ALONG THE WAY

Like a Fallen Comrade, the Old Green Tent Was Hard to Leave Behind

IN THE MIDST OF A RECENT photo-organizing quest, I uncovered a stack of old camping pictures. As I flipped through snapshots covering 30 years of family camping trips, 1 smiled at pictures of my sister and me fishing for crawfish in Knoll Lake northeast of Payson, my mom cooling her feet in Fossil Creek west of Strawberry. Then I came upon a photo of my family posed in front of a green tent. I caught my breath-we looked so happy-dusty, grinning. The green tent met its demise last summer, after countless storms, many raucous games of Go Fish, plus surviving the Great Garage Acid Spill of 1983. The tent's castlelike assemblage of peaks and turrets seemed to provide ample room for a square dance or an exuberant family of four.

Every summer we wedged the tent between fishing poles and sleeping bags into the back of the old Chevy Blazer. As soon as we turned onto forest roads, the tent would bonk me on the head in its excitement to reach Whitehorse Lake or the Grand Canyon.

Sure, you can put up those newfangled tents in 30 seconds. Big deal. In my family, learning how to pitch the green tent was a rite of passage.

When I turned 10, my dad taught me the green tent's intricate system of color-coded metal knobs and pulleys, further complicated after the Great Acid Spill by twine rope repairs.

But the green tent maintained a brave face - no matter the weather, it provided a safe haven and we lovingly cared for it, carefully sweeping out pine needles and other forest debris. By the time I reached high school-age, the green tent looked rather shabby - it stood lopsided, half-drunk with unknobbed knobs but still fulfilled its duty every summer. Then I went to college and we quit camping.

Last summer, after an 11-year hiatus, my family planned another camping trip to Knoll Lake. When we got to the campsite and tried to erect it, the tent clearly resented its lengthy neglect. Knobs wouldn't knob, zippers wouldn't zip and some poles simply refused to stand upright. After careful cajoling and a few safety pins, the green tent finally forgave us and stood proud again.

That afternoon during our hike, the sky broke open and pelted us with hail. We turned tail and dashed back to the campsite. Through the rain-whipped trees, we saw the green tent beckoning and quickly scurried to its shelter. Dodging marble-sized hail, we stumbled into the tent and huddled together, listening to the ominous sound of pounding hail.

"Good ol' green tent," my dad said.

Just then, the roof sagged. Canvas grazed the top of my dad's head. We looked at each other. A strange creaking sound rose all around.

"Aw, shucks," my dad said, and the tent collapsed on top of us. Blinded by green, we fumbled for an opening, but the tent didn't want to let us go. Even in its defeat, it strove to protect us from the storm, clinging to us like memories of the past.

Finally my sister found a way out, and we struggled after her. We stood in the rain, soaked to the bone, and gazed sadly at the canvas heap. My dad sighed and wiped the rain out of his eyes."

It was a good tent," he pronounced.

We nodded somberly, paused briefly, then dashed for the car.

We had just made it to the safety of the Blazer when we remembered our duffel bags entombed inside the tent. My dad and I braved the storm once more and wrestled with the crumpled green mess, but could not find a way inside. My dad looked at me.

"We're going to have to rip it open," he said.

"Dad, we'll ruin it!" I protested.

"We'll have to leave it behind anyway, honey." My dad pulled out his knife and I turned away, unable to watch.

We drove home that day leaving our faded green comrade behind in a trash Dumpster.

Last week, my parents bought a new tent yup, one of those newfangled jobs - and invited me to go camping. I hesitated, but later, as I sat looking at the old picture of the green tent, I remembered the sound of the broom swooshing out pine needles and how I felt the first day my dad let me pound in the tent stakes. I called my dad and told him I'd join the camping trip.

"You might want to bring some twine and safety pins for the tent," he suggested.

"Why? It's brand new!" I said.

"Well, you never know. . . ."

I laughed and glanced at the old photo before tucking it away for good. After all, there's always room for more memories-even inside a smaller new tent. Al