Story Of An Unplanned Camping Event: Part 4

[In case you’re wondering about my shitty writing; for example I keep jumping from present to past tense… this was typed on a Dana on a wood plank during my trip. I downloaded it weeks later. I decided to leave it in its “raw” form.]

The next morning I’m feeling better. Cathartic mourning process or just a food truck mishap? Who knows? All I know is I was beaming all through my morning coffee percolation. The birds were chirping. The weather delightful. Life was rainbows and unicorns.

I dump a can of hash into my frying pan. When it’s at the exact proper level of crispy I crack in two eggs. Breakfast of champions!

My neighbor swings by, comments that I’m cooking, and calls me “sexy”. WTF? I’m old, bearded, and crotchety. I’ve got no idea what the woman was up to. Even if she’s interested, I’m not. I’m sure there’s nothing sexy at all about a woodsman with a can of hash.

I notice something about my cooking; it’s unusual. Most campers have large tents fronted by elaborate folding kitchen tables and propane tanks driving stoves that barely seem to be used. A few hearty “lightweight” campers are subsisting in tiny “one man” tubular tents that fold up the size of a softball. These folks are an even split between hunkered on the ground with micro-sized backpacking cookery and just accepting the terror that is the food truck. Smack dab in the middle, like nobody yet not unreasonably weird; following what seems like a logical progression to end up with a unique solution… is yours truly.

Lest I set fire to the pine needle floor, I’ve rummaged around in my truck and found a couple thick 4’ planks. At first I leave them on the ground. After my back complains, I bridge them between a hunk of firewood and a stump. This is enough “table” for me. It works. As does my “old school” Coleman liquid fueled single burner stove. Yet both are unique among hundreds of people. What to make of that?

I’m approached by one of the event organizers. I’ve done something of minor interest. Would I be willing to tell folks about it at an informal discussion? Since I’ve euphemistically claimed I was at the “Winnipeg Festival of Snowmobile Muffler Welders” lets say I was asked to describe a “Flange Based Manifold Workaround”. (It sounds weird when I try to separate blog life and real life but what I’d done wasn’t a big deal so don’t get excited about it.)

Obviously I agreed. At the time I was thinking of the organizers. It’s hard to put on a big scale shindig. Organizers need all the help they can get. If my “session skipping self” can help out, why not?

A decade in the past I wouldn’t have given it a second thought. In our late stage, teetering, society of fools I became nervous as fuck. So much for my intention to “chill out and do nothing interesting”! My unease is not mere stage fright. I’ve done public speaking a million times. I’m good at it. But I approach it as a professional “job”. I plan, practice, work within my audience’s preferences, and nail it. Speaking off the cuff is a different can of worms. It was never my forte and there’s something more.

Lately I’ve become convinced humans are dangerous herd beasts.

…

Warning: what follows is my personal observation of the human condition. YMMV.

Among us, are monsters. They are not rare. They are not unusual in their monstrosity. You are not unique in being their potential victim. Within a mile of you, wherever you sit, right now, as you read this silly blog, there are many assholes who’d happily send you to Auschwitz. They’d ruin your life. They’d hurt you. They’d feel good about doing it.

You saw it during COVID. Monsters that didn’t need to be coerced into doing evil, only excused. Evil wasn’t planted in their heart; I was already there. Their destructive urge seeks naught but release. It starts with “we’re the good guys”, transitions to “people should be forced to be like me”, and ends in a sea of skulls. Every busybody, HOA Karen, squishy middle manager, militant vegan, media addled youth, gullible old fool, Marxist grade school teacher, or devoted party hack is potentially Stalin’s handmaiden.

If you didn’t know it before COVID; you damn well know it now.

What I saw in 2020 made me reclusive. My fellow humans were given a test. Most failed. During the recent madness, your friends and neighbors (and perhaps yourself) came close to putting heathens to the flame. Packing the unvaxxed in cattle cars didn’t happen (except in Australia and maybe Canada) but not because of human kindness or reason. It just didn’t happen yet. Most people who behaved abominably would do it again. Most never saw the light. They haven’t repented of their behavior. They’re human land mines, never to be trusted again!

The will was there. That’s the thing I wasn’t expecting. People weren’t dragged into misdeeds against their will, they wanted it! A virus gave them a reason but they did what they already had within their twisted heart; they had the urge from the start. They weren’t created, they were unleashed. Deeply held moral stances weren’t deeply held at all. People became a frenzied mob at the first opportunity; wallowing in terror at the slightest risk. They were eager to go off the rails. People didn’t just do wrong, they thirsted for it.

If you were a reasoned backstop of moral sanity during COVID; you took a risk. In our unhinged spastic world you risk becoming cannon fodder simply for being sane.

I stand out; that’s not a good thing amid panicky herd beasts. Even if it’s something as simple as cooking on a ratty old plank instead of an expensive folding table; if it brings attention, it could bring a mob. I grew up with a society where that wasn’t so likely. I could assume tolerant intelligent citizens following written legal structures and unwritten but clear standards. Now I live among hyperactive, brainwashed, stupid, lemming-like throngs of social media dipshits and cancel culture Karens.

Even if it’s not Salem in 1692 (yet!) I’ve learned the secret of witch hunters. They gave the people what the people already wanted.

I regretted my magnanimity. I wished I’d kept my fucking mouth shut. Luckily, it all worked out. I gave my little talk and everyone else did theirs and the audience was polite and nice. The “Winnipeg Festival of Snowmobile Muffler Welders” is a remnant pocket of sane reasonable people. They’re not BLM “activists” laying siege to city blocks of Portland. I should have known that. If there’d been the slightest whiff of bullshit, I wouldn’t be there.

Anyway, the rest of the day was mellow. I attended a few sessions and learned some shit. Let’s say I attended “Sled Track Studs… How Many Per Linear Foot?” and “Arctic Cat, Ski-Doo, and Polaris
All Ask; Why Can’t Honda Make A Sled?”.

Dinner was a hot dog fried in bacon grease and then cut up and simmered in baked beans. As I cooked, my neighbor called me “awesome” and my other neighbor came over for more bitching about the NAVY. I kept the Kindle with Neil Pert’s (very good) book safely closed. I looked for something else to read and found a dead tree version of Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations. Probably the wrong time for that book too! (I gotta’ learn to buy an occasional beach book!)

I’m glad I didn’t read. After dinner I watched the sunset until the night skies gleamed like the edge of forever. (I can think poetic shit too Aurelius!)

The next day the event was over. I packed up and drove another zillion miles to get home. My truck hadn’t moved a foot since I’d parked it. I’d barely moved myself. I’d spent 4 days outdoors. I smelled like smoke but felt much better.

It seemed like the thing to do and it was. But I sure as hell won’t give another talk about Flange Manifold Workarounds!

Happy camping y’all.

A.C.