Past Tents

It was dark and I had just returned from a long soak in the campground hot tub. The park that weekend was packed with campers and our tent was one of many in the overflow field. Cheryl was sitting by the fire reading as I walked by and grabbed the lantern.

“I’ll be out in a second after I get some dry clothes on,” I told her.  Lighting the lantern, I climbed into the domed tent.

I don’t know why, but for some reason I had the song, “Gimme Dat Ding” running through my head and whenever I’m singing it, I also dance. I set the lantern on the floor of the tent and started to dance and sing the lyrics of the song as I changed out of my swimsuit.

Cheryl, not paying much attention to my singing, heard the giggles from adults at campsites around us. Looking up, she was shocked to see my dancing naked silhouette being projected on the wall of the tent.

“Oh my . . . Marty! Turn off the light!”

One should always remember the limitations of a tent.

My best friend Chuck, and I were both working hard to finish the requirements for our Tenderfoot rank, which is the first rank in Boy Scouts. The year was 1966. Troop 23 was a large and active scout troop with most of the Eagle Scouts going on to become leaders in the community and our nation. Chuck’s dad was one of the assistant scout masters and it was at their home that most of the outdoor Scouting gear was stored.

One of the final requirements needed to complete the rank was to survive a night in the woods by ourselves.  We were to forage dandelion leaves for salad, dig up cattail roots to boil (they taste somewhat like brussel sprouts), and kill and eat a can of Spam . . . and anything else our moms put into our packs for survival. We also had to prove that we could lash ropes by digging a pit toilet and lashing poles together to make a seat for it.

Our wilderness of choice for this night of solo camping was a patch of trees behind my dad’s airplane hangar at Bellingham Airport. After we made our elegant dinner of swamp food, we set about making our sleeping arrangements.

We were required to make a ground cover for our sleeping bags to keep us off the cold earth. We set off into the woods to bring out sticks and branches which were laid in a large pile. Neither of us had made a ground cover before so we were unsure how high the pile should be. We stopped at three feet. Next, we placed our tent over the top of it.

The tents which Troop 23 owned were a canvas cover with no floor. They were held up with two poles to give them shape and secured around the perimeter with twine and stakes. There was a flap in the front for a door. We pulled the canvas over the top of our stick ground cover and found that after we had tied down the perimeter ropes, there was very little room left to fit into our sleeping bags.

“I’m pretty sure that when we climb on top of the stick pile, it will collapse and we will be fine,” was Chuck’s comment.

Before our first night alone in the woods, we were visited by both sets parents. Chuck’s dad tried out the lashings on our pit toilet seat and went home with a wet and muddy back. My dad administered last rights and noting that our fire was far enough away from his hangar, he went home. This left two little boys alone in the woods.

That night the wind started to blow. The ash and sparks from our fire took to the air like fairies. Remembering one of the first rules of scouting and Smokey the Bear, we took our pot of boiled cattails and poured it on the coals. Even the coals gagged. We then slid into our sleeping bags atop the ground cover, which did not actually compress at all. The top of the tent was pressed down on top of us so tight we looked like a tray of shrink-wrapped chicken legs at the meat market.

Lying on our backs, we listened to the wind through the trees, the hoot of owls, and unidentifiable sounds on the ground around the tent. Occasionally, a large gust of wind would get under the tent cover and balloon the interior causing the door to flap wildly, only to again settle down on top of us. As the night wore on, the wind increased and became more violent. Branches were now crashing to the ground deeper in the woods. The two boys attempting to finish their Tenderfoot requirements were not doing well.

After being beaten by the tent for the twentieth time, which gave us no hope of sleep, we laid listening to the noises of the storm and imagining what type of wild animal, or heaven forbid, monster was just outside of our tent. And then we both heard it, a snapping of twigs coming toward us through the woods.

Coincidence, I don’t know, but at that same moment a strong gust of wind lifted the tent with such strength that it popped the outside tie down ropes and blew the tent off us, flapping it wildly in the air.

Now, my dad, knowing that strong winds were forecast for that evening, had asked the airport security to stop and check on us if the wind got too strong. Not knowing exactly where we were camped, the guard was looking through the woods, all the while trying to avoid wind-falling branches. He made it to our tent at the same moment the wind lifted it into the air like a ghost rising from the ground. He screamed, jumped back, and shone his flashlight directly into the faces of two young boys who were also now screaming and hopping through the woods in their sleeping bags like two contestants in a gunny sack race. After the panic subsided, he gave us a ride home.

A few years later, with the same Scout Troop, we employed the use of blue tarps to protect us from the rain. These ingenious devices had grommets around the outside edges which could be used to tie the tarp to trees. Tied tight enough, a large tarp would cover the tent, fire pit and picnic table. We would never get wet again. What is important to remember is that you should have a peak pole at the center of the tarp, so the rain runs off and doesn’t collect.

Scout campouts were held rain or shine and included snow. Chuck and I had tied the blue tarp over our tent and picnic table because it was forecast to rain all weekend. Instead of placing a pole in the center of the tarp for water runoff, we elected to hang one edge of the tarp higher on one side so the water would flow off. That night we lay in our dry tent listening to the gully-washer rainstorm pound on the tarp cover. Sometime around 2:00 am, I got out of my sleeping bag to relieve myself and hit my head on the top of the tent.

“Chuck,” I whispered. “Wake up! The tent is collapsing on us.”

Our tarp had formed a pocket and had filled with about 30 gallons of water which was straining the rope grommets and crushing our tent.

“Take a stick and push up on the bladder to drain the lake off the tarp,” he said, lying warm in his sleeping bag. You would think he might have climbed out to help.

Looking around outside the tent, I found a large sturdy branch and lifted the tip up into the bulge of the ever-growing bladder of water and started to push. Underestimating the weight of that much water, it was evident I was going to have to double my effort to push the water off the tarp. With bent knees and a straight back I pushed on the water bladder with all my strength and the tip of the stick poked a hole through the tarp. Immediately, water sprayed down through the hole.

“Uh, Chuck. You may want to…”

At that moment the tarp ripped, and the deluge of water dumped onto and collapsed the tent. Chuck, on his air mattress, floated off the ground and rode the tsunami out the back end of the tent only to get hung up on blackberry vines. It was a long, wet, muddy, weekend after that. Scouting, in my era, gave me endless stories of campout failures. We didn’t have the nice gear for camping/ scouting today.

I did try to take my grandkids tent camping at Ocean Shores. My mother had driven her motor home to the park prior to us arriving. The only space open to her was a spot at a low point on the park property. When we arrived, the weather had been drizzling with forecasts of heavy rain. We put out the canopy on the motorhome and placed our tent under it to shield us. That night, I blew up air mattresses for us all and we climbed into our sleeping bags snug and warm.

As luck would have it, our tent was at the lowest point in the park. All night long the water from the park flowed from all points to my tent. I was awakened by my grandson banging into my mattress with his mattress. “What the heck?” I thought.

There was four inches of water in our tent which was now sitting in the park lake. The four of us were floating in the tent and bumping into each other.

So that was an example of past tents. Now let’s talk about present tents.

Although I have three tents in my shed including a new family size dome tent which hasn’t been taken from its box, I will no longer be a tenter. Tenting is for young people who don’t mind smelling like campfire smoke, having damp or soaked clothes, and can sleep through the pain of lying on rocks or a pile of ground cover sticks. Tent camping is for those who haven’t realized that a nylon dome tent offers you no more protection from a bear than pulling your windbreaker jacket up over your head to hide your eyes.

I have paid my dues. From this point on, I am a hoteller. I sleep in king-size beds, soak in hot tubs, and eat restaurant meals. And, if for some reason the grandkids request that I set up the dome tent so they can sleep in the yard, I tell them this:

“The noises you hear outside tonight are owls, cows, and deer. If you get too afraid of the dark, grandma will be happy to get out of bed and sleep in the tent with you.”

And usually, that’s the end of that idea.

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