The Wall Tent: Part I

With fresh snow falling on the mountain and darkness setting in around the forest the uncertainty of what lies beyond the mornings first light is all part of the lure. The fervent glow of the metal burn barrel, the hiss and pop of smoldering wood, and the faint sound of wind blowing across the roof are now all consuming. You pull your sleeping bag up over your head, close your eyes, and smile with the knowledge that less than twenty four hours ago you were in town, packing you bags. But now, after a few glasses of bourbon, you find yourself in the woods, preparing for the morning’s hunt, and happy to have replaced your trailer with a home away from home in the form of an old, worn down, past its prime, beautiful, green, tough as nails, all together inspiring war era wall tent. What could be better?

I remember the first time Mike, our good friend, offered to have me come up to his deer camp. He mentioned it in passing during one of our conversations and without any real understanding of what a deer camp or wall tent really was, I knew I was excited to be asked and gladly accepted. Within a few days I was in my truck, loaded with food, whisky, the brown dog, and some camping gear, heading off to Mt. Emily.

As I drove the snowy roads behind James’s black and green Jeep I had no idea what was waiting for me at the end of the road and it wasn’t long before I got my first glimpse of the camp. I can honestly say I was taken aback. You have this picture in your mind of what the camp will look like, how it will feel, and what the dynamic might be but there’s truthfully no way to know what you’re getting into until you’re there.

This tent is not one you’ll find on the shelves of stores, it has no definitive markings, and did not come with directions. It’s army green, made of tough, thick, military fabric, held up and together by old rope and rebar, and scarred from multiple impromptu on-site repairs. A single beam acts as the support for the whole structure and stacks of firewood mark the entrance. In all truthfulness, I’d never seen anything like it in my life.

After arriving the three of us were swiftly into conversation about the days ahead while Farley began to inspect his new turf. The tent and wilderness were enough to make anyone happy; however, before I could really take it all in James had his chainsaw out and was off to work. In a blink it was all too apparent that in this country the only way to stack firewood was to get it yourself and if I was going to be up at camp I’d need to make myself useful. So, with an ax on hand, I began splitting the pieces James was bringing over and the experience was now in full swing. I loved it.

The tent was all the more fascinating once I got inside. Upon pushing the entrance flap aside, you enter into a dark, dimly lit, somewhat chaotic living space. The fire catches your attention immediately. With nothing more than a burn barrel, flattop steel lid, and a metal chimney pipe, the heating source for the tent was a wonder in and of itself. With a robust fire going, the barrel’s walls were glowing red in what said to me, in perhaps the most direct way, “Do Not Touch”.

Adjacent to the fire I found wood cut from weeks past and the latest additions of assorted goods from a local pack rat. A small hatchet rested on some kindling, worn, aged, and weathered like everything else. Above my head a lamp hung from a maze of metal wire, illuminating the scene. A collapsible table, littered with items from days passed, made its mark as the center piece: dirty dishes, empty beer bottles, three varieties of whisky, cigar wrappers, assorted toiletries, cookie boxes, and ammunition were among its many decorations. As I moved around I saw a propane stove with dirty pans and the remnants of recent meals. The large blue cooler below was set to provide much of the week’s offerings which ranged from game meat to grouse. And finally, as I peered into the back, there were cots, sleeping bags, and dirty boots, the collective making up our home for the foreseeable future.

All in all it was nothing like I expected and more than I could have hoped for. After long outings we’d return to our home, untie our boots and try to breathe some warmth back into the tent. With kindling and newspaper down, split logs on top, and a propane torch, the tent was quickly back to life. Within minutes the heat of the fire could be felt and socks and assorted gear were hanging to dry. Your body responded instantly to the change.

The days would go by and Mike would end up becoming a wilderness chef, cooking up antelope sausage and making sandwiches or putting together pasta dishes that were undoubtedly the product of years at camp. Stories were shared and knowledge passed on. It was the perfect setting.

Ultimately, what the wall tent represents is an escape, an escape from technology, from the hectic and all too often demanding world. Out here there are no limits or restrictions, nothing holding your back from doing what you love to do but you. There are days when you slip outside and one of the rebar spikes misses your head by two inches, when your hearing aid falls off the table and gets lost in the chaos, or when you realize that didn’t bring the right sleeping bag for five degree weather, but in the end, everything seems to work itself out. These are the days of opportunity. It transports you into a time past and as I’ve mentioned before, being in the wall tent means you are hunting, and if you are hunting than you have inherently provided yourself with the opportunity to get out and be successful. Good food, good whisky, better friends, and quiet. What more could anyone ever ask for?

Deer Camp - November 2010:

 Deer Camp - November 2011: