A Living Magazine - Day 151 - Water Issues and Sleep Spot Failure

There is a small central spot on the floor of the tent where the water usually won't reach. And, I spent the night trying to remain in it. There are microscopic forces at work when it comes to moisture. I have spent many a night trying to figure out exactly why it forms on some surfaces and not others. Outdoors, there are a large number of variables that determine these processes: salinity, temperature, barometric pressure, humidity, the textures and permeability of membranes, and the surface of materials--just to name a few.

The North Face Particle 13 tent is an amazing engineering feat. Not only are the tent and its associated tarp/fly separated and angled in such a way as to provide the driest possible space on the inside, the materials used in the tent and tarp/fly respectively seem to have been tested in multiple environments and are made of just the right kinds of stuff, being permeable and also (mostly) waterproof. Additionally, the placement and arrangement of these materials is well thought out.

The foot end of the sleeping bag always gets damp by the morning, even in a dry environment; and whether in the tent or, as I used to sleep, outside exposed to the air. You may have heard of osmosis? Well, basically - in this case - the salt from sweaty feet inside the bag attracts moisture from the outside air. But, because the sleeping bag is also well designed as a one-way moisture filter (which travels from inside to outside the bag), the moisture collects only on its surface. But, it does collect there.

In most cases (since I began using the tent in Milwaukee), there has been an overnight competition between dew (formed by the water vapor content of the outside air) and condensation (formed by the water vapor content of the inside air--due to my breathing). Technically both processes form "dew". I tend to think of them differently because of the temperature differential between the inside and outside of the tent when the tarp/fly is on it. If you are interested in how dew forms click: here.

When the dew point is reached (dewpoint, being a point at or below air temperature, when the air can no longer hold its water vapor content), dew begins to stick to objects. This point may be different inside the tent and outside of it when the tarp/fly is on, because the humidity and temperature are different in each place (inside and out).

All of this was made very clear to me in the morning and then later at night on this day. In the morning, although the rain had ceased shortly after I assembled the tent the night before, the dew point was reached overnight, with dew forming on the outside and inside of the tarp/fly. When that occurred, the moisture content inside the tent also rose, increasing the dew point inside the tent, and - combined with my breathing - dew then formed on the inside surfaces of the tent--even on the screens.

The short version of all of this is that, all parts, except for that sweet spot in the middle of the tent floor was utterly soaked through and through by the morning...

The sopping mess.

Under a completely clear sky, the fog (what happens

when the dew point is reached and overloaded) rises.

I had two plastic bags, one for the wet tent, and one for the wet tarp/fly. I disassembled both things and shoved them in their respective bags - which very effectively kept them from getting everything in the backpack wet, though the outside of the backpack was wet - and I started back downtown...

The tunnel leading under 7th Street S.

These are everywhere. Industrious and resourceful little creatures--ants.

THEY know how to handle rain.

I worked at Starbucks and published my daily post, then walked up 20th Avenue to the Central Branch of Birmingham Library. The sun was up high in the sky now and the moisture on the ground was rapidly dissipating. The sky was blue (always my favorite thing to see)...

Standing over us all. But can you feel that invisible boot upon your neck?

Well, maybe you will when this month's mortgage payment is made.

I liked this bench.

Another giant. Looks like David got his slingshot out for that window near the top.

Or, maybe it was a jumper?

There was one order of business to take care of before checking out the library. I needed to stop by Linn Park to dry the tent and tarp/fly in the warm afternoon sun. It was a humble, pretty little place, with a fountain and several very old monuments...

I opened up Saggy and removed all my wet things, spreading them out on the natural ready-made drying rack of mother nature. And, good scientist that I am becoming, set my watch to time how long it would take for everything to dry...

Click. Thirty minutes! Not shown are my towel, blue button down shirt, the tent bags themselves, the outside of Saggy, and my winter coat. Not bad at all! It was very encouraging to know just how fast these things could be dried. Some may recall that way back in the last Journey, after Boston, over a year ago, it took a whole day, with the green tarp (stolen in Spokane) being a real ordeal.

Things weren't necessarily getting easier now, but the frequency of problems was diminishing, along with an increase in the rate at which I could solve them. I packed up everything again - now bone dry - and finished my walk to the library...

Panorama of Linn Park.

All around the city center these markers stood as reminders of Birmingham's very historic role in the civil rights movement...

The Research Building of the Library.

Neat architecture across Park Avenue.

Once again, I saw a similar bike rental system to what I'd observed in every major city I'd been to, since leaving California in June, right next to the library...

Even electric pedal assist bikes! Super cool!

The skywalk between the Central Branch and Research building.

I'd meant to take shots of the inside of this very well-appointed library, but I got caught up in work. By the time I left, the sun was just touching the horizon...

I liked these roots; obviously trimmed whenever they encroached

onto the sidewalk area and forced to grow down.

I hadn't eaten anything yet this day. And I wanted to check out a new potential sleep spot across the railroad tracks from where I'd spent the night before. I took a chance and stopped into the Jimmy Johns, a place that had never appealed to me, but was close by and where - I thought - I'd be able to sit down and eat.

I walked into the place and onto a slippery floor, and intense bleach smell. I stood in front of the two counter people--young man and woman, while they looked at me and talked to each other. I waited for the privilege of their attentions. Finally, the guy blandly looked at me and said nothing. I told him I'd never been to one of their places before. He stared and said nothing. I held my scratched glasses up to my eyes to read the menu--all boring sandwiches.

I made my choice; a #9. He said nothing and tapped in the order. I asked him if they had chips. He mumbled something. I asked him to repeat it, and he mumbled again, pointing at me. It took the other person - the young woman, who I supposed was sandwich barista or whatever - to walk up and interpret this guy's grunts and mumbles. She said, un-smilingly, "They are right in front of you, sir, below the counter." 

I stepped back and saw their own version of all the regular chips--of course price-jacked. I sighed, and grabbed a bag. The guy slapped a cup in front of me, and gave me my receipt upside down, for some reason. I actually stood there and looked into his lifeless doe-ball eyes, waiting for a "Thank You." What I heard was....... absolutely nothing. Apparently, silence was his first language. I was beginning to feel the temperature of my blood rise toward boiling.

As the sandwich zombie reached for a roll and cut it with her equally unremarkable skills, I picked up my cup and walked over to the soda machine. Halfway there, the "manager" (I supposed?) yelled "Sir!", giving me a bit of a start.

She walked up in front of me with a halting hand. I thought, maybe I was being arrested for a food violation or something. She continued, "You have to tell me what drink you want, because I need to turn on the machine." 

It was all beginning to come together now. They were closing (at 6:00 pm, on a Thursday evening). I asked if my suspicions we correct, "Lemonade... Are you closing?"

The manager, looking impatient with me said, "Yes, in about three minutes." I had never felt so unwanted and ill-served (and that's saying a lot for me!). They had grabbed my ten bucks at the last moment, without even telling me they were closing. I was displeased.

She could tell. And her demeanor changed, ratcheting up one notch on the hospitality scale, from dead, to barely detectable pulse. "Here, then, let me put a clean spout on the machine for ya." She fished around for a nozzle and screwed it on to the lemonade dispenser, clicking her fancy little key in the side of the machine to wake it up.

"Gee, thanks!" I said.

She said nothing, and walked behind the counter where the other two were talking about the song on the radio. I filled my cup, went back to the sandwich, now sitting precariously on the counter, took my chips and walked to the door, looking back at the three of them. I walked out, and right as the door swung toward being closed, I hear the "manager" say, "Have a good day..." Seriously?

The last few paragraphs will be entered into TripAdvisor's review section for this shithole restaurant. I guess it is the only power we consumers have now. I went, sat on a nearby bench and ate my JJ swill, then took off on what would be a mini-adventure in itself; finding a new sleep spot in the bad section of town, at night...   

Ha!!

I followed the streets I'd seen on Google - 20th Avenue to 1st Street N - then took a right on the latter and followed it to a grungy bridge area, near the disintegrating foundation of a building that appeared to have been leveled with explosives years ago. It's shattered remains were bulldozed into piles around it, and a chain link fence had been erected; more to keep the contents behind it from tumbling into the street, than to keep miscreants like myself out. I mean, who would be stupid enough to venture into that war zone? Well... You know who!

I waited on the curb pretending to check my watch until all the cars in both directions had passed, then headed into the darkness around this foundation. An immense billboard for whatever shown like the sun once I'd gotten behind the crumbling structure, then under the bridge, where a shadow hid my form again. I searched everywhere for pockets of trees with a flat spot in their center. Nothing. I looked for dark grassy areas where I might pitch the tent. Nothing.

My back-up plan (always good to have) was to venture down the train tracks to thick woods that abutted my sleep spot from the night before, which was relatively close by. It didn't take me long to revert to the back up plan.

I made my way down to the tracks, crossing them, and then about one hundred yards along the tangled trees and bushes, looking impatiently for an entrance. All I saw was dark patches, and when approaching each, a deep trash-filled ditch beyond. The night was getting colder, and I could feel the water vapor rising back up, as that dew point I talked about above was reached. Finally I found a makeshift patch of fallen, dead branches that crossed the ditch. Happy day!

The first tenuous steps did not go well. I kept breaking through them, with their ragged edges scraping up my already well-scarred shins and calves. At some point I stopped pussy footing around and went into Maine-skiddah mode; just stamping down and pushing through, like a woolly mammoth with rabies. This worked until I reached the bank on the other side of the ditch.

There, I found an area of fifteen to twenty foot tall trees, interlaced with thick rotting vines. There actually were flat spots that could have been excavated and prepared for the tent, but I had an uneasy feeling about the place. The Spark was ambivalent, when I took a moment to search my intuitions. Not good enough, I thought.

I could tell by the lights barely poking through the trees in front of me, and a mental estimate of the distance traveled - thinking back on the Google Earth view - that I was close to the last night's sleep spot. It was a matter of walking toward the lights. Or, rather, tripping and dragging myself toward them.

Saggy--the LLBean-pack wonder-monkey on my back, was doing fine. It was just the four inches of tent poles sticking out that kept snagging branches and stopping me in my tracks. I had to be careful not to ram too hard, or I might damage the elastics that kept them together.

Feeling as though I might actually be making progress, I saw an opening to the next level of the hiking game, and walked for it and straight into a large spider web, which covered my face with that awful feeling sticky silk. I jumped back, and brushed my hat, shoulders, neck, sleeves--hell, everything I could reach. I felt behind my neck and pulled out a bunch of twigs that had been working their way down the back of my shirt. I said outloud, "This SUCKS! I'm so fucking stupid!! What was I thinking? Dumb ass!"

I took some deep, spider web filled breaths and continued to the opening. Once inside it, I saw the field beyond another thicket of bushes and vines. Examining, the next obstacles for the best way through, I chose what looked like a solid place to put my foot and pulled the small branches and plants apart to get to it. But the "solid place" was actually a mass of tiny pricker vines, that stuck my right leg all over, as it sunk into them about three feet. Now, I had no place to put my left leg for leverage to pull my right leg out.

I reached around above me, searching for branches that wouldn't break when I pulled on them. No luck. Then I saw an oak sapling, growing at an angle, about three inches wide at its base and thinned out to two inches wide, two feet above my right shoulder. It was surprisingly taught. I grasped it and pulled as hard as I possibly could, freeing my right leg and then stepping back to the clearing.

When I did, I saw that about ten feet away, was a very small hill, with a lot of light beyond it. I walked to it, and then over it, and emerged in front of my last night's field. There was only some tall straw-like grass to get through. Amazingly, I found myself only about three yards from the previous night's spot.

What a friggin' mistake all of that was! My intention had been to locate a spot closer to the downtown, since even though both spots were very close to each other, the original took about three extra miles of backroads (because of the railroad tracks) to get to. My other reason was to not be seen by the Golden Flake guards. I would have been better off going the same way as the night before, and just taking my chances with the guards.

I stood in my now completely dew-soaked spot and brushed myself off with great abandon. I debated whether to use the tarp/fly or just sleep in the open tent.

Which would attract more moisture overnight? Which would be easier to pack up in the morning? It was a fifty-fifty proposition. And, of course, I chose tails.

After assembling only the tent (without the tarp/fly), I placed Saggy inside, pulled out my winter coat for a sleeping mat, then the sleeping bag, then my blue button down shirt to roll up as a pillow inside the small towel that had "mysteriously" made its way into my belonging when I left the Marriott Hotel in Nashville. [wink] I plopped my head down, and pulled the snagging zipper up the sleeping bag to my chin, then immediately zonked out.

I did not see the new friend, who I would discover later that night resting next to me.