Field Note 009 — Coleman Compact Roll-Top Aluminum Camping Table
Mine are dirty.
They're beat up. Some of the plastic end caps disappeared years ago. The carry bag looks every bit of its age.
And if one of these tables spontaneously combusted tomorrow, I'd replace it with exactly the same thing.
I've been using Coleman roll-top tables for roughly twelve years. I own two of them, not because I originally thought I needed two, but because the first one turned out to be so damn useful that eventually I bought another.
There wasn't much research involved in the original purchase. I'm pretty sure I found it on eBay for a great price. It looked like a good idea. It was Coleman. I gave it a shot.
Twelve years later, they're still going camping.
They've held camp stoves, dirty dishes, fish, electronics, card games, an entire pig, and—at least once—a set of turntables in the middle of the desert.
Mostly, though, they've become something much less interesting and much more useful.
They're my camp kitchen counter.
The Camp Kitchen Counter
When I get to camp, there is a loose order to how things come out of the truck. Chairs get opened. The tables get rolled out and assembled. The camp boxes get set beside them. Tents go up, the fire gets dealt with, and camp starts becoming camp.
Those tables are part of the infrastructure.
Each gives me roughly a three-by-three-foot working surface. Put the pair next to each other and I have something approaching a six-foot-long camp counter.
And that is overwhelmingly what they've become: my camp kitchen counter.
Food gets prepped on them. Drinks get made on them. Dishes get washed on them. If there isn't a proper fire setup for cooking, the Coleman propane stove gets pulled out and put on top. I've never had an issue with heat from the stove.
But calling them kitchen tables doesn't really cover it.
Over the years they've held speakers, phones and chargers. We've played cards on them. Fish have been cleaned on them. Firearms have been laid out on them.
An entire pig has been carved on them.
And, at one particularly ridiculous desert camp, a set of turntables was set up on them and they became a DJ stand.
Those photographs have apparently been lost to history, which is probably for the best.
The tables survived.
Height Matters More Than You Think
One of the things Coleman got right is something that doesn't sound particularly important until you spend a weekend standing in front of one.
They're about waist height.
That makes them comfortable for food prep, cooking, making drinks and washing dishes because they behave more like a countertop than a little camping table.
My dad liked mine enough that he eventually bought a similar roll-top table. His wasn't a Coleman and it was cheaper. It looked basically the same, but it sits a few inches shorter.
It's not the end of the world.
It's also noticeable.
I've seen other roll-top camping tables that sit practically at knee height. Those may be perfectly useful for what they're designed to do, but that's not the job these Colemans have in my camp. I want to stand in front of mine and work.
Interestingly, I also own a miniature non-Coleman roll-top table. That one permanently lives in the bag for my 13-foot yurt and serves as an end table inside the tent.
So I'm certainly not arguing that Coleman is the only company capable of making a useful roll-top table.
They just got this one right.
Two Tables, One Bag
The other reason owning two hasn't become obnoxious is that both of them fit into a single Coleman carry bag.
It isn't some miraculous ultralight packing solution. With two tables inside, the bundle is rigid and a little awkward—roughly in the neighborhood of an average dome-tent roll, except squarer and obviously not soft.
You also have to pay a little attention when packing them. The mounting bars have a tendency to work their way out of the top if they're positioned directly beneath the bag opening. With two complete tables stuffed inside, there is only so far you can cinch the bag closed.
Arrange the pieces properly, though, and it works.
Instead of carrying two separate table bags, I get roughly six feet of camp counter out of one moderately awkward bundle.
That's a trade I'll take.
The surviving bag certainly looks like it has spent more than a decade camping. I'm reasonably sure the second bag is actually stuffed somewhere down in the bottom of it.
Solid Once You Understand Them
Setup can be slightly confusing the first time.
The legs need to be unfolded completely so the vertical support bars can properly seat and lock into place. I've watched people struggle with that when they first encounter the table because everything looks almost open before it actually is.
Once you understand what needs to happen, it's nothing.
And once those supports are locked, the table is solid as hell on a good surface.
That's important when the thing is being used as an actual workspace rather than somewhere to set a beer. I've cut food on these tables, run a stove on them and subjected them to all sorts of jobs they probably weren't pictured doing on the box.
I've never had a structural failure.
No failed legs. No broken braces. No collapsed tabletop.
Nothing.
Twelve Years Leaves Marks
They're not pretty anymore.
Several of the little plastic end caps have disappeared over the years. What does that mean functionally?
Absolute dick.
Every once in a while I notice one is missing and it bothers me aesthetically for about thirty seconds. Then I continue using the table exactly as I did before.
The carry bag looks old because it is old.
The tables get dirty because they're camping tables.
And that brings me to my one legitimate complaint about the roll-top design.
The tabletop is made from individual aluminum slats. Dirt, crumbs and whatever other crap camp produces can work its way into the gaps between them. A solid tabletop would simply wipe clean. These occasionally require a little more effort.
Especially if, hypothetically, you're the kind of person who doesn't meticulously clean every piece of camping equipment after every trip.
Hypothetically.
The tables in my possession today are dirty, worn and missing pieces of plastic.
They're also completely functional.
After roughly twelve years, I'll take that deal.
One Little Camp Trick
There is also a feature Coleman never advertised.
Clip a carabiner to the frame and hang your trash bag from it.
I've been doing this for years. It gives the trash bag a dedicated place next to the camp kitchen, keeps it off the ground, and—particularly when camping somewhere windy—helps prevent the damn thing from deciding it would rather be somewhere else.
It's a tiny thing, but those tiny habits are part of what happens when a piece of equipment stays in your system long enough.
The Gear You Stop Thinking About
There isn't much excitement surrounding a folding aluminum table.
Nobody gathers around at camp to admire it. It doesn't have an app. It doesn't need batteries. It isn't going to transform your campsite into an overlanding catalog spread.
It's a table.
But twelve years later, mine come out on essentially every trip.
They establish the kitchen. They create workspace. They organize camp. They've been cooking counters, cleaning stations, card tables, fish-cleaning tables, electronics stations, a butcher block for an entire pig and, apparently, desert DJ equipment.
The first one worked so well that I bought a second.
And after all these years, despite newer alternatives and countless versions of the same basic idea, my answer hasn't changed.
If one of mine spontaneously combusted tomorrow, I wouldn't start researching camping tables.
I'd replace it with another one.
Some gear earns its place by being innovative.
Some earns it by being exciting.
And some earns it by showing up for twelve years and doing whatever the hell you ask of it.
The Coleman roll-top table is that kind of gear.
Buy less. Go more.
— Dane Justus
Founder, Weekend Route