Coffee Cup Update

This update has nothing to do with coffee or cups; a nice reader sent me a “coffee cup tip” and I appreciated it. I hadn’t posted all week but, with virtual coffee in hand, it only seemed right to rectify my lack of writing. I’ve been super busy so this post is somewhat random. I hope y’all don’t mind. Also, THANKS!

It’s supposedly summer but spring rains haven’t let up. Every time the sun shines I run out there to do stuff. Alas, I can’t get much sustained work / play done before the conditions revert back to rain. At least it’s nice and warm… if a big muggy.

This, of course, is normal. Sometimes it rains more than other times. It gets hot in summer. Also, nature is going wild. You and I may bitch about the rain but the plants are on a tear that won’t slow until things dry out.

I was buying tractor fuel at the gas station/feed store. The screen on the wall was blathering. The weather channel was in apoplexy over… weather. They had various maps tinted in dire shades of red; everything from dark wine red to lungshot bisque. They seemed desperate to imply heat in June is unprecedented and terrifying. I don’t know why.

The spokesdrones were muted. I squinted at one of the graphics (a sea of blood red like they’d committed murder across the map). I saw a temp of 83. Um… 83?

It’s June. 83 isn’t crazy. It’s not even unusual. It’s not even overly weird for the freezing ass of North America. (I’m guessing it hits 83 in Prudhoe Bay once in a while.)

I asked the guy at the counter. (I know him but forget his name. He remembers mine, which worries me.) “What’s with the weather channel? Is there something real or are they new to the idea of 83 degrees in June?”

He shrugged. “They’re always like that. I think it’s something they put in the water.”

I paid for my stuff and he asked about my homestead. “Get your hunting plot planted?”

“Nope, I skipped it last year so the sod’s established. Then the grass grew like a foot and a half. I was brush hogging it when the rain stopped me. The soil is wet as shit and it gets too slippery for my tractor. I’m not sure I can disk it up if it doesn’t dry.”

He’d been hoping to sell me a few pounds of food plot seed. I’d like to be at the point where I could use it. Alas, you don’t always get what you want.

Still, I’d admitted I’d fucked up and was in for some good natured ribbing. “Don’t sweat it. I heard you’re a super hunter who never misses.”

I swear to God I was near to blushing. Don’t hate me, it’s a guy thing.

Then came the punchline. “But then I heard you got a crossbow. You’ll come up empty handed with or medieval shit like that. Since you’re gonna’ get skunked you don’t need a food plot.”

“I might get scouted and ready.” I stammered.

“Really? Didn’t you say your best tree stand that was leaning?”

“Actually it’s gone.” It’s true. One of my favorite spots has been neglected a long time. The forest has overtaken it and I’m surprised the recent high winds didn’t completely topple it. I doubt I’ll get a replacement built before fall.

He beamed while I thought about my odds. Time to be realistic. “Ah well, I’ll wing it like everyone else does. The food plot was just hedging my bets.”

Then I added “freezer’s full anyway”.

We both nodded. Having a full freezer and appreciating the miracle of such is a secret handshake. Dweebs on TV ramble about “food deserts” and spend a lifetime hovering three days from starvation. Us yokels talk about food in units of “quarter cow” and “a pretty big buck”. It’s never guaranteed but always appreciated.

We’re a continent spanning portion of the populace utterly ignored in politics or social discourse. Us deplorable non-entities in flyover country know it. We’ve gotten (have always been?) cynical. Yet we keep our freezers full if we can and that seems to help. We hope to be eating steak (from hunting or farms) each fall when the Weather channel is freaking out as they discover snow. It’s hard to be pissed off when you’ve got a full freezer.

Over the weekend I couldn’t get my shit together enough to go camping. I had too many homestead duties. I’d promised myself I’d camp the instant the weather was good but sometimes one must “adult”.

Combining diligence and luck, I finally hammered back the lawn and brush hogged some feral fields. I’d like to say I “mowed” the lawn but really I just dragged the finish mower across the easiest spots. I dropped high ankle deep grass down to recognizable lawn without even pretending to trim. I sometimes call this “triage mowing”.

As finely manicured lawns go, I have an excellent firebreak.

I was interrupted by rain; which is good because I was tired. I napped during the rain. When the rain stopped I forgot about hunting plots and lawns. I spent a full day cutting firewood like my ass depended on it. (It’s not an emergency but it matters in the long run.)

A handful of smallish trees got windthrown in a spring storm a month ago. After a lot of work, they’re gone processed from flammable litter to “not yet split and stacked” firewood. The mess is, of course, heaped in a pile on my not-quite-lawn. What are lawns for if not to stack bulk materials? At the least, I’ve started the drying process.

Then the weekend was over. So much for camping.

Last year I bought a 1989 Honda Pacific Coast. It was to be my happy fun-time touring bike. I dreamed of “motocamping” road trips in remote (but paved) places. Alas, 2023 kicked me in the balls so it didn’t happen.

Well it’s time to try again. For better or worse my employer gave us Wednesday off work. In America, the land of formerly constitutionally guaranteed first amendment free speech, I’ll refrain from opining; lest censors crawl up my ass and eat my blog.

It’s only one day off, so I’d have to blast out on the road right after work the night before. I packed my bike early in the week. I bought some ROK straps last year. A super nice reader sent me two awesome drybags last year. Also last year I bought a backpacker’s air inflatable mattress and tiny air pump. I also have a tiny tent.

The issue is this; I’m nervous about motorcycle camping. I’ve grown used to camping with heavy luxury equipment; my fat comfy cot with mattress and fluffy rectangular sleeping bag in one of two equally large tents. What works when traveling by Dodge can be a luxury or it can be a crutch. If I go on two wheels I’ll once again sleep on the ground with minimal gear. I’m older than I was when I last did that. Will my back hurt without the cot? What about the tiny claustrophobic tent in mosquito season? What about this? What about that?

So many things can go wrong. So I packed my bike in advance and planned the world’s lamest overnight somewhere close to home. If it sucked, it would be only one night and I’d have a whole vacation day to recover.

The planned departure day it started to rain at mid-morning. Then it rained more. And more. I fretted but tried optimism “it can’t rain forever, just chill until 5pm and then roll out”.

At 5pm my packed bike was warm and dry in the garage. The world’s longest rolling thunderstorm was still in progress and felt like it would last 40 days and 40 nights.

I gave up. I almost never give up but I willed myself to do so. In theory I’ll camp in a fuckin’ hurricane if I feel like it. But I’m trying to be “good to myself”. Also, I wanted to test motorcycle camping, not prove I’m tough enough to huddle, wet and miserable, for a long crappy night. I know I can still do that.

The rain didn’t stop until nearly dawn. By my guess the “thunderstorm” went most of 26 hours. Ironically, this came with none of the hyperventilating weather alerts of the previous Covid thunderstorm.

The next day dawned pretty clear. It would’ve been a great day to camp! Unfortunately, the next morning I had to be at work. Ironic eh?

I unpacked my bike and then ran off to cut more firewood. Why not? After a full freezer, nothing is as nice as a huge pile of firewood.