Silence of the Tent
My tent died. It had been in failing health lately; the zipper would only work in one direction without separating. And then this trip it failed altogether. Pulling in the stakes to create slack in the system enabled me to coax it into staying together, but I realized, in an actual emergency, it might have been a liability.
It was a broken tool, and one not worth fixing. I paid a hundred bucks for it ten years ago, and probably got close to a hundred trips out of it. I could've brought it home, assiduously dried it out like I have each and every...but I didn't have to. It was a broken hammer; it had no place.
So I dumped it, heaving first the bottom sheet into a dumpster in Neah Bay. Emboldened by my wastefulness, the rainfly got tossed into a trashcan in P.A., moments before the bus departed. The rest of the body was ditched in Port Townsend.
Much like a serial killer who scatters his (or her, I suppose...) victim's remains widely across three counties (I recyc'ed the poles), I did the deed. I still have two more old tents in cupboards (but the Silence of the Lambs analogy is wearing thin already).
I have a new one already. A Big Agnes. Yes, that's really her, er, its name.
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