Walkabout: Sketchy Launch

No point in cliffhangers; I’ll start with the end (which isn’t really the end) and then mention “misfortune roulette” which made departure memorable.

The “end” is that I did it. I finally got out of town. I’m eleventy zillion miles from my frozen muddy homestead. It’s t-shirt weather and I’m in an urban coffee shop. It’s so rich and decadent I can scarcely imagine this place exists on the same planet where I froze all winter. “Video killed the radio star” is cheerfully warbling in the background. The earnest self-interested chatter of rich, well fed, urbanite dweebs is layered over ubiquitous happy spazz music (probably statistically selected to appeal to my demographic). It’s not quiet like I’m used to. There is a certain level of hubub; I’m reminded of beehives and hamster wheels. Everyone seems active… though they’re just sitting on their ass drinking coffee. I can’t pull that off. I don’t radiate “active” while resting. There’s probably a deep thought to be found in the observation but I’m too lazy to chase it.

The coffee is excellent; though served at a temperature I call “ball shreddingly hot”. I was given two options to donate money (to God knows what) when I bought it. (I donated nothing. I purchase things I want and act charitably in separate actions… always. Mix the two only if you must.)

My seat is comfortable and that’s good because I’m road weary from my drive to get here. WiFi is ample but everyone (aside from me) is probably mainlining the grid directly via data plans. I don’t see any laptops. Everyone is staring at their cell phone. I’m typing on an Alphasmart Neo2. Later, if I feel like it, I’ll download from the Neo2 to my laptop and thence via WiFi to the grid. Or not. I might just drink my coffee and ignore my blog a bit longer.

Have you noticed cities bitch at you about the environment (and social justice… whatever that means at the current millisecond) constantly? I had to run a gauntlet of recycling placards on the way out of my hotel lobby and another one just to get in the door of this coffee shop. There was environmental crap in the hotel about shower temperatures, lights, air conditioning, and laundry services. Somehow the in-room coffee was blessed by Gaia too; though the only thing I noticed was that it tasted like shit. Starbucks, of course, needs no explanation. No wonder Millennials think we’re on the edge of environmental destruction; their propaganda is administered with a sledge! It’s a 24/7 suppository of social engineering that involves every fucking thing they do every moment of the day. Do Imams praise Allah as often as hipsters kvetch about recycling?

I’m a very long way from the cold, relatively poor, grittiness of my home. I sojourn in America’s near Utopian wealth like a visitor from an alien world.

Damn this coffee’s good!

So… it was easy to get here right? Wrong!

I mentioned in a previous post I’d foolishly buried my truck to its axles?  I did this deed, not 30 paces from my front door. The following morning I escaped the mud during the brief predawn window when the soil was frozen. I made a rookie mistake not driving a bit to test the truck after recovering it!

I started packing but an unseasonable foot of snow ruined my plans. I wanted to “test out” some of my gear before departure. The mud and snow precluded it.

Frustrated, I stacked tents and sleeping pads by the door as winter let fly with a fury out of sync with the calendar. Would the tent bag have the requisite stakes? In this weather I decided to just “assume” the best rather than verify.

My lightweight sleeping bag and thin t-shirts looked suicidal in the raging snow. I paced nervously and added contingency gear. Soon my packs were overstuffed with wool hats and thick jackets.

We called the snowplow guy. I fretted that I’ve dropped $500+ on him this year. Then I saw the shape of his truck. In 4 months his truck has been beaten silly. Shortly after New Year’s it was a newish shiny Ford with a freshly installed plow. Now it’s got a caved in roof, broken windshield, scrapes on both sides, a missing front grill, both mirrors smashed and hanging by a thread… and that’s not to mention the transmission work and blown axle. I’m not sure how much is covered by insurance (his garage roof collapsed under the snow and that’s the source of some but not all damage) but I know trucks ‘aint cheap and his looks like it did ten rounds with Godzilla. I think his plowing winter has been a net loss. Every time I think of bolting a plow to my Dodge’s front end (the “Death Wobble Express”) I think of repair bills and seek another solution.

The week before departure my world oscillated between ice and mud. I tried more pre-trip preparations and my trailer got buried under more snow. Resistance was futile.

Finally it was the night before departure. I loaded the truck with a dump run and coaxed Mrs. Curmudgeon to accompany me on “a date”. The plan was I’d toss our garbage at the dump and then we’d have a pleasant dinner on the last night before I saddled up and fled south. (Yes, stopping at the dump on the way to a “date” is uncool… forgive me, I have many irons in the fire.)

Unexpectedly, the truck bucked like a bronco. The mud and sod from when I’d buried it in the lawn had solidified between the dual wheels and froze solid. It’s not uncommon for a rock or something to lodge in duallys but this was a different order of magnitude. The “plug” of ice/mud was huge and heavy and on both sides. The truck vibrated like it was going to shake itself to pieces (which seems to be a specialty of Dodges).

I put on the hazards and limped down the road at 20 MPH. This was not helping my optimism. I was planning a long road trip (departure in 12 hours!) based entirely on a truck that couldn’t go faster than 20 MPH.

In the passenger seat, Mrs. Curmudgeon giggled. “What the hell did you do? You’ve got the karma of a serial killer.”

I shrugged. I do have comically bad luck at times.

“At least the rest of the truck is fine.” I reasoned.

Then the driver’s side windshield wiper flew off. No shit!

What. The. Hell? It just hopped off the wiper arm and took flight. Like it was bored with its job. “I’m sick of pushing snow; I’m gonna’ make a leap of faith. Banzai!”

Mrs. Curmudgeon laughed as I stopped and hoofed it back to the blade lying on the road. Then, because it HAD TO, it started snowing much harder.

Back in the rig, limping toward town, I was a we bit miffed. I couldn’t see much through the windshield but then again I was only going 20 MPH. I said it felt like a country music song.

Mrs. Curmudgeon happily started making up lyrics.

In town the only car wash was closed. A guy was plowing in front of it so I explained my predicament (“I can’t drive home on those unbalanced wheels”). He had the key and opened the door. Nice! It took 4 rounds with the pressure washer ($8!) and some brave hand to hand combat with the mud. If you’ve ever been on your hands and knees with a big screwdriver trying to pry frozen mud from between dual wheels you know what I’m talking about. I was filthy; covered head to toe in splashed mud and water, soaking wet, irredeemably cold. Country music song indeed.

At the dump (which was closed but had open dumpsters) there were teenagers sitting in cars. I assume they were either having sex or doing drugs… what else is there for a rural teenager parked by the dump in a snowstorm?

The next day the weather was worse. I still didn’t have a decent wiper and the roads were a mess. Plus every muscle ached from clearing the duallys the night before. Even worse, I just couldn’t shake my chill. I postponed departure.

How long ago that seems. Looking up at the most fortunate generation in humanity here at an urban Starbucks, the cradle of their civilization, I wonder if any of them ever crawled under the wheel well of a mud coated Dodge. Would they even understand the mission? Is it better or worse that I had to deal with it? Better or worse that they don’t? I don’t inherently assign nobility to suffering. Recently, clinging to rural independence is wearing thin. The spandex clad unemployable students riding $700 mountain bikes to buy a $6 coffee don’t seem world weary. How the hell do they afford it?

All I know is I made it from my world to briefly visit theirs. I’ve got good coffee and I’m wearing a t-shirt instead of a parka. After I’m good and thawed out I’ll head back to my redoubt and put my nose to the grindstone once again. But not yet!

More will be reported when feel like it.

A.C.