Tiny tent
THE POSTSCRIPT, Carrie Classon
I haven’t gone camping in a tent in a long time.
I grew up camping and, for much of that time, it was in a tent. My parents would take my sister and me to the Boundary Waters between Minnesota and Canada for about a week. We’d paddle our canoes from one lake to the next. We’d listen to the loons at night. We’d build a fire. We’d eat dried food — which miraculously tasted better the farther we paddled from civilization. We’d drink water right out of the lake, before we needed expensive filters. We’d use the latrine deep in the woods. I still vividly remember the time I felt flies landing on my behind — only to look down into the latrine and see a whiskered woodchuck looking up at me!