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Appendix: Winter Gear | (continued) The inevitable result is that such a fly begins to leak, and of course sag, especially in a real downpour. Needless to say, this can be very upsetting, especially for first-time campers—enough to turn some of them off of camping for a lifetime. The cause of the sagging is that nylon expands as it absorbs water, hence an unsized tent, or one from which the sizing has been removed, will increase in length some 5% to 10% by morning, however tautly erected the night before. This can be quite disturbing if the wind picks up, and the temperature drops, especially late at night. One could deal with this problem for years, I suspect, by simply machine-washing the tent separately at the end of every season, using water only, with no detergent. Unfortunately, the rather autocratic (and unimaginative) response of almost every tent-maker has been to coat the fly of every tent with urethane, to make it permanently waterproof. But waterproof also means airtight, so to provide the essential ventilation, they have no choice but to cut the fly several inches short of the ground, which of course defeats the whole purpose of a double-walled tent. Any vagrant breeze now may waft under the fly, between the fly and inner envelope, just over your head, taking several hundred calories of body heat with it when it leaves. And who gains from this? I’ll give you one guess. My response? Last year I bought the inner envelope and poles from a brand-new Eureka dome tent, which, as luck would have it, was missing a fly. The price of this rare gem was $343 Canadian. I then saturated it with silicone waterproofing, dried it in the sun, and pronounced it better than the manufacturer intended. However, a major fault was found. One day as I was collapsing it with all of the zippers closed, I discovered that I had overdone the waterproofing, and the damned thing was almost airtight—with the poles removed, it was taking forever to collapse flat on the ground as it should. It was acting like a mylar balloon. I was then obliged to test my own theory and wash it without detergent. After all this, it has turned out fine: water-repellent, breathable, and still brand-new. I now must find about 30 meters of suitable material, preferably polyester, for its UV resistance, and make my own fly, which of course allows me to have it whatever size I wish, and I wish to have it rather long. The inner dome is symmetrical: it has two entrances, directly opposite each other, so each entrance can have its own truly spacious vestibule. The result should be a very roomy two-man tent—not suitable for Easter Island, perhaps, but fine for any larger space that I’m likely to find where I canoe. My solution to the rain/ventilation dilemma is likewise very simple: just as I have done with the inner envelope, I would soak the entire fly in a bucket of silicone waterproofing, dry it completely, preferably in the sun—never in an automatic dryer: the vehicle of most waterproofing is varsol, and as soon as the dryer reaches the flash-point of the varsol, BOOM!—then wash it in a commercial machine with no detergent. This leaves enough silicone to shed hurricanes, yet allows the fabric to breathe as I breathe: effortlessly. There are many more details to this design—windows, zipped doors in the fly, pockets in the sleeping compartment—but I think you get the general picture. If you like this idea, and know how to use a sewing machine, you can let your imagination be your guide.
More chemistry: chlorine bleach as a water purifier. Everybody knows it works, but nobody seems to know how much (or rather how little) to use. I found that I consistently overdosed my bathwater and ended up with a solution that would have killed a bear, never mind the fragile microbial creatures I was after. A bear, of course, wouldn’t have gone near the stuff; the microbes thankfully had no choice. |
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