This week, I have been getting things ready for an upcoming backpacking trip, including deciding which tent to take. Should I take the light one for an easier load, or the roomier one for comfort in camp?Thinking about that reminded me of what a luxury it is to have any choice at all, and no matter which I choose, I will be dry and warm as toast. It was not so in my youth.
The first tent was a surplus deal that appeared to be a “pup tent.” Actually it was made from a pair of button-together “shelter halves,” designed to be carried by two soldiers. Come bivouac time, the two halves were joined along the ridgeline by a series of big metal buttons. The tent was just fine in the backyard on warm, starry nights.
It was a fine June day in the Beartooths when we left on our first adult-free camping trip. We were confident in our outdoor skills and thrilled to try them without supervision.
We labored a couple of miles with our plywood pack frames shifting wildly at each step under unbalanced loads. We camped in an opening along the trail, far short of the lake that was our goal.
With the tent staked out tight, we crawled inside and dug “hip holes” where we thought those parts of our bodies would be. Air mattresses were beyond our means. Instead we opted for tips from our Boy Scout manuals.
After a tasty dinner of Kool-Aid, beans and candy bars, we retired to the tent, where we had our heavy, cloth-covered sleeping bags rolled out so we could stick our heads out to watch the stars. We planned on spending much of the night figuring out the whole business about the size of the universe, the number of stars and the general meaning of it all.
To our dismay, no stars appeared because of cloud cover. So we busied ourselves with flashlights and comic books. About when the batteries gave out, the first raindrops tapped. We listened peacefully, feeling secure and comfortable.
When the tempo of the rain picked up it became apparent there were flaws in the tent design. A series of leaks appeared along the ridgeline. Soon we were separated in the tent by a curtain of water right down the middle. We retreated to our respective sides and tried hard to think about the fun we would have the next day.
The rain coming in found that the easiest place to run, once it hit the ground, was directly into our hip holes. It wasn’t long before our bags were sodden. Today, we buy outdoor clothing that “wicks” moisture away from the body. The concept must have been the brainchild of someone who spent a night or two in a sleeping bag that wicked the other way. It wasn’t long before we abandoned our bags, put on all the clothes we had and huddled, trembling in the tent.
Every time I touched the canvas of the tent, a damp spot would begin to appear and then grow, soon adding its own drip to the ones already operating freely. Before long there was no place to hide, so we put on our ponchos to wait for the morning.
It was almost a relief sometime in the wee hours when the rain changed to wet snow. The dripping slowed and a soft silence settled in. But when the snow began melting the interior shower resumed full force. We were defeated.
Our loads home were heavier than what we had carried in, what with soggy comic books, clothes, sleeping bags and everything else. At the trailhead it was impossible to disguise our relief as a familiar car and familiar faces appeared. Our parents had anticipated our early return.
Now, years later, lying in a tent in the rain, I can still be driven to panic if a tent mate reaches out to test the side or ceiling during a heavy rain. I have been known to let out blood-curdling screams.
“Don’t touch the tent! It’ll only make it worse. Believe me, I know.”
I just can’t help it.
Of course, remembering that story doesn’t help me with my tent decision, either.
Greg Tollefson is a freelance Missoula writer whose column appears each week in Outdoors. He can be reached at gtollefson@bresnan.net.
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