Adaptive Curmudgeon

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.

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!