, buddy, you better come with me,” he shouted.

Several older boys leaped up from around the fire and followed as we trudged almost a half‐mile down snowy trail to the officer's automobile. He grabbed a microphone from the dashboard and called the administration office at’ Bear Mountain, telling the desk sergeant that a group of fool kids and an idiot leader were camped at Island Pond.