Adaptive Curmudgeon

Well that sucked. A notable accomplishment is tarnished. Future options are reduced. A thing which brought me hope and joy is frayed and beaten. The optimism and strength I gained from that thing is depleted. A harvest of contentment and peace brought about by earnest endeavor and sincere building fades. It will snow soon. Winter, the season of death, is almost upon me. The best I can do is hunker down and ride it out.

What? Mid-term election wave? Who gives a shit? I’m talking about my boat!

I’m hamming it up, but I do have a point. I built a boat. I heartily recommend the powerful high that is the construction of one’s own boat. It’s a small and simple boat, but it sailed true and it was glorious. It lifted my heart. I got to be everything a man should want to be. I was Tom Sawyer, Jack Sparrow, Jack Abrey, Bernard Moitessier, and a goofy blogger in a floating plywood box. Life is grand!

Note: In my Quixotic prep work to sell my book I nuked my Amazon associates account. I sometimes link to Amazon to illustrate some thing I’ve mentioned. I intended my list of “boat guys” to have links. I would’ve linked to the following:

• The book by Mark Twain you either read or should have.
• Movies with Johnny Depp that you couldn’t avoid.
• The captain from Master and Commander. One of the best stories ever!
• A side character in the non-fiction “A Voyage for Madmen”. The real life absolute badass who walked off in mid-win of a planet-sized race “because I am happy at sea and perhaps to save my soul”.
• Yours truly, who hasn’t published his book yet.

So… what happened? The starting point was that I made a boat. If you’re wondering if you ought to build a boat, you probably should. I made the boat less to have a boat than to make a thing which would test itself (and me) against the real world.

Well before humanity shit its pants in 2020 there were harbingers of its inner torment. Madness eroding the whole of society made me tired and depressed. I sought refuge from the falseness of fake living. A boat cannot lie. It will sail, or it will sink. There is no “try”, only “do”.

No amount of meetings or credentials will make a boat. A dozen Powerpoint slides won’t change a thing that leaks into a thing that doesn’t. This is probably why our Navy has so many issues making them. (See also: Light Rail in California, NASA sitting on it’s ass since the Shuttle was retired, every economic theory you’ve heard from a college professor, all statements in every Zoom meeting, whatever the HR harpies are saying this week.)

The build took me forever. I refused to mention my endeavor on my blog until after it was already sailing. I feared people would mock the silly little craft.

Then I saw it differently. I mentioned it to encourage others. If you’re in social doldrums, consider building your own ladder out of the pit. Sick of meetings? Good! All the meetings in the world mean nothing. Your boat floats or it does not. This is reality. Reality is where you ought to spend most of your time.

To my surprise and delight y’all loved the stories and pictures. It brought me a lot of happiness. It taught me things I should’ve already known.

First of all, and I cannot overemphasize how important this is, it proved every naysayer wrong. In real life I got no end of people trying to erode my confidence. A small boat ain’t rocket science but think how avidly people discourage innovation. Neandertals made boats, modern dweebs fear to own a hammer! Normal guys once built fishing rowboats in their garage. It wasn’t a political statement; it was a way to catch a bass.

Times have changed, the workplace especially has evolved into the habitat of Eloi. I was warned I’d die for sure. Nobody thinks you’re weird to finance a $20k bass boat. They cluck like hens when I fiberglass a $50 construct of plywood. They really do fear and hate that some dude might do what they themselves cannot.

With the exception of family and online boat building resources, I got no help whatsoever. But it happened anyway. I built a boat. They did not. Fuck them all!

As Teddy Roosevelt said:

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena…”

A boat can be your arena.

Construction is just the first lesson. I had no idea how to sail.

The slogan “small boat = big adventure” isn’t trite. I did shit that’ll make your knees shake, but it was only scary because I was in an 8′ boat. The same waters in a 30′ boat is more about payments and slip rentals than mastering the elements.

Once, I sailed 7 miles to a tavern. Mrs. Curmudgeon was watching out the window. I began as a speck on the horizon. I pressed onward, tiny sail bravely harnessing the power of the sky itself. Eventually I beached and stepped onto land. I felt like a conquering hero. A couple complete strangers greeted me in congratulation. I slammed the anchor in the sand and drank the best beer a man has ever had.

It was just 7 miles, or it was a huge adventure. Take your pick.

But… life happened.

The boat hasn’t moved for years. It wasn’t just logistics, I had some health issues. I did OK this summer but not enough to play Jack Sparrow.

Reality is what reality is. The boat has been in the elements all this time. It’s only plywood and epoxy. It’s as mortal as I!

This summer I started working on a boat trailer. (My original trailer basically collapsed.) I never finished the boat trailer project.

The last two weeks, I switched gears. I cleared junk from my limited garage space. I threw out all sorts of heavy trash. All to squeeze that little plywood boat under cover. Then, with heavy heart, I flipped it over. I looked at what time and water had done to my plucky craft.

My analysis? The boat is battered but not destroyed. It’s no worse than I was a year ago. Like me, it can be repaired; like me it did take a hit. But, it’s a close call. This would’ve been its last winter.

I’ll have to sand and paint most of it. Possibly add fiberglass here and there. The “brightwork” can no longer be “wood”, it will now be paint. I’ll have to put on my thinking cap and handle a few spots of real damage. I will have to do surgery. A Japanese pull saw may be doing some amputations. It is what it is.

I built it. I can build it again.

God willing, the craft will be ready to sail next summer. Hopefully, so will I.

One last thing. For a brief time when the boat was new, I sailed in the presence of “real” boatbuilders. I was a tadpole amid sharks. They were real sailors. Their boats more complex than mine. But the great thing is they were very nice. They welcomed me to their hobby of madness.

What I learned is not what you think. People who build their own boats are absolute bad ass maniacs. They don’t cling to polished mahogany fittings. They stress masts and hammer daggerboards into the muck. They sail like they can’t wait to find out what will break first when they push it harder. They built the boat, they like building boats, damage is just an opportunity to have fun.

They sail like beings made of testosterone and physics.

I wanna’ be like them when I grow up!

Now you know my plan. Whether the boat hits spring shiny and smooth or a battle scarred Frankenstein’s monster slathered in epoxy… it hardly matters. I expect (hope) to feel healthy enough to sail it, so I’ll make it ready.

Last note; the boat wasn’t ignored because I was sitting on my ass. This summer I camped by motorcycle and by truck and even in my wife’s car. I experimented with CPAPs in tents. I ran around the forest on dirtbike and had a grouse dinner. I hiked often, cut some (not enough) firewood, and generally got all the exercise I could stand. A person must choose one path among many. I picked motorcycles over sail. Next year may be different.

A.C.

P.S. Next summer I hope I figure out the (*^)&&^*^* CPAP situation, what a PITA!

There I was, riding a dirtbike through the forest. I was happy as a clam. I had no idea where I was specifically but I had a general idea. That’s all I needed. The weather was ok and I had time to “find my location” before sunset. I had not a care in the world.

Plus I had a grouse stashed in my pocket for dinner!

Has any man been more blessed?

I sent out a SpotX message that I had a grouse. This was a bad idea.

During my peaceful wanderings I climbed a hill. It was just enough that I got cell service. A bunch of pent up texts beeped at me. Most were from my SpotX. (I send SpotX check ins to myself too, how else to know it works?)

A few texts were from Mrs. Curmudgeon. She had advice about how to cook my precious grouse. This makes sense, whenever I bring a bird home she takes over and cooks it. She has opinions about cooking. (Who doesn’t.) She really likes tinfoil and ovens. She will make a single grouse breast as if it were a miniature turkey; usually with rice or something. It tastes great so what do I know?

Anyway she told me the bird would be tough and dry. This I took personally. The grouse was fresh as possible. Perfect head shot. Why would it be tough?

She said I should soak it in something. I’m not a terrible cook, but I definitely cook more “primitively” than her. She’d implied the dark arts of “brine” or “marinade”. I was getting dizzy just thinking about it. Also, maybe she was thinking of squirrel (which is tough and absolutely benefits from being crammed in a bag with Worchester Sauce)… not that I had (or could spell) a bottle of the stuff. I only had the limited materials I’d brought and nothing more.

My idea was to go full caveman. I’d put the bird on a stick and cook it like a giant marshmallow.

I turned this over in my head as I rode down yet another delightful trail. It probably would turn into a cinder if I did it that way. Am I not an Adaptive soul? I’d think of something else.

I did have olive oil. I could brush it with oil. I also had salt and pepper. I also had a small firebox with a grill. I could brush the bird, season it, then put it on the grill over coals in the firebox; like a BBQ chicken. I didn’t have a brush for the oil. A paper towel might work?

I went back out of cell reception, which was good because this was worrying me.

I had further adventures which I’ll mention later. Then I pulled into camp just before sunset. I was very tired and it was quite chilly.

I’d received another text. Mrs. Curmudgeon suggested I boil it in beer. (Possibly simmer, I got confused?) Thus, keeping it “moist”. My only beer was Octoberfest, which seems like a bad thing to pair with gamebird as a marinade. And boiling? Like a stew? And why was my bird going to be tough? It was a great bird. The best!

I got out my folding firebox and started dealing with firewood. I was at a campground and it had been raining a lot. I had “bought” wood for the fire ring but that was big chunks. I also has some scraps of 2″x12″ planks. All too big to use in the little firebox. Should I go on an expedition to get wood of the proper size? It was dark and I was tired. It sounded like way too much work.

I eyed my three remaining beers. Should I sacrifice one?

I checked in with a friend who’s cooked more game than I. Couldn’t I just fry the bird in olive oil on my campstove? Is not a frying pan a perfectly acceptable solution?

He wrote back with wisdom. “Drink the beer. Fry the bird.”

Excellent. I decided to ignore my wife’s well meaning advice. She wasn’t there. Me and the bird and the beer were. The situation called for primitive cooking.

I cut the little breast into boneless pieces. Filleted? Is that the word? It wasn’t a fish.

I lit the campstove’s single burner, heated a tablespoon of oil, tossed in the smallest piece (test with the smallest piece!), and added salt and pepper from my cool little 3d printed shaker.

Perfect. Absolutely perfect. I gobbled up the tiny test piece like I’d never eaten before.

I cracked a beer and had it half done before the next piece was done. As before it was perfect.

I cooked the rest. I took a dozen photos of the silly little hunk of meat because I was so proud. Not only had I shot the bird but I’d avoided the pitfall of wasted beer. It was delicious.

One grouse ain’t enough for a full meal. I’d already stashed some sloppy Joe in my cooler. I heated that in the frying pan and wolfed it down too. It was great, but not as awesome as fresh gamebird.

After the meal I shoved my unused firebox aside and lit some wood in the fire ring. The wood that was too big for cooking was fine for warming my tired body. The beer went down smooth. I was sad when it was all gone.

I had a small limp from further adventures which I haven’t mentioned. It felt OK. I was sure it would work itself out eventually. In the flickering firelight I could see my super tough little dirtbike. I personify all sorts of shit. I think the bike was pleased. It had done well. I hadn’t fucked up. We’d had fun together.

What a great day!

Media, pollsters, “influencers” (whatever the hell that means), and other varieties of online spastic loons (including weird human-like beings which are all those things simultaneously) have been ranting “this is the most important election in the history of humankind”. It’s true… to them.

Not you. Them. It’s the whole world… to them.

The rest of us exist in the real world. We do things. We grow, we learn, we suffer, we love, we succeed, we make mistakes, we muddle through. We do all the things fully functioning adults do.

Every election will always be the most important election ever to people without depth. They derive their existence from others. The poor bastards! They’ve a great gaping void where depth, experience, and accomplishment should reside. They substitute political shenanigans for soul. No wonder they lose their shit every election.

That’s their problem, not ours. Sanity comes from better motivations. If you cling to validation from dipshits at a podium, your life will always suck. If you eat based on resources you didn’t honorably generate, you will always live in fear. We do not suffer like that. Sanity is ours to enjoy.

It’s probably a good thing if you vote. It’s none of my business if you don’t. You can guess how I vote but I didn’t exhort anyone to follow my lead. I won’t get pissed if you voted for Giant Douche instead of Turd Sandwich. I won’t even ask. I try to stick with motorcycles and grouse; because I can.

I voted. I went there in person, on the day, at the location appropriate for where I live. I had my ID, regardless of whether it was required. I always have my ID, most adults do.

I was wearing my “frightening to the coastal elite” uniform. A hat from a mountain outfitter (useful if you want to smack inattentive doctors). My t-shirt is 30 years old. I got it at a coffee shop in Wyoming. The shop probably no longer exists, but I won’t toss clothes until they’re truly worn out. My pants are smeared (non-ironically!) with grease. I was working in my shop before I voted. And I have a foot long beard, because why the hell not? Whole city blocks in Boston have nightmares about me.

Maybe my vote matters. Statistically it doesn’t but statistics isn’t all things. At the very least I made it inconvenient to those who would use my slot on a registration database for their own ends. It ain’t much, but it’s honest.

Have a good day. Be kind to yourself. Give your wife a hug. Take the dog for an extra long walk today. Maybe you need a donut?

Do not despair! You don’t have to. Stupid shit is stupid shit and you didn’t do it. It happens. We fight it out. It either gets better or it doesn’t. Regardless, we die. Nobody cares what happened three election cycles ago when they face the eternal. You won’t either.

When California is three weeks into their third lawsuit, ride it out. When a pile of ballots turns up in a place even a child would know they shouldn’t be, hold your center. When there’s an inexplicable “water leak” in some location of particular statistical influence, proceed like you saw it coming. You did see it coming.

You can handle it. Be chill. Possibly even enjoy it. It’s not all bad. The fact that everyone on both sides is pissed off, that’s good. The “pretend it didn’t happen” phase is over. The next phase may suck. It may never happen. Or it might and we might straighten our shit out. Sometimes the Band Aid really does get ripped off. Sometimes healing really happens.

And if it doesn’t, who cares? It’s a cancer of the politically dependent; not you.

Good luck everyone.

We all have a “bucket list”. Among countless things, mine includes “grouse dinner by firelight”. I have always wanted to bag a grouse and cook it that very night while camping. (Honestly, I’d like to cook one the very minute I shoot it… like start a fire as soon as it’s dressed and just chow down. But lets not get ahead of ourselves.)

I was camping and riding my dirt bike during grouse season. It just makes sense that I try to get one. Unfortunately, I couldn’t focus. I was so damn happy to be camping at all that I didn’t really give a shit about anything else. I rode around randomly in a “celebration of life”. (This included my aborted effort to hang out at the “abandoned church”.)

Over and over, I’d pass a spot that looked good. I had my shotgun and all my hunting stuff. I intended to hop off, switch from dirt bike to hunting mode, and thrash through the brush looking for a bird. But, I was just to damn happy. The motivation to stomp all over creation looking for a bird or two just wasn’t there.

I’m not alone in this. Nobody just hikes solo looking for a damn bird. You can walk miles and catch nothing but ticks. But… there’s an alternative. You use a machine to wander remote trails. That works!

The locals have distilled it to a science. They pile into a side by side (UTV) and cruise like land sharks. Side by sides have seats for two or more (hence the name). Thus, the driver can drive while the passenger(s) watch for birds.

The guys (and it’s usually guys) are equipped very well and take the challenge seriously. They’re clutching shotguns, dressed in orange, and watching carefully. It pleases me to see them. It’s exactly the kind of thing that would terrify the average urban gun control enthusiast; imagine some person who commutes via light rail to their white collar job and has never been beyond the range of street lights. Imagine if they knew, deep down in their bones knew, rural forest roads are patrolled by armed bird hunters with off road machines.

I love America so much!

Anyway, the UTV’s driver goes slow and steady. If anyone sees a bird, they all jump out (with the exception of the driver). UTVs are inherently good at quick deployment. It’s a split second to leap from slow cruising UTV to feet planted on the ground and taking aim.

(I’m not sure about the details. I think the shotguns are required to be unloaded while in the vehicle. I’m going to assume they’re following all game laws. From a practical standpoint it’s no big deal. One can go from empty magazine to Yosemite Sam in a flash; especially on a UTV which might not even have a door.)

The key to their success is having a driver AND a rider, plus a quick step out of the vehicle.

I have the exact opposite.  I’m riding around, deliriously happy, and indeed I occasionally flush a bird. But when I do, it’s a comedy of errors.

I kill the engine, swing down the kickstand, leap off the bike, rip off my gloves like a hockey player fixin’ to fight, and remove my helmet so abruptly I’m lucky I still have ears. Then I reach into two pockets in my gear and grab the three pieces of my takedown shotgun. I slap the three pieces together, slam a shell in the single shot contraption, and…

… by then the bird has flown to Winnipeg.

It is what it is. The shotgun is perfect for riding around with my bike but it’s atrocious at quick deployment.

As I ride, I start thinking about a proper scabbard. Like this guy:

Alas, I’m no Tex Cobb. But, I keep trying. At least I’m seeing birds.

The UTV people, with a dedicated driver, have it made. I’m piloting a two wheeled machine over the ruts and roots of a forest trail and that’s enough to occupy one whole brain. Looking for a camouflaged bird is a second and highly visual challenge. The two aren’t mutually exclusive, but they sure as hell ain’t complementary. Whenever I think I see a bird, I risk focusing on it and plowing into a tree.

The acrobatics of vaulting off a bike are ridiculous and the helmet’s a hassle too. With a helmet on, my head is encased in a clunky plastic bubble. I can’t make a cheek weld and get shooting accuracy suitable for a flying bird. Taking it off takes forever. If I ride without a helmet… did I mention the part about plowing into a tree?

I’m clownishly alternating between half assed looking for birds and not caring at all. Mostly I’m just enjoying the ride. I like to hunt but it ain’t a job. If they get away that’s ok. Usually they thunder off in a flurry of mayhem; like an F18 Super Hornet being catapulted from an aircraft carrier’s deck.

Eventually one, for whatever reason, just scampers behind a tree. It doesn’t emerge on the other side; ergo, the bird is still there.

I fail to find neutral and just kill the engine with the switch. I nearly drop the bike in my hurry to dismount. I fling a glove into the weeds, bounce my helmet onto the dirt in the trail… I don’t care, the bird hasn’t moved and this is my big chance!

I assemble and load my clownishly simple single shot (which I love!) draw back the hammer and…

…nothing. No bird. Either it fled in the lee of the tree and is now residing in Boise, or it’s right there.

I wait. The bird waits. Time stops.

The motorcycle, engine off but headlight still on and burning battery power, waits.

We all wait.

After a few minutes that felt like a week, I hear something stepping in the leaves. A bird’s head emerges from behind a log. The rest of its body is still hidden.

“Oh damn”, I think, “I can’t see most of my target.”

The bird freezes. It sees me. I see it.

Then I realize the head is the target. I take the best head shot anyone has ever taken on a grouse.

I did it!

The best part of grouse is they’re easy to “breast”. That means, you can remove 95% of the useable meat almost effortlessly. So much easier than deer and antelope! (Squirrels are the worst! They’re such a pain!)

I stash the grouse breast in my gear and remind myself to get back to camp early so I’ll have time to figure out how to cook it. More on that later…

(BTW: I’ve cooked grouse before but Mrs. Curmudgeon usually takes over once game gets to the house. Also, I’ve only got what’s at my campsite and not a full kitchen. But I’ll figure it out.)

I celebrate a bit (and use my SpotX to notify my “safety team” I got a grouse for dinner).

When I get back on the bike I’m confident I’ll see more grouse (which is true) and get another one (which isn’t true).

My days of happy camping will continue when I post again…

Did I get your attention? It’s the same headline used by every media outlet since 1994.

I got a contact from Wideners.com. Would I like to link to one of their articles in exchange for ammo?

Does a bear shit in the woods? Of course, I’ll link to one of their articles. Hell, I’ll show up in person and beg. I’ll regrout their bathroom floor. Free ammo gets my attention!

Anyway, I encourage y’all to check out their blog. With the exception of one weirdo who talks to trees and writes about squirrels, it’s the best link on the entire internet. It’s the one true path. It will allow you to see the matrix. Just do it!

Too subtle?

Because I’m such a nice guy I’ll even throw in a personal hunting story. It relates to their recent article: Subsonic 300 Blackout Shootout.

A few years ago I hunted with a friend. He was carrying an AR pattern rifle in .300 Blackout. (It was not short barrel or loaded subsonic.) I was carrying a bolt action in .270 Winchester. We two couldn’t be more different in approach. My rifle looks plain. It doesn’t have pretty wood. It doesn’t have fancy tech. It’s Tupperware and awesome (to me) but it’s not impressive.

His rifle was everything mine ain’t. It had rails everywhere and tactical everything. His optics had dials and shit. I think it changed colors? I was a little jealous.

My scope holds center like a law of nature, so I’m not complaining. But it’s almost too much power for the brushy area we were hunting. I’d have liked less magnification (maybe zero) and a big ass red dot. Not that I admitted that.

Back then, I thought the whole point of .300 Blackout was for SBR Suppressed paper punching fun. But, who knows? A thing is what it can do. I was suspicious that .300 Blackout wasn’t up to snuff, but I was willing to learn. Also, I kept it to myself; which is a very rare time when I was socially wise.

We were in a forest area I know, so I wound up acting like “Curmudgeon’s Guide Service”. Without really thinking about it, I ordered him around; “sit there, look that direction, it’ll happen right below that tree”. Who put me in charge? Nobody. I posted up about 50 yards away looking at what I thought was the second best vantage.

Yes, I put him in the best place and me in the second best. Why? I have no idea.

Anyway, dawn comes and the deer step out like they’ve got old style time cards.

I can see them where I’m at. I know he can too. He’s facing the deer at the perfect advantageous angle, I’m facing them at another pretty good angle. I’m feeling like a super stud. I called the time, place, and view!

For some reason I was still in “guide” mode. I just sat there. It’s like I didn’t care. I was more interested in that .300 blackout (and me being an awesome guide).

The deer (there were two) were well within range when they stepped out of the brush. But neither of us took a shot. They walked closer and closer. Soon they’re right in front of me and looking right where my friend was. Either one of us would have an easy shot. I started wondering if he was asleep or something.

I glanced at my rifle. It was opening day and I had plenty of time. I really didn’t care about getting anything. But at some point a deer is just standing there and you gotta’ take the hint. I line up on one. Safety was still on. I was just not into it.

They walked closer and closer. I guessed he’d fallen asleep with a granola bar in his hands. The deer were going to climb in his lap and take it.

It continued for what felt like an eternity. Then a shot rang out. Finally!

The lead deer bounced 10 yards and dropped over. Me, I didn’t do shit. There was a second deer. I just sat there with my thumb up my ass and let it walk away.

That was out of character. A bit later my friend showed up. We had the most “guy” conversation ever.

Him: “Why didn’t you shoot?”

Me: “I was being all gentlemanly and let you take the first shot.”

Him: “There were two deer.”

Me: “Also, I’m a dumbass.”

Him: “I about had a coronary waiting. I thought you fell asleep.”

Me: “I was just watching the show. Sorta’ enjoying the tension.”

Him: “You’re weird.”

I couldn’t counter that. I really had done the weirdest thing ever.

We were waiting a bit. You know how it is, never chase a shot deer too soon. I’m lounging in a lawn chair sipping coffee. My friend is standing there wondering how I, a hunter on opening day, apparently forget I was hunting.

Out on the tree line another deer appeared. This one is where I said I’d be watching. Wow, I called it right twice in one day!

My friend is like “get it”. I’m like “I dunno’ we’re going to have to butcher one already.”

“Get it, dumbass.” He explains.

Good point. I line up and take all the time in the world. The deer just stands there like “you gonna’ do this or what”. It’s kinda’ small. But a deer in the freezer is better than one in theory. I take forever before I even let off the safety. I’m wondering if I’ll drive my hunting partner nuts if I wait too long. Then the deer steps crossways, it’s the absolute perfect stance, as if it were a cardboard target. Even I get the hint.

I fire. The deer runs maybe 30 yards and drops. I was redeemed after my earlier “brain fart”.

The cool part is I got to compare terminal ballistics in the real world.

His .300 Blackout was loaded with DRT (nice stuff!). He fired at maybe 80 yards. If I remember right, the bullet never exited. 100% of the force went into the target. The deer dropped in 10 yards. Absolutely perfect.

My .270 Winchester was loaded with 150 grain Core-Lokt (Remington). My bullet weighed a bit more than his and I fired at about 130 yards. The deer ran further. The bullet went through, wasting energy. There was a ton of blood on the snow. I’ve alternated between 130 grain and 150 grain on whitetail and I’ve come to believe the extra 20 grains is overkill. Maybe .270 is too.

Of course, it’s all splitting hairs. Both calibers were superb. Both deer went down fast. The difference between 30 yards and 10 yards running is probably random chance. My deer looked gruesome and his looked “just the right punch and no extra”… but I don’t know if that’s a big deal. It’s probably irrelevant.

The point is, .300 Blackout beat out my suspicions. It did a damn good job. My friend reports he’s gotten like 4-5 deer since and always well.

That was then and this is now. A suppressor is no longer a paperwork morass. Nor is it super expensive.

I like living in the future!

What I’m thinking is you could practice all year long with suppressed .300 Blackout with subsonic ammo. It’d be nice and quiet. You’d have to adjust your point of aim for supersonic on hunting day, but that’s pretty easy.

What a glorious world! Suppressors are “untaxed” and that makes .300 Blackout sound like the coolest caliber ever.

No shit, there I was…

…bopping down a forest trail on my motorcycle.

I was happy as a clam. There was no thought in my head except laughing about how I used to menace my Doctor with a hat. I had nowhere to go, no reason to be there, and nobody to bitch at me about anything. One must savor these moments!

I had two “ideas”. The first is an old abandoned church I know about. The second is  grouse season.

I decided to start by visiting a church that outlasted the town that built it.

I’m not sure what’s going on with the church. It’s somewhat in ill repair, as befits a structure left amid “ghost town” remnants. Did I mention it’s in the middle of nowhere?

The good news is it seems “stabilized”. Decay hasn’t been reversed but it has been arrested. I don’t know if they actually have services. It sure feels like the most blessed place ever; but it’s also an absolute bear to get to.

Locals know more than I. They probably have family ties to those old ghost towns. They might have ancestors buried out there. There’s a few “main” graveyards to which I never pay much attention. There are also little spots where one or two people are buried. Those, I tiptoe around like the hallowed ground it is. Stuff is maintained, though not like a regular cemetery; more like the brush is removed annually and so forth.

Unlike cities, which can lose their soul, everyone out there seems to have a basic level of morality. The graves and other things are carefully left undisturbed. There’s other practical reasons to be careful around the old buildings. The cellar holes are tiger traps and I’m sure there’s an unmarked well or three. Step carefully.

The little plots with a handful of graves are touching. Sometimes there’s kids, sometimes several died around the same time. Sometimes it’s just a couple. (A husband and wife?) Sometimes I can’t read what’s written. Sometimes nothing is written. Disease, starvation, brutal winters? I don’t know. It’s a hard world. Modern people would do well to reflect on their life of relative ease and safety.

Back to my point, I don’t know shit about anything for sure, but like to go to the pretty church. It feels… special. I step inside and think about stuff. (It’s never locked, because why would a church be locked?) Something about the pews and the old uneven floor reminds me I ought to be a better man.

If I weren’t faffing about with my CPAP and health, I’d just camp there. There are “dispersed” campsites within walking distance of the church. These are absolutely “primitive”. There’s no power. There’s no water. There’s no fee. There’s no numbers. There’s no reservations. There is no overt bureaucracy at all.

I like that there’s no big sign with oodles of rules and regulations. No bitching about alcohol in glass bottles, or dog leashes, or recycling. Just a couple flat spots with the brush mostly cleared. If you’re a jackass out there, that’s between you and God, and it really does have the feel of hallowed ground. (It goes without saying that I leave my campsite spotless when I depart. I always leave a little firewood for whomever comes next. Etc…)

I’ve camped there a few times and it’s usually abandoned. I hope my presence isn’t a faux pas. I like the silence. There’s a hand pump and the water is delicious. (I don’t know if it’s “officially” potable but I lived when I drank it. I’m sure percolated coffee is “boiled big time” anyway.)

There are a few picnic tables, which seem to be a million years old. There’s an outhouse and someone takes good care of it. I can’t remember if that’s the place where there’s a coffee can to donate or I’m remembering somewhere else; but if there’s a coffee can I’ll donate.

You could do a lot worse than appreciate a well maintained outhouse in the deep forest with the Lord’s house not far away.

That was my plan; not to camp but to visit. I’m probably due for a mid-year performance evaluation with the big guy. If I’m fucking up, sitting in that little church will remind me to stop.

But as I rode I saw a trail I hadn’t noticed before. The bike zoomed off. Who am I to argue with my trusty steed?

There was a fork in the road. Then another. Then another. Then I wasn’t on a road at all.

It was a skid trail. I kept going because why not? The skid trail wound through a seedtree cut and stopped abruptly at a slash pile. I stopped and rested.

A grouse drummed somewhere in the distance. I had my shotgun. I originally intended to hike a bit and see if I could find a bird for dinner.

My motorcycle disagreed. It wanted to ride. Feeling lazy, I decided to forgo hiking.

I followed another trail which dropped into a small ravine. The trail did twisty turns for a long time and then petered out in a swamp. Probably a winter road for logging equipment.

I suspected I wasn’t far from the church as the crow flies. I dug out my phone and checked my position on mapping software. Yah… not far.

I thought about cutting through. But the brush was almost malevolently tangled. Trees shaded everything making it dark and gloomy but paradoxically not dark enough to cut back on the vegetation. It’s a maze out there. Regardless of what’s allowed or not, it would be absurdly stupid to “shortcut” out there. An ATV would be mired in seconds. My nimble motorcycle in yards. Even on foot, you need to watch your ass. “Bushwacking” (going utterly off trail) is fun in lots of places, but other places aren’t so nice. You only venture into them when you’ve got a damn good reason.

While backtracking, I thought about the last time I saw the church. It’s surrounded by very dark and foreboding forest. Somewhere between Tolkien’s Mirkwood and where Disney sent Snow White.

Thinking about the dark patch of land where the church lives, I guessed I’d bumped into the other side of it. Frankly, the forest ain’t super healthy. Everything is piled and half rotten. Even Yoda couldn’t manage to traverse it easily. The trees are in geezerhood. It’s wet and overgrown with a forest floor that’s a soggy mess of fallen logs covered with briars and ferns. If it ever dries out it’ll be a nightmare. That worries me. If that damp sock of a forest ever dried enough to catch fire, it’d nuke the little church.

Last time I camped there, years ago, I hiked straight out into that mess. I said I was grouse hunting but I was more likely to find a moose (or Sasquatch) than a bird. What I really was doing was toying with the very firmament of nature. It was a nice hike, but also strenuous; a place a squirrel would get tangled in knots.

After a few miles I turned from a trail to the appropriate forest road. It looked different. There’d been some logging. It was much more open than I remembered. Young trees were springing up. I saw deer in the distance. It was a place of renewal. So much change! Had I been absent that long?

Buzzing along in my lawnmower sounding bike, I spied three plain white trucks ahead. Contractors? Maybe the logging was still going? Then I realized it was the church itself. They hadn’t logged around the church proper, which is good. There was a bunch of trucks and SUVs scattered about. One of the old picnic tables was brand new…

Holy shit! A wedding cake!

I didn’t see that coming! Someone was getting married in the “ghost town church”! I idled down to make my bike as silent as possible, turned, and left. Everyone was inside. I caught a glimpse of the church and maybe(?) the siding had been updated, or at least painted.

Wow!

You know all that shit the media is shoving at you? How this politician is the biggest douchebag ever and that guy is on your team so yay him. You know it’s all an endless battle of horseshit but it’s everywhere and it sinks in.

Shake that off! I saw hope in real physical literal existence. A tiny old church in the middle of nowhere has fresh saplings growing up on the approach road. Within it a bride and groom are tying the knot.

All this goodness. In a place cell phones don’t reach. Where there’s no lightbulbs and the roads are dirt. A wedding cake on a brand new picnic table (which will surely become part of the church’s grounds).

While they were doing that good stuff, a bearded dipshit rolled in. He had nothing but good intentions too; expecting to commune with the eternal. He quietly dashed away. Glad to see the church was thriving.

All that happened! You couldn’t have known. Social media won’t mention it. Were you letting politicians and media do an amygdala hijack on you at that moment? Wouldn’t it have been nice to know that something good, and nice, and spiritually uplifting was going on? Well I’m telling ya’!

The church is thriving. Ain’t that great?

Here are some random photos of nature, in no particular order.

I got “lost” and wound up out on the plains. On the horizon, there was some sort of fire. It was very still air and I enjoyed that the smoke just sat there. It must have been far away because I didn’t smell a hint of it.

Looking away from the fire, I saw the moon.

In the forest, my favorite type of trail is when it’s a smattering of pine needles or dry grass on soft dirt. The traction is great and the surface is just plain fun. It’s about as quiet anything I’ll ever drive my little bike over. (I sometimes think about an aftermarket muffler to make my lawnmower motor a bit quieter, but I’ve never found one.)

I’ve done stuff that’s more exciting and photogenic but I’m not out to impress anyone. Mostly, I like how it feels under my tires.

Here’s a porcupine happily fucking up a tree. Who knows why the bark up there was particularly tasty but he must have been there on purpose. He was munching away on the tree like a happy camper.

Depending on where you are, you can run out of land. This terrain is absolutely, completely, positively, impassible.

Reflecting on “impassible” the exception is snowmobiles. Snowmobiles, in their season, can go where a man can’t walk and no wheeled vehicle can follow. Every year starting in late October I wish I had a snowmobile. I’ve never owned one. I really want one. Even an old clapped out one would be pretty neat, but I can never swing the cost.

BTW: That terrain is much tougher than it looks. Nobody messes with it. I get out there further than most, and even I treat it like a dead zone. Some places might be dry enough to walk. Some might be ten feet of water. There isn’t really “quicksand” like you saw on TV as a kid, but some of that territory might swallow you. In winter, if you’re tough as nails, technically you might snowshoe out there. I mean, nothing’s stopping you. But nobody’s that stupid (dedicated?). Even the trappers stay where they’ve got better access. Lotta’ cool raptors out there.

Someone is thinking about Sherps; forgettaboutit. They more theory than reality. Even if I were a millionaire who could afford one of those impressive beasts, I’m not sure it’s legal to go out on Federal land just to tear shit up. (Winter is different, the ice is as tough as pavement so the land is bulletproof. You could maybe joyrider with a bulldozer without repercussion. Not that I have one to test that theory. Regardless, I’ve never seen a Sherp out there.)

Snowmobiles are special. During their season, in their preferred terrain, they can go nuts and the frozen land won’t fell it. They won’t leave a trace after the snow melts. Then again, I know there’s no snowmobile “trail” anywhere near that picture. I don’t know if the snowmobiles must stay on trails or simply do so because this is a good place to show a little caution.

Maybe it’s literally untrammeled by man for the last dozens or hundreds of years.

The place below is a little less wet. You can tell by the taller brush. Actually it might be an old dike that’s a trail now. Regardless, it’s another place it’s wise to stay on the trail (and I usually hold back until the first frost kills mosquitoes).

This is a walking trail (no motorized vehicles). I just found it. It’s so well groomed its almost a fairy tale. I didn’t have time to hike it, maybe next time. BTW: When I say “walking” it’s mostly used by hunters and that’s what I’d be doing. (I randomly did a little “hunting hike” elsewhere and wound up with soaked feet. I chose poorly.) I think you could go backpacking along that pretty trail, but I’ve never seen anyone with a backpack in the area.

If you’ve ever smelled fall leaves, you know why I enjoyed this place so much.

Behold, the hat! (And my Linux device.)

I composed my previous post and sent it directly from this location. I doubted it’d work. Color me surprised. It’s proof of concept at least. It’s weird at that spot, sometimes cell is completely dead, other times it’s merely anemic.

The forecast was rain so I packed up while my tent and stuff was still dry. Then I hung around as long as I could. I enjoyed soaking up the autumn weather and smells.

About 15 minutes after I took this photo, the rain came. I hopped in my truck and rolled out. The ensuing rainstorm was pretty severe.

I’m typing this from a Linuxed obsolete Microsoft surface, perched on a crappy old picnic table. There is cell service here, sorta… I borrowed a wifi hotspot from the library. Can I post live from here?

Who knows?

What was the point? Oh yes. I went camping with Jilted Girlfriend. Several days later did it again (with my truck). I’ve been having a ball. Stuff I meant to blog is all mixed up in two trips. That’s OK; chronological order is boring.

—

I’d like to talk about my “hat gambit”.

Just two years ago I was in the Bighorn Mountains of Wyoming. I’d finished a motorcycle “adventure”. OK it wasn’t a big budget African safari, but I’d had fun. I did it all by myself. Self guided adventure, in America’s outback, using my cheap little dirt bike. You can have a hell of an adventure, even on a smallish budget, if you’re motivated and/or crazy. It made me happy.

At an outfitter place where I’d stashed my truck, I was loading my bike on its trailer for the trip home. I was practically glowing with joy. There can be no finer nectar than the sweet taste of conjuring a challenge and then succeeding; so satisfying!

Mrs. Curmudgeon sent me a text. (Cell was spotty there too. She’d sent it hours ago. But fortunately it came in before I left.) “You should buy a hat & shirt. You earned it.”

Tourists do this thing where they’ll go to Paris or Peru and buy stuff that says “I went to Paris or Peru.” I don’t think like that. If it was awesome, won’t you remember? But Mrs. Curmudgeon is wise and I might never be back. So I bought a hat from Bear Lodge Resort to remember the moment.

Life ensued. Half a year later, I was sicker than a dog with an ailment doctors hadn’t figured out. I’d show up at medical places in absolute misery; “I’m fucked up. Do something!” The doc (or nurse practitioner or specialist or whomever was manning the place) was never concerned. If they don’t see blood, they don’t give a shit. I walked into the medical place under my own power. That’s what they saw. Dude can walk, he can’t be that rough.

I felt like a drowning man but was ambulant and not missing parts. It made me invisible. They’d do whatever expensive test they felt like billing; often with no clear explanation of what they were looking for. When a test came back “the thing we measured is within specs” they’d shove me out the door. I got several expensive “not half bad” reports from various technologies. It’s not bad news but didn’t address my ill health.

The thing was, they were using a baseline that wasn’t for me. I’m not particularly young looking. They knew my age from the charts but acted like I was 80. I walked from the car; at great difficulty. I was dressed and showered, which had wore me out. Standing and dressed, that’s all they figured I should be able to do. An unavoidable bias, they usually deal with people far more messed up than I.

I tried to tell them; “I ought to be capable of more than walking to your door. I was doing much better very recently.” I was persistent. I wasn’t going to waste away so a doctor could avoid confusing diagnostics. How many people die because they’re unwilling to make a stink?

It happened many times. Anything short of passed out on the floor was “fine”. If I died somewhere beyond the parking lot, it wasn’t their problem. They combined this with delay; ideally forever. “That test might help. I’ll schedule you for six weeks from next Tuesday. Hopefully by then you’ll be dead and leave me alone. Whoops, did I say that last part aloud?”

I decided to be an asshole about it. Do meek people just fade out? They don’t want to be a spectacle. Do they die because nobody was paying attention? I inverted that. I had a rant I mentally called the “Hat Gambit”. I’d take off my hat, purchased high in the mountains of Wyoming, and start waving it around. Then, I’d tear into everyone in sight.

“See this hat?” I’d wave it like it a baseball bat in a street fight. “I bought this hat at 9,000’ elevation. I’d been riding a dirt bike thought the Bighorn Mountains. I was sleeping in a tent. IN A FUCKING TENT ON A MOUNTAIN!” Usually this brought a few more nurses or whatever, eager to see the bearded freak losing his shit.

“You!” I’d point to anyone at random. “Have you ever slept in a tent above the treeline? Can you operate a motorcycle on difficult trails? Are you capable of doing what I did half a year ago?”

Lets face it, most Americans, and especially people in medical facilities, are not rugged outdoor adventurers. There’s a lot of flab out there; mental and physical. The angry old bearded guy claimed he can and should do more than they’d done… not a happy comparison.

“I’m sick of twits acting like I’m 80 years old and never ate a vegetable. Some of your patients can barely limp down the aisle at Walmart. I get that. Life isn’t fair, we all get old, etc. But my decline was sudden. It’s unexplained. Compare my condition now to my condition then. I don’t give a shit about the ‘average’ baseline.”

This would percolate through brains… slowly. But it did happen. For some reason the hat mattered. I went from “guy making up bullshit stories” to “that nutball recently slept in a tent at the treeline?”

“I was on a dirtbike for a week.” I’d rant” “Now I can barely brush my teeth.” I’d hurl the final challenge like a man grasping for a life preserver. “SOMETHING HAS HAPPENED. Figure it out!”

After that, I’d settle right back down. Nobody likes being petulant. I’d acted rudely and I’d done so on purpose. It wasn’t fun. I know there are patients with gunshots and cancer, but even if my suffering wasn’t on that level, I needed care too. If I had to be a dick about it, I’ll answer to God when the time comes.

It did work, though slowly. Doctors did give my chart a second look. Tests scheduled months in the future were rescheduled (at my insistence) within the week. (Usually hundreds of miles away, which was fine with me. I had a truck and could still drive.) How many people die because the medical care in their local area sucks and they just put up with substandard care? How many more would live if they dropped everything and attended to their health. Nobody want to schlep your ass to a different time zone, for expensive unpleasant treatment. Plus there’s the hotel and that ain’t cheap. But isn’t health worth it?

—

Anyway, that was then and this is now. I woke up in a tent in the middle of nowhere. I was happy as a clam.

I’d brought my bike (Honey Badger) using a trailer on my backup car (Jilted Girlfriend). I strapped the bike with emergency gear (beef sticks, water, matches) and my little shotgun (small game season!). Then I rolled out.

I had no goal. Only to be. And it was grand!

A half hour from camp I realized I’d forgotten my hat. (I wear a helmet but often stop to hike. I wear a baseball hat for walking.) By then I’d taken three random turns on unnamed trails. I wasn’t sure where I was and didn’t feel like returning. So I didn’t.

The hat remained ignored and unnecessary. I’m healthy now (actually still recovering but so much better I’m almost giddy). It’s hard to gauge how bad I was. It can’t wrap my mind around it. When you’re fucked your forget how good life can feel. I don’t regret going ape on doctors. They need to remember patients are individuals.

It’s progress and I savor it. I did a lot of cool shit last year but some of it is fuzzy, especially early. I barely managed a few nights “camping” in my yard. This year, as the fall leaves blew in the wind, I was doing the same thing I did two years ago. I didn’t cross Wyoming on the BDR, but I was in the saddle again; and in tents. I was taking random trails. I was wandering the middle of nowhere. I was alone, unsupported, and doing my thing.

My tourist hat is no longer a talisman. Now it’s just a fuckin’ hat.

I laughed in my helmet. I kept laughing. Louder and louder. Why not? I can laugh all day if I want. And I almost did.

It’s good to be back!

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.