Time in nature can take the mind to unexpected places. Even primal places. Years back, as I was working full-time in land survey, I began to wonder: What would it be like to live in a tipi? Not just tent camping or setting out in an RV. I imagined a life that would be more simple — and viscerally natural. Life in a tipi had a romance to it in my mind. I imagined the warmth of the fire, the cozy space, and the relaxation of being one with nature. It was an imagining so compelling that I made a decision to try it.
As you might expect, I discovered that imagination and reality don’t always align. Nature is a stern and effective teacher. But what she teaches, you keep forever.
“I found a clearing in the woods”
For me, there was something about the tipi itself. About that place being my residence. Sure, I could have just rented a room in a house or a small apartment somewhere. But then cooking, bathing, and simple tasks would have been a monotonous bore. I wanted a place that provided shelter as well as adventure. Something just past the fringe of civilization. And living in a tipi in the Appalachian Mountains of Western North Carolina suited that purpose. It was my ideal option — not to mention the cheapest.
Letting my sense of adventure prevail, I ordered an $1,100 handmade canvas tipi from Oregon. The tipi came with a small canvas door, an inside liner for insulation, and some rope to tie the poles together at the top. But in order to properly set up a 16-foot tipi, you need fairly long tipi poles — 22 feet in my case. And those did not come with the tipi. Rather, the best option was to make them out of young poplar trees and a few pines. Tulip poplar is a sun loving hardwood tree that grows fast and requires a lot of sunlight. As a result, it grows tall and straight in order to quickly dominate a young forest canopy. The forest had these in abundance.
I found a clearing in the woods inside a local national forest that was growing 5- to 7-year old poplars. From these, I was able to secure about 20 straight poles. Then I spent the next two weeks working. I shaved the bark off of the poles to keep them dry and prevent rot. I shaved each individual knot off to keep the rain water running smoothly down the pole. Ultimately, I dedicated my free time after work to the preparation and completion of the poles. Some nights, I’d stay overnight camping to complete the work. Other nights, I’d head back to my regular residence at dark.
One night though, I remember working out there. It was getting dark, and then I heard this person coming the brush and I kinda freaked out. I jerked around, and there was a big bear coming down the mountain — just to check me out. Frozen, I stared at the bear trampling through the oncoming dark, looking back at me, and moving on. I remember thinking in that moment, “What am I doing out here?”
“Then the magic began”
After the first week, I was finally ready to raise the tipi. I laid three poles down and secured them together near the top. The structure went up, balanced like a tripod. Rather meditatively, I laid all the other poles in place, working my way around the circle until the framework created a circular shape. Then the magic began. From this point on, I was mesmerized. The skeleton of my home was complete, and I was ready to move in.
Following native tradition, I danced three rotations around the framework, pulling the cordage snugly as it tightened the poles together near the top. I felt like I traveled back in time, to a forgotten era. My life and my age melted away, and my earthly experiences waned. The ritual began to color my portfolio with life’s richest moments to date. Describing it with too many words would probably diminish my actual experience. And it would likely be different for someone else. But I lived a certain freedom. I experienced my own masculinity. In that time, I saw creation and death all at once. Really, I felt like I had completed something true for the first time. The physical world had a greater weight here.
Using the strongest pole, I raised 60 pounds of canvas and secured it to the top and bottom of my tipi. I carefully unfolded the material onto the surrounding poles until the entire structure was covered. I spent the next few hours pulling, stretching, and tightening the canvas around and down toward the ground. The goal was to get a tight, skin-like texture on the dwelling. The work became effortless in time as this ancient structure took shape. In no time, it decorated the landscape as if it always belonged.
“Not an hour goes by unnoticed”
Now fast forward about four months. The fall is dying into winter. And the cold rain is turning into snow. At night the temperatures dropped into the mid-20s. After experimenting with different heating mechanisms — from a wood stove, to a big fire pit, to a small fire pit — I eventually found that the best option was, ironically, a small, smokeless fire set deep into a pit surrounded by flat reflective rocks. (Super dry, healthy wood burns a clean, bright, and smokeless fire.) This flame-rich fire created a mysterious and hypnotic mood that warmed my soul. In turn, it also helped with my internal blood flow to the extremities.
The more time I stayed out there, I began to notice something. Feeling became a daily activity. It became an hourly activity, almost minute to minute in some cases. Making dinner, using the bathroom, washing my hands, all required constant focus and commitment. These things are lost in a comfortable life. In a life of luxury and comfort, days are lost to weeks, and weeks can be lost to years. But here, outside, looking up at the crowded collection of poles tied together, surrounded by cream canvas, and the pervasive wood-smoke aroma, I could hear the sounds of the night. Wind. Raindrops. Spider cricket hopping beside me. And even black bear rummaging around in their heavy, speechless visitations.
Out there, with only canvass between you and the physical world, not a day is lost. Not an hour goes by unnoticed.
“The challenge of existing”
Looking back, it’s hard to define what happened to me out there in those woods. Why I went. Whether I found what I was looking for or not. But what it is clear is that the tipi lost the romance of its appeal in the winter. Because the challenge of existing outside in a primitive fashion is truly one’s own. If it’s not giving back to you, then it’s not sustainable. If it is giving back, then you are beginning to experience the natural phenomenon of equilibrium.
As the winter wore on, I realized that the tipi didn’t actually keep me warm at night. The fire only warmed my heart and my perspective. So too, the thin canvas walls became something distinguishable — a symbol of togetherness that houses my life. In that time, it gave me purpose, but even that had to be left behind for the most primal of reasons: It no longer provided any calorie-saving protection. I started to appreciate shelter in a new way, what houses and RVs provide.
Even so, from that winter, I think my skin actually thickened from the elements. Maybe something under the skin too. With nature, I was ready for my winter to end. And when the spring finally returned, it was undoubtedly most beautiful thing.