Bad Nights in Tents

I. Park Rapids

One of my worst, and certainly the first:
I was eleven, camping at Wilderness.
It was so cold a propane gas line burst,
so any spark could make the cabin blow.
Out to our igloos. Forty-two below.
How is that done? You dig down to the ground,
then pitch your tent, using for insulation
The Star Tribune and shoveled snow, then bless
the ridgepole with your flashlight’s fading glow.
The tent collapses with a cracking sound.

II. Isle Royale

Twelve years later: this tent was waterproof?
The Minong Trail, north shore of Isle Royale,
I didn’t trench our tent. It was a roof
all right, a chain of beaver ponds, small pools
where Eagle Scouts and minnows swam in schools.
Pines fell around us, all of them aligned
to spare four twenty-somethings from perdition.
No more protection than a parasol.
Finding us shivering on sawn log stools,
a ranger told us Nixon had resigned.