I lived nearly a year in a sleeping bag. Last night I dreamed a light rain had begun and I was trying find a spot to roll my sleeping bag up to keep it dry on a riverbank, but before I could a wave of water swirled up from the river and soaked my bag as I was trying to roll, then quickly fold it before it soaked up even more water.
The dream went on with me trying to hang up the drenched bag, and then I woke up. I’ve not thought about sleeping bags for a very long time.
I recall having such a bad fever in my treasured sleeping bag that year, the seventh that I’d owned it, that it was absolutely soaked, and then smelled of sweat, even after I dried it out.
Before I purchased it, I was freezing cold on nearly every camp out. There was a learning curve to keeping warm at night outdoors after summer. Eventually I came to the conclusion that I had to have a bag that was built for cold temperatures, after a fall and spring of shivering. It was the most expensive thing I had ever purchased, at twelve, from the Herter’s catalog for thirty dollars.
By the end of the year that I lived in that bag the lining was shredded, and I think I left it in Texas, in late May of 1976, the bag that had kept me warm over many winters spread out top of my blankets in New Jersey, where there was little or no heat in our poorly insulated built for summer home on the estuary. I don’t recall ever having dreamed, or even though about that sleeping bag for decades.
I think I got my money’s worth. I still froze at winter camp, which went down to thirty below zero or something like that; we had filled our tent with hay for insulation, and three of of us but I was still unable to get warm.