Dreams are sneaky buggers. They’ll come up from behind when you least expect it. You’ll be minding your own business when WHAM; the dream is already in your mind.
It’s fuzzy at first. Undeveloped, incomplete. But the idea will grow. You’ll imagine all aspects of it. You’ll imagine all the fun times you’ll have. You’ll imagine the feeling of accomplishment, or beauty, or peace, or fellowship… whatever makes your clock tick is what you’ll imagine. This is good. A man without dreams is already dead.
You’ll try to ignore it. “I can’t do that thing right now. I’m broke. I’m tired. I’ve got to mow the lawn.” Still the idea will grow; the more spirit you have the greater the dream’s pull. Along the way a funny thing happens; the dream grows from your spirit but the spirit grows from the dream. Directed toward healthy ends, the dream is good for you.
Then comes the part where almost everyone fails. They fail to act. Actions don’t have to be grand; even the simplest step on the path is enough… just to take the step is the point. It’s when you begin to shake off life’s inertia. Fail to act, and you’ve done yourself a disservice. The brain learns your dreams are silly distractions. It stops having them. Deny yourself enough times and you’ll stop trusting your own heart. Then, five or fifty years after you’ve already died, they plant your ass in the ground.
Got your attention? Good, I take stupid dreams seriously and here’s a new one for me.
Many moons ago, as a young Curmudgeon, I loved camping in the winter. The forests were all mine. What others perceived as hassles, I experienced as adventure. As a Boy Scout I earned the Year Round Camper patch. I was proud of that. It did nothing to advance rank. I didn’t care. Ranks aren’t my motivator.
Later, as a young man, I’d drive whatever crappy vehicle I owned to nowhere in particular, wander around the frozen wood, sleep somewhere like a vagabond, and return home feeling renewed. It was pointless and I was always alone… which is to say it was deeply meaningful and I became at peace with myself.
I was limited to shitty equipment purchased on a budget of zero. The exception was my sleeping bag. I scraped and saved to buy the best damn sleeping bag I could afford. That was enough. Good boots and a top quality sleeping bag will get you pretty far. Sometimes I’d toss a cheap tarp on top of a snowdrift, plunk my sleeping bag on top, and nestle in as the bag sank into the drift. I’d pull the tarp over me, hope my nose didn’t freeze off, and sleep like a baby.
Time came and went and the distractions of life did what they do; college, and work, and broken down cars, and moving from place to place all seemed important. A job became a career, and there were kids, and marriage (to the world’s most delightful wife!). Day to day focus, took my optional winter camping trips out behind the barn and put a bullet in them. I still camped sometimes. Maybe one campout per winter at best and a lot of camping by canoe. However, a canoe (like my motorcycle) is a creature of warm months. I was generally trapped indoors until the waters thawed enough to float canoes once more.
Recently, I’ve been camping more often. I’ve enjoyed ridiculously easy “State Park” summer camping. Nothing impressive, just a base camp from which to sail my homemade boat or ride my off-road motorcycle. Those simple campouts felt like a “renaissance”. Perhaps the wisest use of my time is to sit under a tree?
All was well until two months ago.
I was sleeping in my wonderful “Supertent“* with my awesome cot*. I was on a motorcycle ride / grouse hunt trip. When I rolled out of bed, it was chilly. I shivered. It was a shot across the logistical bow!
I wound up huddling by the fire cursing at how long the coffee took to heat. It wasn’t a big deal. Within an hour I was nice and toasty. By mid afternoon it was sweatshirt (not T-shirt) weather… but I’d gotten the hint. Winter was coming.
That was to be my last campout of the year. Soon the motorcycle would be stored, unused and inert. The tent too. It was a downer in a tough month. President Potato’s vaccine mandates were worming their way into my life. All has been chaos with society for years. My off grid solo campouts had become less a luxury than a necessary line to sanity. I felt a stab of cabin fever. So soon! Before the first flake of snow I already felt trapped.
This is when the dream snuck up on me and stuck a shiv in my head.
I camped in the winter when I was young and stupid. Why not camp in the winter now that I’m old and stupid?
Why indeed?
I unpacked good memories of winter camping and examined them. I’m no longer that guy. My back aches just thinking about lying in the fucking snow. Was I tough or dumb? Perhaps both. Regardless, laying on snow is officially done for me. I like my cot!
The idea wouldn’t leave. In retrospect the idea has been growing for years. Just simmering beneath the surface.
Something about that morning a few months ago pushed it over the top. Probably because it was paired with the threat of losing my job and the friction of a society that’s slowly crawling up its own ass; the need for escape to nature seems more urgent than ever before.
Do it now!
The Universe was offering the adventure. The heart wanted it, the spirit craved it, and the body was on board so long as the cot came with the package deal. It was the moment when one makes their choice. Does one drift in a state of catatonic loss or take action knowing the attending risk, expense, and hassle?
You already know how I roll. I’ve ordered this*:
And this*:
Wish me luck. Things might get interesting!
A.C.
*Note: Amazon gives me a small kickback if you buy something (anything!) from a link on my blog. It costs you nothing but I get beer money out of it.