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On tenting

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I scratched this down on a notepad in my tent when I couldn't sleep late last spring near Chimney Rocks in PA. I guess it's kind of an essay...

What a secure, serene feeling it is to be alone in a one-man tent in the back country at night.

The monotonous, droning insects completely disinterested in your presence, save for the wayward firefly that mindlessly collides with the rain fly before crash landing, or the spider that makes its way in during a vestibule breach and ends up a mangled carcass in the corner, a ghastly warning to any others who would enter this sacred chamber.

The utter, pitch black in between daring clicks of the headlamp.

The occasional rumble of a pickup truck or train on the distance to assure you that, no, mankind has not been eradicated by zombies in the six hours since you left your vehicle at the trailhead.

The thin but taut wall of nylon cocooning you in against the savage wild all around you.

There are only a few things that can shatter the calm of this tiny dream suite.

The moment any airborne branch or bug or leaf comes into contact with the shell of your tent will be followed by several agonizing minutes of waiting to see if the same force that just caused that tiny 'swishing' sound will either try to unzip the front door, rudely awaken you and slash you to death with its hook or machete, or tear the walls of your tent apart like gift wrap with its claws searching for the source of the minty aroma (the miniscule trace of toothpaste you thought you rinsed completely off of your lips.)

Or you might hear some footsteps or a branch snapping several yards from your sleeping spot. A few grazing deer? Or a rabid mountain lion? Or a couple of mountain men who don't take kindly to rich city types treating their favorite hunting spot like a photo shoot for an REI catalog.

The last unsettling sound is probably the worst, because it is the one that usually poses a real threat: a sudden, tidal whoosh of wind, the rumble of thunder and the staccato pitter patter of fat rain drops on the roof of your shelter.

'When was the last time I seam sealed this thing?' you ask yourself, lying on the floor of your ten-year old Sierra Designs.

'Did I guy it out tight enough?' 'Did I pitch it on top of a run-off pool?'

Then, just as you think you have indeed achieved the perfect stormproof pitch, you feel it: an eyedropper sized splash on your cheek or forehead.

'It's just the rain bouncing off the ground, under the rainfly, and through the mesh window,' you tell yourself, trying to believe in a magic raindrop theory.

Then you see the floor of the tent darkening and scramble to collect all the radios and cell phones, books, game boys and magazines. Items that moments before had provided so much comfort but are now as panic inducing as priceless paintings in a house on fire. You stuff them into the bulging side pockets of the tent, causing the sagging walls to sag further.

'Just go to sleep,' you tell yourself. But you can't because all you can think about every time you close your eyes is the saturated sensation in your rump and lower back, and the prospect of having to cram all this wet equipment into an equally wet pack the next morning, possibly in the continuing rainstorm.

But the next time you are at home, serving as the inner spoon to your couch's outer spoon, mainlining Party Mix and beer, you can think, 'Hey, I earned this.'
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