Nine times out of ten it will crumble, and the tenth time
means merely a root to cut or a stone to pry out. At length you are
possessed of a plot of clean, fresh earth, level and soft, free from
projections. But do not unpack your tent.
Lay a young birch or maple an inch or so in diameter across a log. Two
clips will produce you a tent-peg. If you are inexperienced, and
cherish memories of striped lawn marquees, you will cut them about six
inches long. If you are wise and old and gray in woods experience, you
will multiply that length by four. Then your loops will not slip off,
and you will have a real grip on mother earth, than which nothing can
be more desirable in the event of a heavy rain and wind squall about
midnight. If your axe is as sharp as it ought to be, you can point
them more neatly by holding them suspended in front of you while you
snip at their ends with the axe, rather than by resting them against a
solid base. Pile them together at the edge of the clearing. Cut a
crotched sapling eight or ten feet long. Now unpack your tent.
In a wooded country you will not take the time to fool with tent-poles.
A stout line run through the eyelets and along the apex will string it
successfully between your two trees. Draw the line as tight as
possible, but do not be too unhappy if, after your best efforts, it
still sags a little. That is what your long crotched stick is for.
Stake out your four corners. If you get them in a good rectangle, and
in such relation to the apex as to form two isosceles triangles of the
ends, your tent will stand smoothly.
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