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"What is this? A Tent for Ants?"

Combating mild discomfort of small spaces with a bivy couldn't go too badly right?

By: Shaianne Ganey + Save to a List

The smell of shiny new boots and p̶r̶a̶d̶a̶, I mean Prana, filled the store as I began to sweat and breathe a little too heavily in this tiny bright green cocoon I was actually contemplating purchasing. 

"How's it going in there?" I hear Ryan, the store clerk ask. 

"Oh, just dandy!", my voice waivers as I shout back. I climb out red faced, sweaty, and breathing heavily, thankful to be back in the real world, and out of my own little fluorescent green hell. I start to say I'll take the 2 person five-pounder to my left, the one with ample room, when my best friend chimes in, fulfilling her duty of making sure I stick to my guns of making a trail smart purchase. 

"30 pounds of camera gear girl. You're here for an ultralight shelter, not a cozy tent." I roll my eyes in frustration, but mostly because I know she's right. I stare at my tiny new green vacation home with disgust, and my friend chimes in one more time. "You're a badass, act like one."

And on that note, I look up at Ryan, say I'll take it, and begin my newest adventure of pushing myself outside of my comfort zone. 

Fast forward a week later, my backpack is packed with the exception of my 1 lb 12 oz shelter and my food, and I begin to feel the first pangs of gratitude that I purchased a tent for ants. My backpack is sitting on my home scale, weighing in at an uncomfortable 40 lbs, and all I can think about is the elevation gain I'll be hauling it up the next day. "Goats, Mariah. Think of the goats." I say, trying to remind myself of the photographic opportunities that await me in the Chicago Basin. 

The hike in is grueling, but I manage, as I trudge behind flat landers who are giving me a run for my money. We make our way into Chicago Basin and our front runners scout a campsite out that's off the trail up a steep hill. They're sold, as they give us a thumbs up from 600 ft and a quarter mile up the side of the mountain. Afternoon clouds begin to roll in overhead, and the temperature plummets. Hardshells and down jackets make their way out of backpacks as our small herd of backpackers scramble to get tents up ahead of the storm. My tiny tent goes up fast and easy, and there's plenty of room for my bag in the vestibule, but the rain has already started and I'm greeted by my first hurdle. I am already wet, and there's no room in my tent for me to crawl in without bringing the weather in with me. 

Cue the hail. 

"Crap." I mutter, as I take up residence on a rock just outside my tent, and shove my hands deep into my jacket pockets. The hail skitters across my hood and I glance over to see it bouncing off my tent's high point and pooling at it's low. Suddenly I've convinced my brain that my exhausted shoulders and tight calves could've managed the extra 3 1/2 pounds. Of course they could have, but that's not point. 

"How's that tent for ants?" I hear a trip mate shout from the comfort of their high ceilinged 5 star hotel of a tent. 

"Good! Everything's just fine!" I shout back half sarcastically, half trying to convince myself that's how I feel. I turn around to face the towering peaks of the Chicago Basin when I realize it is fine. These are the experiences we come out here for, and the peaks nestled in the storm clouds sit with so much beauty and grandeur that I can't tear my gaze away from them. I spend the rest of the evening moving around the campsite, taking photos of this that and the other, only retiring to my tiny green vacation home once I've completely exhausted my body and mind. I briefly struggle to adjust my sleeping bag, but then my brain drifts off to sleep, none the wiser of the lack of cubic feet above my head, and completely content in my bright green cocoon. 

4 am rolls around and we begin our morning routine to prep for our pitch for the summit. There's a few jokes among the group about how my first night in my coffin went, but all I can do is sleepily smile. I'm fully rested and ready for a day of adventures, adventures that my lack of tent hasn't effected yet. 

A 14er, a few goats,  and some exploring of twin lakes later we retired back to camp. I crawl into my tent for a short nap, just in time before the afternoon rain hits. The coolness of the afternoon rain conceals my tent's convection abilities, and I peacefully doze as the afternoon monsoon pitter patter's on my tent's fly. I'm probably half way through a dream about french fries or some other après food when the clouds clear and the second hurdle presents itself. The temperature in my tent sky rockets. We've all experienced a warm stuffy afternoon exasperated by being beneath the nylon and polyester of our backcountry homes. This was not that. Within a matter of minutes my tiny green bubble went from being a cozy, cool backcountry paradise to being our very own backcountry toaster oven. The air inside the bivy grew thick with humidity, and sweat poured from my every pore. I wrestled the zipper on my sleeping bag, getting even hotter, before finally tumbling out of my bivy's door into the blaring sunlight, damp with defeat and covered in a thick layer of salty discomfort and disgust. 

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and looked up only to be put back in my place once more. Shades of blue, grey, green, and white covered the landscape as the afternoon storm was replaced with patches of clear sky and the trees in the basin below us glowed with the luminescence that post rain landscapes so often do. 

We had one night left in this beautiful basin, and I found myself continually falling in love with my new backcountry home. After another evening of immersing myself in the world outside my tent, I retired to bed with a bittersweet attitude. I'd grown attached to my tiny little tent, and the situations it had forced me into. 

Morning greeted me with a hue of fluorescent green as the sun shone through my tent's fly, but my exhausted body was content where it was, so I continued to doze. 

"Holy shit, it's by your tent!" fills the space of my alarm for the morning as Eric tries to alert me to the fact that there's a creature outside my tent. The smallness of my shelter suddenly occurs to me, standing barely at thigh height at it's highest point. 

"What do you mean it's by my tent?" I say half panicked but still half asleep. 

"They..." my panic peaks at the mention of more then one,"...the goats. There's two goats outside of your tent!"

My moment has come. The goats have come. I scramble around my bivy, gathering camera gear and brain function as I go, finding every reason to hate my bivy on the way out. I can't make full movements, as my sleeping bag's zipper eats the fabric trapping me inside my very own insulated road block. My tent door is open and I can see a baby goat right in front of me staring me down, next to a mama goat weary and concerned about the ruckus I'm making trying to get out of my tent. A long line of curse words is muttered as I panic at the thought of my weight saving measures to offset the weight of my camera gear being what inevitably causes me to miss the shot I wanted in the end, and in a last ditch effort to get a photo of the little goat family in front of me, I somersault out of my bivy, camera and sleeping bag in tow. I land, legs(still in my sleeping bag) splayed out as though I attempted the splits, camera up to my eye ready to capture the cuteness that is a baby animal, when mama and baby are startled by the shutter sound(would you believe it, of all things) and sprint downhill. 

I sit, defeated, tangled in my sleeping bag and camera equipment. 

But it's not over yet. I look up from my self inflicted pity party to find no less than 20 goats descending from the peak above us, making their way into our campsite. I stand up, caught in awe of what I'm witnessing only to realize there's another 20 goats behind me, munching on grass and licking rocks. My temporary disdain for my tent dissolves, as our campsite fills with goats of all ages and sizes, paying no mind to our existence in their mountains. 

We want to acknowledge and thank the past, present, and future generations of all Native Nations and Indigenous Peoples whose ancestral lands we travel, explore, and play on. Always practice Leave No Trace ethics on your adventures and follow local regulations. Please explore responsibly!

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