From the Early April 2014 edition of The North Woods Call
In a fractured nation and topsy-turvy world, many of us are searching for some kind of shelter from the storm.
Which—for some weird reason—makes me think about tents.
I was first introduced to collapsible cloth structures as a toddler, when I threw a blanket over the backs of two kitchen chairs and crawled inside. Later, as my world expanded, I took the chairs and blanket into the back yard and reclined underneath on the cool, green grass.
From there, I graduated to the family cabin tent—made from heavy, weather-treated canvas—and a smaller A-shaped version that we called a “pup tent.” I had no idea why the little two-person bungalow was called that, or what any of it had to do with dogs, but I may have since discovered why.
Most of these outings were uneventful—save for some apples dropping on the roof during a noisy rainstorm at Interlochen State Park during the late 1950s and admonitions from my parents to refrain from touching the canvas tent walls, which were sure to leak like a sieve.
Oh, and there was the snowy, sub-zero camp-out my college roommate and I experienced in the mid-1970s, and the windy lightning storm that blew my modern nylon tent over a Beaver Island bluff a few years later. (Don’t worry, I escaped before that happened).
I began to understand the meaning of “pup tent,” though, one dark night when I was sleeping in southern Michigan’s Allegan State Game Area in my two-person Eureka Timberline model. I was awakened abruptly by what I thought was a raccoon, or some other wild animal, jumping on the rain fly and trying to push its nose through the zippered door.
I shoved back a few times, but the aggressive animal kept right on assaulting my woodland bedroom, so I grabbed the large metal flashlight I kept at my side and whacked the intruder hard across the snout. I heard a single loud yelp, some retreating paw steps and then silence.
I climbed out of my sleeping bag and scooted outside to survey the area. To my surprise, the flashlight beam landed on a sheepish and whimpering beagle puppy several yards away—a normally joyful spirit that apparently was only trying to make friends with a paranoid outdoorsman.
My camp mate and I quickly dubbed him the “Pound Puppy” and I tried to make up for the violence I had visited on him. Fortunately, he was the forgiving type, graciously licking my hand and hanging around camp until late morning, when we convinced him to return to the home we were sure he had nearby.
For the past 40 years, that same Timberline tent has accompanied me to many other forests, rivers and lakeshores in Michigan, the Algoma country of northern Ontario, the beaches of Florida, the Bitterroot Mountains of western Montana and other locations.
But I haven’t always been as faithful to it as it has to me.
Once—on a college-age spring break outing near Florida’s Atlantic coast—we had 28 people from various states in another’s six-person tent, consuming adult beverages, singing folk songs and generally enjoying each others’ company as alligators waddled by on the narrow park road outside.
Ah, the exuberance of youth.
When my children were growing up, we camped for many years at campgrounds and bluegrass festivals in a 12- by12-foot nylon umbrella tent covered by a “Stormshield” fly that adequately kept some pretty ferocious rainstorms at bay. We have since spent a relative handful of nights in a 25-foot Wilderness travel trailer that is less damp and much warmer than any tent I’ve ever owned. Better yet, it’s got a queen-sized mattress and indoor plumbing.
Still, the hassles of getting such a monstrosity out of the barn and putting it away again—not to mention upkeep, maintenance and extra-fuel costs—have kept me attached to my tiny Timberline for most trips to the forests and fields.
These days, though, I’m finding tent life and sleeping on the ground much less comfortable than I once did. I still enjoy doing it, but don’t often rest as well as I once did and sometimes have to take a revitalizing nap when I get back home.
Mostly—especially on road trips—I’m much more inclined to check into a motel than to find a campground and pitch my tent on the cold, hard turf. There’s always the chance, I guess, that the troubled economy will force me to reverse this trend.
But I’ve grown accustomed to such change. After all, there are plenty of slobbering puppies (and other less-desireable creatures) trying to push their noses into our proverbial tents these days.
Some of these intrusive forces are beneficial, but many are not. So it’s good to have a well-manufactured tent to buffet the winds and keep the rain off our heads.
The quality and effectiveness of most tents has advanced over the years and improved upon the canvas structures of old.
I’m not sure I can say the same thing about the condition of our nation and world.
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