Nothing dramatic happened all evening… which was the whole point.
I’ve found myself setting up camp in places I’ve already been just to avoid drama. I’m practically a local now. “That’s Curmudgeon, he’s a quasi-permanent resident of campsite # Non-zero Integer”. Is that what a “comfort zone” feels like? I can grok the attraction.
The place was nearly deserted. I expected a herd of grouse hunters, but few people were there; probably no grouse hunters at all. That’s fine with me.
Before leaving I’d taken a few minutes to chop up some old pallets with my radial arm saw. Parts with metal are garbage, the rest is burnable kiln dried wood that I use in my folding stove. It’s a flawless system!
On a whim, I chopped up some old corral rails too. These rails are very old. Older than me for sure. How many cow asses had rubbed these rails is known only to God. All I can say is they look untreated and I ‘ain’t afraid of cowshit. After many decades of dry rot and weather a few had given out. I’d tossed them aside this spring when re-doing the pig fence. Now was their time to go out in a literal blaze of glory. They did very well. Plenty of heat and they even smelled nice (not like cowshit at all!).
I’m glad I brought them. After dinner I simply flipped over my little firebox (where I’d been using small bits of pallet wood) and dumped everything in the fire pit. Then I added the much larger corral wood. Easy peasy.
Camping alone is rare. Virtually nobody does it. Everyone goes camping with family, or hunting buddies, or with Scouts as a kid, or whatever. I didn’t think I could even experience “loneliness” but camping alone does test one’s mettle. There’s solitude and loneliness. You must enjoy the former without falling into the latter. It’s wise to deploy adaptive measures to make your time more fun. Here’s what I did:
First, I was at a State Park where I’m familiar with the layout and humans were out and about. Sometimes this makes a difference. Comfort zone… what a novel concept! I’m going to have to cogitate more on that idea.
Second, I had creature comforts; a cheery little fire, beer, and a comfy lawnchair.
Third, I stayed the hell away from depressing literature.
Fourth, I brought a toy to amuse myself. I have a spiffy shortwave radio that I very much like. It’s high quality and has a million features. I never seem to get time to listen to it. No time is better than when you’re alone at a campsite. It was packed somewhere in my truck. I’d fetch it in due time.
While I was happily roasting bratwurst, Bigfoot showed up and drank several beers. That’s the only explanation. I was nursing just one beer… only one! All of a sudden I noticed several empties. Damn Bigfoot.
When I dug out the shortwave radio I had a bit of a moral dilemma. Radios are a cardinal sin if they harsh someone else’s “forest experience”. I can’t get in the groove with nature if some dipstick a campsite over is playing “Achy Breaky Heart” while tuning their UTV. I would never do that to someone else!
I planned carefully and tuned the little radio way low. There was an occupied campsite about 60 yards away and I wanted nothing louder than quiet conversation.
I turned on the radio and all hell broke loose! An avalanche of sound spewed forth. Nooooo! The racket of shortwave beeps and bips and someone talking in Spanish and static was crazy loud. I fiddled with the volume dial but nothing happened. Oh no!
I fiddled with it but, probably because Bigfoot drank all my beer, I couldn’t figure it out. The volume dial just didn’t do its thing! Shortwave receivers are pretty sophisticated and I was baffled. I was mortified that I’d made loud electronic noise. I clicked it off and felt like a jerk for the noisy outburst.
Confused and embarrassed, I switched to my “backup” radio. I have a slick little CC Crane weather-band radio. It has the world’s smallest speaker but I put in headphones anyway. I wound up listening to classical music on FM on a radio about the size of a stack of business cards.
I hummed along while guarding my last few beers from Bigfoot and burning old corral rails. Such a fine evening!
I’m not particularly informed about classical music but sitting in the dark listening is a good way to start. I’ve decided that conductor Sergei Prokofiev’s (1891-1953) music is based on the same demon space aliens that caused Hieronymus Bosch’s (1450-1516) paintings. I love Bosch’s weird paintings but Prokofiev’s music was a bit much. I think some of his chord changes broke my ear.
Mrs. Curmudgeon, who has forgotten more about “high culture” than I’ll ever know, reminds me that Prokofiev also wrote Peter and the Wolf… which is one of my favorite melodies. WTF? Now I don’t know what to think! I guess that’s the point. There’s more out there than just the stuff in front of your nose. Analyzing Russian Prokofiev and sipping Oktoberfest beer next to an American campfire isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, but it made me happy.
All in all it was a good night. More to come…