Picture this: A seam of smoke rises from a  white canvas wall tent tucked into a stand of spruce and cottonwood trees on the bank of a  wild river. Nearby a fisherman hangs bright red salmon on a rack to dry in the sun.

Or maybe the white walls billow against the tent frame as a stiff sea breeze rakes beach grass on an otherwise desolate shore. Whether captured in oils by Sydney Laurence or Fred Machetanz, or found in modern-day bush Alaska, such a scene plucks at something primordially Alaskan in me.

Less substantial than that quintessential Alaska dwelling, the log cabin, and more permanent than a nylon backpacker’s tent, the sight of a wall tent tells me someone hasn’t put down roots, but has settled in to do something interesting.

I lived in one while working as a commercial fisherman years ago on Cook Inlet. For most of a decade, my home from May until August was a 12-foot by 12-foot canvas tent heated by a small wood stove. You might think such accommodations would be less than ideal on a job that involved being wet and cold most of the time, but nothing could be further from the truth. My tent was cozy with a fire in the stove and, while there wasn’t a lot of room, it was more than accommodating for a young man living out of duffel bag.  It was not the most private of dwellings, but the thin walls kept out the wind and rain, but admitted the sounds of approaching friends and passing storms. And during the long days of summer, the light that filtered in was perfect to read by.

When I see a wall tent, whether in person or in a painting or picture,  I think of simpler times and usually study the scene, trying to figure out why it is there and what its occupant is doing.

In much the same way, Charlie Ess’s story, (“Two Tents are Better Than One,” Page 24) captured my imagination. It was the tent that grabbed my attention but, as I read his words, Charlie’s face faded in my mind’s eye and my own replaced it, working the trap line, cleaning pelts and splitting kindling for the morning fire. Perhaps you’ll have the same experience, recalling something from your past or walking a path that, long ago, you chose not to follow. And when you’re done you might wonder, like I did, if right now a young Alaskan is out there cutting spruce poles to build the frame for his tent as he begins to find his place here. I sure hope so.