The evening of Sunday, March 31st, I crawled into a small musty backpacking tent I own after hauling all the final items I would need to be independent in the bigger tent. I can’t quite recall what finishing touches I had to complete, but it did still look like a biohazard construction site. I used the smaller tent for two nights before I was satisfied.
As I lay in my musty nylon cocoon I was frequently disturbed and later awakened by a phenomenon that would occur even into my outbuilding days. Cats. Twilight and Flitz, our two mostly outdoor cats, were desperate to be inside of anything besides a car. They of course witnessed my butt disappearing behind the veil of this funny nylon lump and they couldn’t resist. It began with stealthy little shadows circling at the edges, with an occasional test for weak spots with outstretched claws and a plaintive squeak. Not finding any vulnerabilities, the next logical step was to try climbing it and see what might give. What gave was my hand with a broad slap to their bellies that sent them flying in random directions. It was a midnight medieval siege in a backyard fort scenario.
The big tent lacked a primary defense against cats and other environmental factors in the form of a zipper. The walls and the door were simply overlapped and tied into place, with the door held shut by the weight and framework of the boards attached to its edges. This left cat-sized holes and weak zones that were impossible to fortify. As long as a skunk, coon or possum didn’t find them, I elected to just let the cats keep me company.
The cats were not alone. Our chicken Lucky, named for the fact that she far outlasted the rest of her particular batch, was a lonely critter, having grown up in a tight cluster of her own kind. Apparently Manny (the dog), the cats and I appeared to be acceptable replacements after the slow demise of her flock from predation by hawk, coyote, coon and possum. At first, when the door was open to the tent, she would tentatively peer in and inspect the contents, then slowly edge in and peck at every object resembling food. My only reservation about her hanging out for very long was her bathroom etiquette, or lack thereof. I had my outhouse, and the cats were discreet with hidden corners of the outdoors. Manny was at least consistent with specific areas, though half were located on the foot path to the front porch. But Lucky has no such parameters. She craps anywhere and everywhere with no indication for when the drop might take place. Lucky was allowed limited invitations under close observation. On the upside, she would typically check to see if the door was open, and when it wasn’t she would nonchalantly go about her business or look for someone to hang out with, human or otherwise.
The critters had three good reasons to want to hang out with me: wind, cold and rain. It was the first of April, which may bring Disney-type images to mind of Bambi and Thumper frolicking in green, sun-washed fields of flowers or some such nonsense as that. Quite the opposite is true. I lucked out when the rain stopped just long enough for me to get the basic structure up.
The wind was another thing altogether. Those cheap ill-fitting walls could not be drawn taut and caught every little breeze with multiple rattles and snaps as they billowed. Major winds that blew for ninety percent of the next month only helped when they were steady and kept the walls stretched in like sails. I was positive that if the floor was connected, then soon I would see Oz. In reality, the worst outcome would be if it collapsed on me while zipped up snug in my mummy bag. I hoped the walls would tear apart before that happened.
Sometime in the middle of that first week, the rain set in. I would discover quickly if this was to be my Waterloo. The rain came hard and the wind gusted in fits. A few minor drips came down inside the walls harmlessly to the pavement, with the exception of some spray the wind helped whip onto my sleeping bag. Immediately rivulets of water began running in under the floor. I had to check all my storage bins and sundry items, simply laid across strips to keep them dry because the floor only covered the bare minimum I needed to walk on. I had also placed some sand bags in front of the door to divert the worst part to a shallow ditch I had dug along the pavement on the north side. This ditch was inside the tent and had a constant river flowing through and out the back. It took a while for my mind to reconcile that everything important was still dry. I had a deep appreciation of those people living in simple stick or bamboo stilt houses along the Amazon and other out-of-the-way wet spots you see on National Geographic.
The most worrisome thing during the rain was the extension cord running from an outside outlet to a light and small electric heater I used to knock the chill off when I wasn’t dressed for it. I carefully coiled it and kept the ends of the plugs up high and away from possible immersion. First thing in the morning when I got up, it was nice to get a little heat when putting on cold clothes. Last thing in the evening it was nice to warm things up a little before hitting the sack so I wouldn’t have to play catch up from already getting chilled. Of course I’ve always liked cold weather, but here and there it can be no fun at all. It’s painful transitioning from a warm sleeping bag to clothes that are below freezing, or even worse, clothes that are just above freezing and damp. The majority of the water may have run harmlessly under the tent, but it never dried out during the entire stay. When it was dry outside it was always somewhat humid inside.
When I was a kid living out West, the winters were super cold. The advantage was that the ground always froze up and there wouldn’t be any mud per se until the melt in spring, which typically came late. Here the ground rarely freezes up for any significant amount of time, and mud rules. I hate constant mud. It seemed like there had been an unusual amount of rain the previous fall through the winter, and the ground was saturated. Anything I did in the yard was a risk of slipping in mud or making muddy trails everywhere, destroying the grass and making a mess of everything. I was careful to never take the same path to the outhouse twice, and always wore boots with good tread.
The better part of that first month I wore my warmest insulated hunting and work clothes. There were occasional temperate days though. If I started doing any form of hard manual labor, I would have to peel them off first to avoid sweating. I had a big plastic tub full of all the clothes I thought I’d need for the foreseeable future. I found out I had more than I’d realistically use, and that’s still the case.
I ate meals on the front porch, except in the rain. Lydeana and Shayley would bring dinner out on my work days and maybe all three meals on my off days. They would come out and sit upwind over six feet away when the weather cooperated. I had a nice big stainless steel bowl right next to Manny’s. Just kidding, they had to put my bowl on the other side of the porch or we’d fight over who got what. I had some minor food stuff and a cooler in the tent. A five-gallon water cooler provided all my drinking, minor cooking and hand washing needs. Mostly I made my coffee with a propane camp stove, an old aluminum camp kettle and a french press. Cereal or oatmeal for breakfast, sandwiches and chips for other special occasions. I don’t cook much, and simpler was better. Besides, I had the bowl on the porch where stuff just kept appearing!
Tools rounded out the dry goods and were located in the truck toolbox I placed along the north wall above the ditch/river. It worked great as a work table and cook top. I had to be sure and keep it cleaned off so I could always raise the top and get what I needed at a moment’s notice. Choosing the most basic yet versatile tools to cover any and all needs was a little tough. At that time I wasn’t going in my garage for anything at all, and it only opened from the inside. Later I’d get Lydeana to open it up and then close it after I’d been out of it for a good while. At that time we still had no idea exactly how virulent this stuff was or how it typically spread.
There was one unforeseen bright point in it all. At night the peep frogs were emerging, signaling the coming of warm weather. Joining them were various breeds of owls hooting, screeching and making other odd noises I can’t describe. Coyotes would occasionally pipe up, and I knew there were at least three different groups from their reactions to each other from different directions. Coons would get in fights in the woods across the road, making a really wicked racket. Above it all, the wind was a constant, with the flapping of the tent wall next to my head lulling me to sleep.
Back Yard Shack 