Adaptive Curmudgeon

We live cycles. But cycles change. Ideally things get better. Or maybe we get better.

It took me several tries to get this post typed out. Not because it’s deep or important, but because I’ve been harried. After too many interruptions, I can barely think.

Plus, I’m drunk right now. (It’s definitely not streamlining the writing process.) Luckily, it’s temporary. (Both the interruptions and the whiskey.)

I know the interruptions are temporary because things that require my attention are being handled. It’s working out as well as I could hope. So that’s all good, if left undefined for blogging purposes. Given the positive results, I shouldn’t complain. And I won’t.

Nah, I must complain a little. It’s hindering my Curmudgeoning. I’m still new at being retired and my health incrementally returns (after some drama last year). I want to be actively Curmudgeoning. It’s precisely the whole point. Alas, the modern world can’t abide a man at peace. The “real world” intrudes and I find myself filling out forms in triplicate.

Simultaneously, I’ve been thinking about the circular nature of life. I’d like to come to some sort of revelation. I haven’t. I blame my density on the lack of Curmudgeoning. Right now I feel as hapless and unrooted as the rest of society. I don’t like that.

Alright, lets get this train back on the rails…

Think back to when you were a child. You (or I) were dragged out of bed and sentenced to school. I always thought “when I’m big I won’t put up with this shit“. That’s exactly how life doesn’t happen. Your work life involves years and years of “putting up with this shit“.

But, I’m now retired. It occurred to me I am big now. Therefore, why am I putting up with anything?

Why indeed?

So, I exercised my geezer privledge. I cleared my schedule using the non-excuse blunt truth of “I’m busy that day… and a couple days after”.

I didn’t say what I had to do. Only that I had to go do something. What I’m really doing is going camping again. They would call it frivolous but I don’t. Nor does Mrs. Curmudgeon, who is wildly supportive. (Ladies, you want to keep your man head over heels in love? Once in a while tell him he really ought to go fishing and shove him out the door. He needs it and will appreciate it.)

I barely unpacked from my last trip. And my cot needs to be repaired. And I never got around to posting some of the photos.

But who cares? I’ve been tasked with stuff. I reluctantly did a measure of stuff. I don’t want to do any more stuff. I decided to go camping, in mid-week, for the quaint and often ignored reason that I wish to. I picture my young childish self nodding in pleasure. “I’m big now and you can’t make me go to school.”

There’s further good news. My truck has brakes now. No more Jilted Girlfriend.

Which returns me to the idea of cycles. I started life limping half dead cars to whatever forest or mountain I could manage. A few weeks ago I limped a half dead car, but had a spare motorcycle strapped on back. This time I’m in a bitchin’ strong truck AND still have the motorcycle. I’m still broke but I have a lot of infrastructure going for me. Being broke is much better when you have a reliable vehicle!

Tune into any video that uses the word “overlanding”. They’ll tell you a man needs a wad of cash to hang out in nature. That’s false and disheartening. Don’t let them dissuade you. You only need a vehicle that’s “adequate” and some gear that’s “good enough”. You don’t need anything more than “enough”. I got that, so I get to do the thing. Yay me!

To save money I used to “free camp”. After last year and some CPAP drama I’m lingering near a campground. In this season it’s pretty damn quiet at least. My young adult self would sneer. My current self hates dropping the cash but campgrounds reduce uncertainty. I can handle the small expense. Experiments with a power plug were dramatic two out of two times so I’m going back to the lowest level (cheapest!) tent sites. I’m bringing my battery AND my generator. Solar panels would be great but I don’t have them and I don’t want to spend the money. Lucky for me, a pint of gas will charge the shit out of the battery.

To save money I’m also skimping on Mountain House dehydrated meals. They’re well worth it if you’re doing serious outdoorsmanship. But I’m in a cycle of low money. I prowled the Dollar Store for cheap dehydrated hashbrowns. I 3d printed bizarre single egg containers. I also thawed some ground meat; because I had meat in the freezer. All that should make the trip’s food cheap. Probably, it’ll be healthier too.

I decided to spend some of my limited funds on beer. So I guess some things stay the same in all cycles. I figure the cost of a six pack, some truck fuel, and the campsite itself is a pittance compared to modern life. I can do it cheaper but it’s ok to be a little lazy.

An after action report will ensue.

A.C.

P.S. Good grief! Writing while drunk was an experiment. It did not work out. I know what I was trying to say but I sound like some barfly on a stool explaining string theory after a dozen Lite beers. I’m posting anyway. It won’t kill the ‘net.

Based on the title you’re expecting interpersonal drama. Nope! It’s about a rusty old car.

Before society took a dump (aka Covididiocy), I bought a Yamaha TW200 dirt bike. When I say “before” I mean literally days before the crash. I knew there was something odd brewing in China. I knew people might react stupidly. But wow! Humanity ignored my already low expectations and dove beneath the bar! Planetary mass hysteria? Really!?

I’m very lucky I got the motorcycle in time. I used it to stay sane. HOA Karens cowered behind crochet knit masks. Governors made rules about hair salons. Fauchi scampered about like the creepy little gremlin he is. I avoided much of the bullshit simply by enjoying the forest.

Does proper mental care mean a dirtbike and a fishing pole? I dunno’. What’s the batting average for therapists?

Me and that little bike explored forest roads like carefree children. I had a cheap bike and endless trails, heaven is where you find it.

Eventually society came up for air. I had a meeting in South Dakota. The Black Hills has great trails! Diesel was expensive so I opted to take Mrs. Curmudgeon’s fuel efficient daily driver, a Honda CRV. (Remember when expensive fuel was an inexplicable mystery? It seems like pricey gas is no big deal when one party is in power and a sinister plot when the other is in power. Unless you’ve got the memory of a goldfish you should remember the ebb and flow.)

I checked all the specs from Honda. I bought a small trailer to haul my small bike. It’s well within the car’s GVWR. Despite whining about the cost of the ball hitch install I was impressed. It was scaled perfectly!

But it sucked. Regardless of what the technical specs said, the little CRV just didn’t have the grunt. It got me there, but it wasn’t happy about it. The car was already old. Maybe it’s got half the horsepower it started with?

The next time I trailered the tiny bike with my behemoth truck. It looked stupid and out of scale, but the truck didn’t break a sweat. There’s no replacement for displacement.

Mrs. Curmudgeon’s car, which was never intended to be a bike hauler anyway, got older and more worn. There were breakdowns. Tow trucks were summoned. Expensive parts were replaced. One time, it spent six weeks in a stealership’s repair lot. (Someone stole random shit from the back seat. Covid isn’t the only sign of a suffering society.) It has rust. It has rattles. Sometimes the drivetrain shimmies. It burns oil; more than you can ignore. Sometimes the check engine light is on, sometimes it’s off.

Don’t spam me with comments about what I ought to fix. The car is shot. Expensive rescue efforts would be unwise. It’s at the end of its lifespan. Also we got a quarter million miles out of it. No regrets, it was a good car. I’ve been predicting its imminent death for a while now.

I humbly think new cars are overregulated shit. But Mrs. Curmudgeon needed something  reliable. She chose from among the shit that’s for sale. It’s a pretty nice ride. I doubt it’ll run 250,000+ miles like it’s predecessor but I could be wrong. (Wouldn’t that be awesome!)

I never “trade in” my cars. If it’s a good car I’ll sell it for cash. If it’s a rustbucket nobody would buy, I keep it as a “backup”. I’ll run it until it collapses. Why not? Anything that gets you down the road is worth keeping.

Repeat the survivalist mantra “two is one and one is none”. The old car is now a “spare”.

Mrs. Curmudgeon and I talked it over. “The old car is still valuable.” I said. “Drive it when it’s icy so you won’t risk damaging the expensive new car.” Mrs. Curmudgeon agreed. “We should run it once a week, just to keep the battery charged and so forth.”

Mrs. Curmudgeon was in complete agreement. “It’s been a good car and I still love it.”

Nope! As soon as a new car was in the driveway, Mrs. Curmudgeon forgot the old one existed.

I can’t really blame her. New cars are fun!

Joking about complete rejection I named the old car “Jilted Girlfriend” and took it upon myself to keep her alive. I drive it once a week. I have to admit, it’s pretty shot. It’s low on power and sounds like it’s going to implode. It sucks having to check the oil every time I start it. I avoid taking it further than the grocery store.

Recently, I planned to trailer my dirtbike for an autumn camping trip. My truck would be the tow vehicle. My last good adventure was in Wyoming, before I got sick; just shy of 2 years ago. This was my one shot in 2026. It’ll be winter soon.

I “serviced” the bike. Mostly washing off Wyoming mud, doing an oil change, and tensioning the stretched chain. It’s an obsolete machine (which I love). It has a lot less shit to break. I’ll never have to flash firmware on the carbureted dinosaur. The motorcycle trailer, unused since I returned from Wyoming, had lost one marker light. That’s not too bad given I hadn’t used it in two years.

A week before I meant to head out, the truck’s brakes flaked. They’re fixable but sketchy. I elected to cancel the trip. Bummer.

Then something else happened. Mrs. Curmudgeon got a horrible toothache. This worried me very much. It sucked. It was dramatic and stressful and sad. Nobody wants their wife suffering! Alas, I cannot fix teeth. I did what I could with soup and tea and trying to be nice but it pales in comparison to tooth pain. (It would’ve been a good time to have a fluffy cat around. The cat’s dead. That didn’t help things.)

It’s possible to care deeply and also think it’s a good idea to bug out. The trip was back on!

Since the truck can’t stop properly… I chose Jilted Girlfriend. She would save me!

Mrs. Curmudgeon, who is a peach, encouraged me to go. She handed me the 5 quart jug of oil that goes with Jilted Girlfriend and practically pushed me out the door. She was on a steady diet of painkillers and misery. There would be no joy that weekend. I might as well be somewhere else. She promised me she wouldn’t be mad and indeed, she wasn’t. My wife is awesome!

I drove Jilted Girlfriend gently, like a grenade with the pin pulled. I drove well below the speed limit to keep whatever was making the drivetrain shimmy to a minimum. I avoided hills. I stayed on flat boring paved secondary roads with no traffic. I checked the oil a lot. One time it wouldn’t turn over but on the second try it fired up. (Probably just a loose battery cable.)

Here’s the funny part, I had an entire motorcycle with me. Talk about a good backup plan!

I’m returning to my roots. I started life limping around in completely shot vehicles. Now I’m limping around in a completely shot vehicle.

Life goes in circles, but it also gets better. Years ago a breakdown was a fiscal death sentence. Now it’s a “spare car”. If it dies I’ll have it towed to a junkyard and that’s all. Back then I’d have to hike out of the woods if a car died. Now I have a motorcycle.

A.C.

P.S. I returned from camping and I drove Mrs. Curmudgeon to her long anticipated dentist appointment. We drove in the new car, with heated seats and everything. The dentist did whatever voodoo they do and it worked. Mrs. Curmudgeon is once again her regular cheerful self. I’m glad she’s back!

Two months ago I posted about my (still unpublished) novel, Attack of the Lesbian Activist Squirrels.

Attack of the Lesbian Activist Squirrels is inching toward both a print and a dead tree copy. (I’m not sure about hardcover but maybe.) If things are slow it’s because I suck as a publishing agent.

Time for another update.

I still suck as a publishing agent. That’s your update. I’m flat out terrible at it. The book is still a draft. I still want to publish it. But I’m still naught but an “aspiring” author. How embarrassing!

Regardless, don’t give up on me. I’m diligently moving forward. I’m making actual progress. It’s just slow. Maybe I had unrealistic expectations about timing? Even if I’m moving like a sloth climbing Everest I’ll get there.

If you’re interested in “inside baseball” here’s what’s happening.

Since the last post I’ve created a marketing site (you can’t see it yet, it’s not ready for “primetime”). I also created a business bank account. They need each other like peanut butter needs jelly. I inadvertently let it turn into a chicken and egg thing.

But, I finally sorted it. I could never get the  WooCommerce plugin to WordPress running here. In the other environment, it does work. I have a web shopping cart; finally!

I’m never sure what works and what doesn’t on my computers. I keep “looking at” a site and it finds cookies from somewhere and says “Hi boss, would you like to see the backend and have no idea what the customer sees”? I’m sure an IT pro would handle this well, but I don’t.

Don’t let AI blackpillers get to you, a great deal of the internet is cluelessly, densely, illogically, stupid. Skynet ain’t here yet.

I thought I might have to “air gap” a computer just for testing? Instead my wife bravely “volunteered” to be a crash test dummy. She used her hardware, went to the page, clicked on a link, made a “test purchase” through the “shopping cart”, fed it credit card info, and we prayed it wasn’t all going to explode.

To my delight, I got an e-mail. “Some customer named Mrs. Curmudgeon has ordered a thing. Ship to the (fake) address Mrs. Curmudgeon typed in. DO IT NOW!”

The bank transaction also worked. I’d just about given up hope I’d ever configure that properly. I almost died with joy when it functioned.

2026 is weird. We wound up taking ten bucks out of one bank (the “cost” of Mrs. Curmudgeon’s fake order) and being delighted (almost shocked) when it arrived (less fees) in another bank (A.C.’s business account). Of course, there were banking fees, because there are always fees. But at least it worked.

That it works is the good news. The bad news is it’s still ugly. It’s tied up in some sort of AI interface that is clearly designed by cyborg crackheads. I can’t figure out how to modify it effectively and the whole thing looks like ass. Actually, it’s not unbearably ugly, it’s just out of my control. It also looks exactly like every other e-commerce site out there. Have you ever wondered why everything looks like it’s selling yoga classes or scented soap? It’s because that’s what the AI / interface thing assumes.

All those online stores. Do they know an easier way? Am I missing something? This is what it’s like dealing with my e-commerce / WordPress / WooCommerce / AI / voodoo interface:

My next planned step was to put my sawhorse rigs and jigs up, just to have something live and know it’s working. I haven’t gotten it to fly yet. You can’t imagine how hard the interface is making it.

For one thing, I can’t figure out how to add shipping. Why is shipping hard? It would seem like shipping is a basic necessary step to selling any physical object on planet earth. But what do I know?

A whole different part of the process is the infrastructure behind e-book. I setup an Amazon KDP account. Amazon went berserk trying to get its fangs in our household Prime site. I was like “woah there, this is an author thing”. It was “All hail Prime. Bow before your Master!”

I tried reasoning and begging and clicking lots of buttons. Eventually I sorted it out. All it took was many additional passwords and logins and two party authorizations and ID checks and probably there are some things I still haven’t set correctly. Just when I’d decided to give up and live in a tree stump as a hermit, it figured out what I wanted. “Hi, I’m Clippy, would you like me to ask you tax questions until you jump off a cliff?”

It wasn’t really Clippy. It was worse.

That said, I think I got it figured out, unless I didn’t.

Beyond all this, there’s the ISBN. Amazon will provide an ISBN but then it’s Amazon’s. The POD (print on demand) people are similar but then it’s theirs.

I want my own. This either wisdom or me being paranoid. (¿Por qué no los dos?) This is a one time expense. As far as I know, once an ISBN is tied to a book it’s tied to it forever.

ISBN’s aren’t free but they’re not insanely expensive. But I’m afraid I’ll “buy it”, click some form wrong, and then it’ll be forever tied to a grocery list or something. Also, I ran out of scratch. This month has included a lot of bills; dentistry, a tragic veterinarian expense, and brakes for my truck. (I’m prefer trucks that stop when you press the pedal.) So there will be a brief pause while I “save up”.

I hope you enjoyed a glimpse of the bizarre interlocking circular firing squad of digital entities that must be configured before a single book is sold. Don’t give up on me. I’ll Don Quixote my way through this thing yet.

It will be on dead tree. It will be on e-book. (Assuming Amazon doesn’t freak out on me.)

It will happen. Just slowly.

Thanks for your patience.

A.C.

P.S. In retrospect, if I ever do something like this again, I might buy an entire new cell phone with it’s own phone number. Everything wants to run via cell phone. Everything interlocks with everything else so my pre-existing blog keeps turning into a complication. Since a phone turns into your identity, would a separate phone help? I’ve never heard of anyone doing it that way but a true IT person probably knows things that I just don’t. It’s a theory at least.

I don’t spend all my time 3d printing. Sometimes I actually go camping!

After a rough start the night before the weather turned sunny. I had a wonderful breakfast.

My Stanley pot (on the right) has two nesting cups (in the center). Within the nested cups I have two 3d printed containers (center bottom). This time I tested their capacity for holding coffee grounds. The larger of the two has just the right volume for a percolated pot of perfect strength. The smaller is a wee bit light; still tasty but not perfect. Windy conditions made my Coleman burner flame up. The outside of my camp pots are coated with soap to make washing them easier.

In a tragic disaster, I flipped my frying pan and dumped bacon on the dirt. Tragedy! I thought long and hard about how to save the bacon… but dirt won. Luckily I had plenty of bacon to make a recovery batch.

When I don’t have toast I break the yolks and make “over hard” eggs. Also note the sweet little salt and pepper shaker I 3d printed (upper left). It’s tiny and works great.

My wife got me a carved wood spoon. For the longest time I thought it was frivolous, but I’ve since realized it’s perfect. It never gets hot like metal or melts like plastic. For car camping it’s just perfect.

There can be nothing happier than bacon and eggs with all the coffee a man could want. Heaven doesn’t have to be expensive.

Back at home I made four little single egg carriers to replace the dozen egg carrier that’s just too damn big for one guy. Original is on the left, subsequent tweaks by your’s truly as you proceed to the right. The little egg crates look goofy but I suspect they’ll serve my purposes well. I think I can just toss four eggs at random into a cooler and they’ll take less space. They’ll fight for space amid the ice and beer and find their own most efficient place to be. If it fails and an egg breaks I’ll try something else, but so far I think I could put an egg in one of those cases and hurl it off a cliff and the egg would be fine.

This is the story of the most “first world problem” of any possible problems. I couldn’t find my 6 count egg carrier to go camping. I know… it’s a big deal right?

Later on, as I was driving down the road I started to wonder… did I ever own a 6 count carrier? It’s not something I fret over. Maybe I’m misremembering.

Anyway, the only egg carrier I could find carries a dozen; absurd for a solo guy like me. I only wanted 4 eggs, I carried 6 because the damn thing looked too empty. My small cooler couldn’t hold the carrier so I stuffed it in a Milwaukee Packout with my stinky muddy motorcycle boots.

In case you’re wondering… breakfast was fine. Stinky motorcycle boots won’t mess up your breakfast if it’s chilly out and it’s a short trip.

However, I should do better. Am I not an Adaptive Curmudgeon?

Here’s what I started with. (Link to Amazon. The one I own is a million years old but they’re all the same.)

I needed something strong so I could toss it in a cooler with ice and beer and stuff. It should roll around like it was in armor. I spent forever trying to decide if I wanted 2 eggs or 4 or what.

Finally I remembered I live in the future. I’m a big bad 3d printing nerd! I can have whatever the hell I want. The most flexible arrangement was 1 egg per “case” and multiples of the single case.

I found a model on-line and started printing. Note: The licensing is such that I can’t sell the design, even if I modify it (which I did because nerds have to tweak everything). If you want your own and have a 3d printer go here. The guy who made the design would probably love a few more hits.

It looks a little goofy but it’s a lot smaller than the big crate.

Delightfully, it really is a single egg fortress. I don’t have the right equipment to stress test it. Ideally I’d put an egg in one, hand it to a toddler, and say “carry this to the swing set and back”. Knowing toddlers they’d test the livin’ shit out of it. Even so, it seems excellent. Eight flexible arms on top and bottom cradle the egg. You could probably chuck it off a cliff.

However, I wasn’t satisfied. This is the bottom of one half. The flattish object is called a “raft”. It’s designed to keep the rounded bottom adhered to the print plate. I didn’t like it.

Also the bottom 6mm or so of each half starts narrow and moves wide. This is called “overhang”. 3d printers aren’t great at overhang. Thus, the bottom of the print looks lame. (Still functional, just a little funky.)

Also, every layer of a 3d print has to start somewhere on the perimeter of the object. This is called “seam”. Here the seams are “aligned” and you get that vertical line. It’s merely cosmetic but I wondered if “random” seams would diffuse that line.

The last thing was that they’re hard to grip. It’s an egg shape after all. If I just fished it out of ice water (maybe with numb fingers while winter camping) could I grip it tight enough to twist?

I decided to innovate. In the Bambustudio “slicer” software I created what’s called a “primitive”. Just a geometric shape. I made a flattish square the exact size of the “overhang”. I planned to merge this with the original part so I’d have no overhang and also a nice flat space to grip with my fingertips.

This might fill some of the area necessary for the egg’s volume. So, I added a small cylindrical void into the square. Just enough for the hypothetical tip of the egg. When, I merged the “primitive” with the original part it looked great.

I printed one half with “random” seam and one half with “aligned” seam and compared the two. Both came out pretty good but “aligned” looks better. I also really like my “grip” for twisting them together.

The last step is to switch to a better color. Black looks like I’m making a giant deer turd! (Not that I’ll throw out the two variants I already made.)

By my calculation it’s a fair deal. The oversized egg crate on Amazon is like $9 to hold a dozen eggs. That’s $0.75 per egg.

I’m printing them at $0.60 for each individual locking egg fortress. I’ll send photos of the finished produce when I get a chance.

It’s not like I’m curing cancer, but I’m having fun.

A.C.

P.S. My dumb little “grip” on the top and bottom of the egg fortress gives it a nice flat spot to rest on a tabletop! A fortuitous feature!

The fall leaves are gorgeous. I’m going off line for a couple days to enjoy them. I’ll post again when I get back.

Your story, the unpredictable life you’re living right now, has a beginning, middle, and end. A good story may (must!) go off on occasional side quests. The side story isn’t a distraction. It complements the overall whole even if it has a purpose all its own.

What the hell am I talking about? In real life I tried a simple, easy, endurance challenge. All was well until bad weather and an emotional loss torpedoed me below the waterline. I rode it out; exhausted and uncomfortable, tossing and turning, with noisy persistent rain hammering at my squishy wet tent. In this way I mourned my cat.

It’s just a cat. I say that to myself and it’s true. Yet, I’m only human and we humans love our animals. I couldn’t stoically shrug it off. I’m not sure I’d like to be capable of that.

Here’s the backstory, should you be inclined to read it.

• A Bad Morning
• Goodbye Friend
• Getting Up Off The Mat
• Enjoying The Campfire

Life goes on. I did what I could. I’d gotten some sleep despite the noisy rain. I’d taken decent care of myself. I’d cooked dinner on my campstove. After sunset it stopped raining.

Eventually, I was dry-ish, properly fed, somewhat rested, and sitting by a fire. A low rent Dante Alighieri, I’d made it to the other side.

The night was unusually dark and dismal. I put my lantern on low and rested in the tiny circle of light around the fire. It anchored me in a foggy forest and, metaphysically, a vast universe.

I felt OK. And that’s good enough.

Then the owls came.

Lets talk about owls. No… lets talk about the soul.

Is there a spiritual world? It doesn’t matter what’s out there. There’s one in your mind. You’re human, if there is one you’ll detect it! If there isn’t one you’ll call it into being.

We overclocked apes, homo sapiens, can and must think as built. We understand trajectory, we “get” time, we’re great at making tools, and we wonder what it all means. You don’t have a choice in the matter. You can claim to be a creature of pure logic and reason. You can also put on a fur hat and call yourself a badger.

So there it is. We’re hard wired to experience the spiritual simply by existing. Speaking for myself, I embrace it. Most modern people hate the whole thing. They carefully avoid the merest opportunity to brush against greater truths. People surf social media while taking a shit, lest they have time to think. It’s almost like they fear the inner peace one might develop given minimal self-reflection during a six minute dump.

Enough with the sarcasm. I go to the woods intending to put my mind in order and (ideally) strengthen the soul. I go alone, that’s a heady draught. Facing the universe on its own terms is not easy. But I do dumb shit all the time so it’s fine.

There was nobody around. It was dark as a cave and dead silent.

Then the owls started calling.

I’ve heard owls before. The sound is objectively pretty. It’s also otherworldly. If an owl doesn’t occasionally give you the heebie-jeebies you’re a robot. They’re creepy critters in the best of times. Harbinger of death and all that.

If you’re not familiar with various superstitions about owls, you won’t get it from your Google search. Sit solo on a log in the dark. Stay there until the owls explain it to you. You’ll get it then. Don’t laugh. When’s the last time you meditated on things, silent and alone, unsheltered in nature, in the dark?

Anyway, I don’t fret about the harbinger of death thing. I already know I’m going to die. Nor do I consider the spiritual realm malevolent. But…

The owls surprised me.

At first I heard a single owl species. There was definitely more than one individual. Quite a lot in fact. Taken by itself, it was no big deal.

I didn’t recognize them but I’m not an owl expert. It was just a species unfamiliar to me. Plain “normal owl sounds” with a weird dialect. I wasn’t gross screeching like a barn owl. Nor screech owls (which ironically don’t screech like barn owls). Also, the sound wasn’t as slick and mellow as a great horned owl. Great horned owls are the B. B. King of owls; making exactly the right note, never hurried, always chill.

Whatever I was hearing, they were more numerous than any hooting I’d heard before.

“Nothing too weird about that, just a species of owl that sounds a bit off to my untrained ears. Back to brooding about the nature of the universe.”

So I brooded. Owls have a unique vibe. It’s like they know shit you don’t. I listen carefully; as if I’d understand if I’d just concentrate harder. What would owls tell me that my dense human brain has missed?

I like to hike in the dark and I like to listen to owls. Unfortunately, this night was absurdly gloomy. I couldn’t make it ten feet without light.

I picked up my lantern and shuffled uneasily down a dirt road. It sucked. I kept stumbling. Puddles from the many hours of rain soaked my feet. My lantern was oddly ineffective. My sense of scale was a mess. Was the impenetrable gloom right above me? Fog in the treetops. Or was it far higher? If felt too dank and oppressive to be clouds. My beloved stars were walled off and I resented that.

I started thinking of the ecliptic plane; the flat plane on which the earth and the other planets rotate around the sun. There’s a reason why planets rotate on a shared plane. I don’t know that reason. Nobody thinks about “above” and “below” the plane.

Above me right now, owls were making themselves known; just like I don’t when hunting from a tree stand. I’ve watched deer being incredibly cautious yet completely miss my presence if I’m above their horizon. To them, things above the horizon just don’t exist. Most humans are just as blinkered.

“The axis of our mind is blind to that which is above our ecliptic plane.”

Is that what the owls were saying? I sighed. It was probably a dumb idea. I was missing the point. I don’t buy that harbinger of death thing but I’m open to the idea that there’s an understanding I don’t yet have. Maybe someday I’ll figure it out. Buddha sat under a fig and became enlightened. Newton sat under an apple and came up with calculus. Who am I to wander around the dark forest only to chicken out when the forest spoke aloud?

But I chickened out. My feet were wet. I couldn’t see a damn thing. And I was too sad to go on a spiritual journey. Some things should happen only when you’re feeling optimistic. Cooper scampered into the black lodge without forethought because he let curiosity overcome intellect. I’m just sayin’.

I felt apologetic to nature itself. Whatever I was supposed to learn, I didn’t. As cheeky penance, I composed a haiku.

In the night, owls call.
Join us. See life as we do.
I do not respond.

I was willing to think all the way to ecliptic plane but no further.

On cue, as if I’d personally pissed off the universe, all hell broke loose! Subtle and eerie sounds of normal owls was pushed aside by an unexpected “primate-like” cacophony. It’s North America, we don’t have fuckin’ orangutans!

I tried to sort it out. The first owls kept calling. I guessed they refused to cede territory. Aggressive “primate-like” sounds battled with the gentler “owl hoots”. It wasn’t any night sound I’m used to. Not the long wail of a loon. Not the yip of a coyote. Not the oddly sonic effect of a drumming grouse. Not the commanding howl of a wolf.

Whatever it was, it built up into a heck of a crescendo. I guessed that two species of owl had encountered each other. They sounded pissed off.

At some point you’ve pondered all the creepy owl shit you care to. I stopped parsing sounds.

“Who knows what just happened? For all I know space aliens just captured sasquatch. Only Scooby Doo can solve this case”.

Fuck it. I’m out!

I dumped water on the fire and turned off my lantern. I tripped trying to find the tent in pitch black and was briefly confused by the zipper.

Resigned to deliberately ignoring the damn owls, I climbed into my cot. I was more tired than I knew. I fell asleep almost instantly.

A.C.

Epilogue: I mentioned “there was freaky owl shit going down” and a reader commented about barred owls. He was spot on! That’s what I heard. If you wish to reject my navel gazing as merely “barred owls make bizarre sounds”, have at it.

Here’s a link cued it up to a barred owl’s sound. The narrator even says “the primate-like sounds sometimes freak people out”. Yes, it does!

Here’s some more barred owl recordings.

I just dug a hole and buried my cat. There are worse things but it sucks nonetheless. I’m going to skip blogging for a day or two.

I meant to replace a road trip with it’s expensive corporate hotel into an experimental “overnight drive” and happy solo campout. I’d done what I intended. I’d been exhausted but “caught up” on sleep. I partially recovered from the shock of the cat. (The cat had nothing to do with this particular trip. And the brutal rain was just bad luck.)

I was determined to stop moping. Buck up little camper.

My night didn’t start well. It was very cloudy. Super dark. Cavelike. I couldn’t see a damn thing.

I’ve used a cool Smith and Wesson flashlight for years. It failed me. I has dual parallel light circuits. Sadly, both circuits use the same batteries. The user, me, had failed to check them.

The flashlight was hot shit when I bought it but now it’s obsolete. The good news is old school non-rechargeable batteries can be swapped in seconds. Better news is the holster carries a spare set of batteries.

Operating by feel only, I swapped the batteries. How awesome am I? Not very! The replacement batteries were stale. The light was weak. Note to self: check your gear once in a while.

In the fading light I hurriedly tried to ignite my Coleman lantern. Unfortunately, the mantles were broke. Really?!?

Mrs. Curmudgeon had an emergency deer stop while the lantern was rolling around in the car (in its case). I hadn’t checked the mantles.

I’d stashed a spare pack of two mantles in the carrying case. Operating half by feel, I tied on the mantles. I lit them to burn them (part of installation) and fired up the lantern. Behold! Light!

It was like fresh air to a SCUBA diver on a depleted tank! The light made everything better.

A few minutes later the flashlight died for good. Close call! (I still had the car’s headlights as a last ditch option.)

I lit a fire. It might drive off some moisture, everything was soaked, including me. More importantly, I wanted to warm my heart. I wasn’t sure about my heart. I only had one pack of wood. One pack wasn’t enough. I’d need a lot of fire to cheer myself up. Honestly, I needed to be hugged by a bucket of puppies.

The fire eventually caught. It was magic as fire always is. I began feeling chipper.

A few RVs rolled past. I was glad I’d worked out reservations and would have no territorial disputes. Aside from that the campground was mostly empty and very extremely quiet.

Looking at the low fire, I wanted more. I zoomed to the park entrance to pick up another pack of wood. There had been a whole bunch when I bought the first package. They were all gone. The RVs must have cleaned them out.

On the way back to camp, I stopped at a winter warming hut and raided the woodbox. Rain and darkness had pushed me to a life of crime. (Don’t get your undies in a wad, I paid for a bundle and asked them toss it into the warming hut woodbox when I left.)

The night got increasingly, bizarrely, oppressively dark. Y’all are chuckling “no shit, it’s always dark at night” but that’s oversimplifying. There’s a whole spectrum of night one only understands if they experience it. I can function fine in “full moon reflecting on fresh snow” and usually get by with “partly cloudy”. But this night was “too dark to piss and know you’re not facing the tent”.

The moon was behind thick clouds. Occasionally they thinned and the sky dimly glowed, which made it seem perversely darker when the glow inevitably faded.

For once, I stayed within the radius of my lantern.

Dinner was comfort food. Mountain House chili & mac. I enjoyed my newly 3d printed salt and pepper shaker. I planned to make hot cocoa but switched to a room temp water bottle with a Crystal Light packet. I’ve made the same meal in the remotest places I’ve been.

I balanced my Linux-ed Microsoft Tablet on a t-shirt on the picnic table. By lantern light, I typed the first post of this series. Exorcising demons I guess.

Then, the pièce de résistance of a great night, literature! I got out a small speaker and listened to the final chapters of Dog Logic. It was perfect!

(I highly recommend Tom Strelich’s book Dog Logic. It’s gentle and sweet. It’s got the best example of “unreliable narrator” I’ve ever encountered! It’s a little dark. It’s funny. It’s not woke. It’s not frantic. It’s miles above our debased modern world of spastic capeshit fiction. I’d put it up there with Terry Pratchett, which is really saying something.

Another treat, this is one of the rare times the audiobook was so well produced I recommend it over the book. Of course, when I listen to an audiobook it’s in a dark lonely forest by a dim fire. I get the full dose of the experience. If you’re listening in earbuds while taking a dump before work… you get the experience you created for yourself. I’m just sayin’.

Finally, I’ve only read/listened to the first of the series. Please don’t comment with spoilers.)

All in all, everything was perfect. The fire danced merrily. The literature had been enthralling. The very deep night was kept at bay by the lantern, but just barely. I was well fed. I was drying out and feeling human again.

I felt the strength of nature filling me. It was good.

That was when a final interesting thing happened; a new “camp critter”.

It’s my theory that every campground (or really any camping place that’s heavily used) has one dominant form of critter. Often, it’s a garbage seeker attracted by generations of Dorito eating recreationalists. Other times it’s chance.

Most of this summer I’ve camped at a place overrun with raccoons. I know another place that has gophers. Back in the day I stayed at a place with lots of dump bears. I know a place with “camp robbers”. (That’s a northern/Canadian variant of a plain old blue jay. Camp robbers live up to their name.) It’s always something; chipmunks, spiders, you name it. One thing always takes over.

This place looked like it was mosquito hell in summer. I’d missed them by camping after the freeze. That must have been the “campground mascot animal”.

Wrong!

An owl started hooting. Then others. More joined in. Two or possibly three different species? Multiples of each type of call. I’ve never heard so many friggin’ owls!

I’m not an easily spooked dude. But I’m only human. I mean… how many owls can you hear from the impenetrable forest on a dark, still, oppressive, humid, night? Try it sometime. Make sure you’re alone, wet, road tired, and your cat died at dawn. Nobody’s as stoic as they think they are!

I didn’t crap myself or run screaming or lock myself in the car. I just rode it out. The owls made the night Scooby Doo scary. I tossed another log on the fire (stealing that wood was worth it!) and hunched closer.

Stay tuned for things that happen in your head when you hear too many owls…

There I was…  exhausted, in a car, engine off, in a downpour, grieving my dead cat. Nowhere to go, no idea how go there, and no spirit to anything about it. These things happen.

I don’t know how long I sat there. Eventually my iPad lit up. Earlier I’d tried to use my phone as a WiFi hotspot in conjunction with an iPad to find and claim an unreserved campsite. Cell service was spotty so it didn’t work… until it did.

A campsite not far away was unreserved! Nobody could evict me; so long as I reserved it right away. I drove through the rain to the site. Normally I’d call Mrs. Curmudgeon to lock it down. It’s a simple matter from her more civilized internet situation. Not this morning. She was even more distraught than I. Best leave her to her grief.

I tried to change my reservation. The connection failed. The page crashed.

I’d borrowed Mrs. Curmudgeon’s vehicle and it had an SUV-ish hatchback space. It would have space to sleep if I hadn’t stuffed it full of camping gear. Could I toss all my crap onto the picnic table, cover it with a tarp to keep it dry, and sleep best I could in the car? Nope. Note to self: next time bring a tarp.

I started rearranging camping gear inside the car. I hoped to make space for myself. It didn’t work and I completely scrambled all of my gear.

The iPad pinged. The transaction had gone through. I didn’t even know it was still trying!

I was no longer squatting. Greenlight to setup my tent! Some tents can be erected during rain and still be dry inside. Mine is not one of them. It’s strictly designed for “dry setup”. If only the rain would let up.

As if on queue, the rain stopped. Thank you God! In a big rush I pitched the tent and assembled cot, mattress, sleeping bag, little stand for the CPAP, the CPAP itself, and the battery to run the CPAP. I even folded out my backpacking pillow.

It was unseasonably warm and the air was super humid. I was tired and coated in sweat. A hotel sure would have been easier. I flopped on the cot.

A minute later the rain returned. I closed my eyes. My very long day was over.

It would have been cool if I’d slept well. I didn’t.

Over and over I’d drift off. Each time I’d feel the feather light touch of our cat hopping onto my cot. I’d reach down to pet him and remember all over again. The little guy was dead and I felt the loss fresh and raw each time. Four hours passed. I gave up “resting”.

Campground showers look like the set of a creepy prison movie. They’re nothing like your house. Weird plumbing fittings project through cement block walls. You stand on wet concrete that’s probably a vector for every disease known to man. Woe be to the fool who forgets his shower slippers! The water cannot be adjusted and it’s barely warm enough to be “not too cold”. Did I mention the spiders?

This time things weren’t half bad. The place was ugly but clean. No spiders. The water had good pressure and (what an awesome blessing!) it was nice and hot. Proper hygiene made me feel more human.

After that, I drove through the rain looking for a nice coffee shop. That would salvage my mood. I’d buy a stupidly expensive latte and lose my worries doomscrolling on free WiFi.

What luck! I found a modern building with easy access and great parking. It was surely a coffee shop. Nope; it was a pot dispensary. Dispensaries are one of the weirdest things about living in the future. I had to listen to a lifetime of hippies and libertarians bitching about dope; including all sorts of stuff about hemp rope and how pot cured whatever ailment they imagined. Then, the whole thing flipped. It emerged legal (where it is legal) in the least hippie/libertarian way possible. From a distance, it looks like a creepy blend of Government regulatory capture and potheads simply delighted to do what the man tells them. I didn’t foresee firebreathing libertarians (many but not all) turning boring at the first legal puff.

How is “dispensary” even a word? It’s dope! Folks don’t buy Jim Beam at an “apothecary”.

I drove on, frustrated at the lack of Starbucks or anything similar. (Yes, I see the dual standard. Caffeine is a thing… but I don’t get coffee at “dispensaries” either.)

I turned the corner and bumped into a place with a security perimeter appropriate for a nuclear reactor. WTF? It was a pot growing facility; presumably(?) associated with the structure I’d seen nearby. (I’m not sure what it was really. Do they actually grow a plant? I have no idea how a plant becomes gummies or whatnot. Nor can I articulate the difference between a “dispensary”, pre-packaged shit they sell at the diesel register in truck stops, and Cheech and Chong.) All I know is it was ultra secure. I’ve seen military installations with less.

Eventually, I wound up at a casino. It was the only thing around.

Gambling at noon on a Thursday. If you’re searching for winners in the game of life, that’s not where you’d look.

I didn’t belong. I seemed to freak people out. I meant to be unobtrusive but the crowd of gambling geezers sighted me at a distance and parted like the Red Sea.

Not wishing to be rude, I strode quickly through; which made me look closer to RoboCop than anyone else in the building. I ignored rows of dipshit arcade consoles. Not real arcade games; where you use dexterity, memorization, or problem solving to reach higher levels. This was senseless blinking, blathering, noisy, machines. It’s a room full of reverse ATMs; a system intended to slowly digest Social Security checks. And for what? Usually just ephemeral images on a screen.

Just like I don’t care about pot, I’ve got no problem with gambling; but both more as an idea of freedom than the lame ass state of their realization. Especially on the day my cat died, everything seemed alien and strange.

At least I’d found a roof and WiFi. I ordered food and wondered if my outfit caused the stir. I was wearing boots and a hefty camo rain jacket. I also had a tactical daypack slung over my shoulder. (It carried nothing but a Linux-ed tablet and a paperback.) Or my size. I’m not Jack Reacher but I was a foot taller than everyone. Healthier too. A freshly washed, thoroughly soaked, grieving, bearded outdoorsman in that room was Paul Bunyan visiting a kindergarten.

The meal was cheap and tasted cheap.

Back at camp, I slept some more. Ghost cats didn’t visit me. It continued to rain.

After sunset the rain stopped. I crawled out of my tent. I wasn’t properly rested but felt a whole lot better. Maybe it was rest. Maybe it was getting over the cat. Maybe I’d had enough of being rained on. Who knows?

I camp because it makes me happy. I hadn’t yet been happy. Time to turn this shit around…