Stansport Tent: Denali II Two Person Backpacking Tent

Stansport Backpacking Tent: Reflection and Review

By Armando Ortiz

Spring 2009, first camping trip with tent.

I bought my first camping tent back in 2009 at a surplus store in Moss Landing, California. It was in the back of a huge military storage container tucked in between other larger items, ammunition boxes and wool blankets, where I found the portable tent. It was blue and gray Stansport Denali II two person backpacking tent that I bought that day and since then this living space has given comfort and protected me from different weather conditions that have arisen in my travels. I’ve used the tent mostly to camp in California, along the coast, inside the redwood forest, up in the mountains, and have also used it at local music festivals.

Valley of the Rouge State Park

The tent has held up well, keeping its integrity despite a nick on the floor from grounds that have been covered in rocks, sticks and pine-cones. Nonetheless a good tarp or footprint has provided an extra layer of protection, but as any camper I’ve made sure to clear up areas I choose to hunker down on. The two aluminum poles continue to work fine along with the zippered doors. You can set up the tent in a couple of minutes and move it to a better spot if need be, before the stakes are hammered into the ground to give it better stability. Because it is so light, and can be moved around after the tent is pitched, as you break up camp it’s easy remove sand or debris that makes its way inside by simply picking it up and giving it a couple of good shakes.

I also discovered how versatile this tent can be, with the rainfly helping to keep my shoes and backpack water and dust free, while keeping things separate from inside and yet easily accessible, at arm’s length. The vestibule also has allowed me to redirect air flow into the tent more freely by letting me roll up different parts of the rainfly. The doors of the domed tent can also be rolled up, allowing for more air flow from any direction and yet a high level of privacy is maintained. It conveniently lets me roll my tent doors so that the mesh doors protect me from bugs, giving me a chance to nap in the day time.

Roasting corn.

During my camping trip to Southern Oregon and Northern California this past summer my seven year old tent withstood late spring rains at Valley of the Rouge State Park, kept me warm and cozy at Harris Beach State Park and MacKerricher State Park where the cold coastal winds bring in the summer fog to the camping areas and the temperature drops to the chilly upper 40s. It protected me from the clouds of mosquitoes that hovered over Standish-Hickey State Park and Hendy Woods State Park, turning a nuisance into an opportunity to relax and read a book while resting inside comfortably. Because it is backpacking tent, it is very light weight and is kept in the trunk of my car. Its portability makes it ready for any well planned trip or one that has been made at the spur of the moment. It continues to do its job, to protect me from the elements, and is still enduring the test of time. I continue to look forward to returning to the wilderness or of simply finding an excuse to go car camping. I know that this Stansport tent will hold up and continue to give me shelter.

Humboldt Redwoods State Park

Roberto Bolano's Amulet: Book Review

Roberto Bolano’s Amulet: Book Review

By Armando Ortiz

Migration of birds come and go every season. In the summer months, they fly north to the plains and plateaus of North America. As winter approaches, they return south to the Caribbean and southern parts of Mexico. At one time these movements of birds might have created visuals in the sky of ever moving dancers, and clouds could have been metamorphosing into splatters. Imagine farmers and hunters, just four generations ago, shooting shotguns into the air. In one afternoon seeing hundreds of birds just fall to the ground. Mix with those years of polluting fumes and oil spills. Now, all we see are glimpses of things that were, the sounds that we hear are just an acoustic tune to the symphonic sounds that the wildlife of America once breathed. We wake up, and might not pay much care to the sounds that emanate from outside of the window. Its background noise that disturbs our waking life, like a squeaky wheel that demands attention, whether you like it or not, it’s there, like the small birds that make tiny dust bowls on the ground of local parks, that is what remains, a forgotten memory mixed with the present.

In Roberto Bolano’s Amulet he brings that experience into focus through Auxilio Lacouture, the main character and narrator of the novel, who also represents the past and present of the Americas. She is an imaginary figure that survives the military takeover of the Autonomous National University of Mexico (UNAM) in 1968. A few months before the Olympics were hosted in Mexico City there were major protests. Many of these movements were against the corruption that people saw within the government, and its suppression of organizations trying to improve social conditions for everyone in the country. She finds herself in the women’s bathroom, on the 4th floor of the philosophy building, and these she hides. She claims to be the mother of Mexican poetry, while others in the book contend that she is the mother of all American poetry. Hiding in the restroom for several days marks her and those memories become intertwined with her legendary status throughout the novel.

We can feel her breath, the passing of time, the withering of her body, but also the hopes that emanate from her spirit. We learn more about her by what she reads as a way for Bolano to introduce us to more authors, different artists and music that we might not be familiar with. Spanish poets that appear at the start of the story, have different political views, but similar talents. Artists like Remedios Varo, a surrealist painter, and music from Spain.

Auxilio lives a harsh life, spending time at bars and cafes with fellow writers and artists. She is a free spirit, born in Uruguay, living illegally in Mexico City and always doing odd jobs for professors and writers alike. Living a poet’s life, one that Roberto Bolano probably lived. In Mexico City Bolano spent time with artists and poets, and was a member of the poetic movement, Infrarealism. Though she has not had “success” she is a definite presence amongst the literary crowds of the city. It is through her encounters with other writers and artists that we also learn and gain insight into the richness of the Spanish language and its legacy in the Americas.

Spending most of the time roaming the streets with fellow artists she is known by the underground and is a close friend to recently returned Chilean poet Arturo Belano, the author’s alter ego. She finds affinity for the young writer because he too has experienced hardships. He has traveled and walked through the different valleys of Spanish speaking Americas and he too has aspirations. Bolano shows us how even without her papers being in order, Auxilio is able to navigate and intermingle with Mexico City’s creative currents that interact with the seedier sections of Mexican society. She sees the different facets of an artist’s life and the hacks that exist amongst the crowds; she lives a few months in a room and moves on. Her life is a continual ebb and flow of experiences, as if she is reflecting on all that she has experienced. Within that life you see that poetry and the culture give her sustenance. In many ways it is a metaphor to Bolano’s life as a writer and testament to his travels throughout the Spanish speaking world. As she reflects on her life experiences and the moments spent in the restroom of the 4th floor it all becomes clear that the only reason to live is to hope for another day. Another day of life is a day of ecstasy where she lives through the night again and welcomes the rising of the sun and sees the inhabitants of the city wake up to a hustle and bustle.

Towards the later part of the novel Auxilio has a vision or dream where she is walking a tall mountain and she sees a sea of humanity converging into one. Within that human caravan emerges a migrating sparrow and the elusive quetzal. One new this land, while the other indigenous to the Americas. There are defeats and victories, and within that a new hope, a new tomorrow, and a new rise. It represents the forging of a new culture and the dream of having the art of writing nurtured by those who roam the night and write down their thoughts. Auxilio has made Mexico her home, and although she is illegal, that is where she flourishes. In a similar vein, people from Latin America migrate to the US, and their presence enriches and alters its culture and language. Another way of looking at Roberto’s vision is by examining a map of the world and seeing that the Spanish language continues to exist and the influences that each valley, nation, and region have over other Spanish speaking communities is still significant, and relevant, which creates a literary culture that is varied, flourishing and vibrant.

Autumn Leaves in Beijing

Autumn Leaves in Beijing

by Armando Ortiz

Two shadows were following me last night, giving the body a shivering fright. I turned around to see who was behind, but it was the street lights casting two shadows in the night. Walking home, and hearing noises scattering from the sides, the breeze sweeping the autumn leaves on the floor, but out of sight.

At a distance a black cat ran, crossing my path looking for cover, becoming a discarded newspaper twisting, scattering, and making my thoughts stutter. Discarded rubbish blown along, like dark ocean waves, became black tarantulas that crawled on the ground.

Later, I woke up in a cold sweat to the clanging of the metal door- late October, when winds shake pots and pans past the midnight hour. Traffic lights and flag poles shaking and resonating like a lone drumstick that lands on a snare drum.

On that crisp and starry night, I was afraid that death would soon take hold, and blind me with nightmare dreams while locked inside an endless dawn. Even if living on an island I would not be at peace, because something was haunting, but the mind remained clueless to what that could be.

In Beijing, amongst retired folk that woke up early to do their morning taichi is where I lived, frosty breaths blending with dawn’s flowing air. They seemed unfazed with nature’s change that was in the air, and moved their arms as if spinning and mixing clay-wares.

It was like being in a Bergman film, where I was supposed to see my body stiff, but then the next day the heater came on, and the warmth of my home, became a shelter of safety from the cold crawling into every corner of the city.

The last days of autumn, when the warm colors that trees wear fall to the ground, and brown dead leaves 

announce the blistering winter’s arrival, who with sweeping broom sounds, rakes away all that has passed, 

bringing a stiffening cold season that will refuse to move fast.