It arrived on my porch one day a decade ago, delivered by the folks with the brown trucks. I opened the long box and inside was a bright new tent. A camping tent.

I ordered it from one of those catalogs that show pictures of tents with happy families standing and sitting around the tent just being happy.

Maybe far back in the recesses of my mind (my mind has lots of recesses) there was a flash of Lurey and me lounging near the tent door, sipping hot coffee and stirring the stew on the campfire. Never mind that Lurey had not tented with me since that one and only time when we were newlyweds.

My aging friends already had motor homes and camper trailers. The things are really nice, what with running water, showers, cook stoves, air conditioning and of course central heat. They even have recliner chairs and color television.

These rolling campers are so very nice that I would have scrimped and saved and bought us one were it not for two things; 1) When I am inside one, I forget that I am camping out, and 2) I am afraid. Yes, I am afraid I would be reading the paper and watching the Weather Channel just like at home, comfortably reclined in the camper’s easy chair and slightly dozing, when tragedy would strike. Force of habit would take over.



Bathroom Break



I would sleepily dis-recline the recliner, struggle to my feet and stagger through the bathroom door during the Head On commercial. That’s when it would happen. Instead of stepping onto the soft carpet of my bathroom floor, I would step out the door of the camper trailer, fall down the steps and break my neck!

My demise would be due to the striking resemblance of the interior of the trailer to my living room — the trailer entrance being exactly where the bathroom should be and my having been lulled into thinking I was at home.

I had had second thoughts about ordering the tent. For one thing, I already had a tent; well, two tents really. Okay three, but one had just mosquito netting for walls — not really a tent. And my other tents were for backpacking and were too small for a base camp on my mountain hunts.

The new one was big. Ten by fourteen feet! Big enough for me and a small mountain of gear. I planned to live in the tent that fall, camping high in the mountains of north-western Colorado on a deer and elk hunt. I also planned for Lurey and me to camp with some friends who have a camper trailer fit for royalty.

They have a four burner stove, an awning larger than my front porch, background music, and room for the four of us to sleep and eat and bathe. I had agreed to go along, but I hadn’t agreed to sleep in the trailer. I would probably get up the first morning, get out my Visa Card and look for the front desk to pay out.

Instead, I would be outside in my tent. Camping. And the others would be inside RVing.

Well, here it is ten years later and we never did make that trailer trip. I overheard grumblings about a party pooper and a stick in the mud. But I made the elk hunt that fall and almost every fall since and the now very old tent has served me well.

Faithful Friend



With a desperate frenzy during the worst Colorado mountain storm of last century, I covered the tent with a tarp and tied it off to trees and saved it from being shredded to ribbons. Inside its walls I listened for bears to ravage our camp on many nights, one in particular when my brother cried out a bear warning when a small varmint shuffled around his bunk. The tent shed a ton or so of snow over the years, saving me from becoming a victim of the elements.

The tent is showing the scars of several incidents when its assignments exceeded its capabilities. There is the broken socket for one of the support poles. There is a tear that could let in near-zero air. There is the crack in the floor that invited those dreaded ground squirrels at my last elk camp. It is hard to accept that the old tent has seen its last camp. But at least its end comes at a time when my need for it also has passed.

The pull campers and the motels are fitting me a lot better these days. Warm carpet under foot in the mornings has more appeal than a frozen tent floor. A wall thermostat is preferable to three wool blankets over my sleeping bag.

Six decades afield have softened me up. But thank goodness Mother Nature is steadfast. You meet her harsh storms with preparedness or you fall by the wayside. The tent and I have challenged her and won many times. But she has teamed with Father Time to form an unbeatable pair. Now we must tip our hat to her and move on out of her way, the old tent and me.

Were nature’s elements not so unrelenting, my past outdoor adventures would be of far less value. But the time has come for the old tent to rest and for me to find more substantial shelter.