Happy Camper: Part 3: Scouting Campsites And A Picnic

I went camping! Finally!

Well not yet. First I had to find a place to go. During a rare patch of sun, Mrs. Curmudgeon and I went exploring in my Jeep-Thing vehicle.

A word about the Jeep-Thing. I own a creaky, rusty, old, 4×4 vehicle. It’s not a Jeep but it serves the same purpose. It’s not particularly valuable or glamorous but it’s uncommon. If I post details, someone will quickly identify it. In our current clown world I wish to retain my anonymity and obscure mechanical conveyances work against that.

Nor do I want to create an attractive puzzle for someone somewhere who’s an aficionado of old trucks. “That’s a 1968 International Swampmaster Travelall Deluxe Camper-Burbuan with optional Armstrong Steering. Only 5,000 were made, of which only 50 still run. Since Curmudgeon parked it next to an fence with double stitch half twitch woven barbed wire we can isolate it to Cancel County in State X.” That might just feed the trolls of cancel culture: “A Google search shows the only Swampmaster registered in Cancel County lives at 54 Dipshit Road in the town of East Cowschitt. Lets e-mail everyone in the county that the owner is a racist, bigoted, doo-doo head who talks to squirrels. Also, we’ll make sure he’s fired and everyone hates his dog… because that’s how we embrace diversity and tolerance.”

So, for now it’s just a Jeep-Thing. Call me paranoid if you want. In my defense, has there been a better time to be paranoid?

I could just call it a Jeep. That would work flawlessly but it would be lying. Nobody would know but I just can’t do it. I may be lame but it’s a personality quirk that I just flat out won’t lie. So I say “Jeep-Thing” and pique everyone’s interest over my shitty old truck. I’d make an awful spy and I’m unfit for our current era of universal deceit.

Back to the story, my Jeep-Thing is pretty old and it had a long period of “storage”. I’m slowly getting it back to “daily driver” reliability but it’s not like I’m done. I’ve had limited time and money to further the process. However, it runs now and it’s wise to drive it around to see what’s working and what breaks. It took a lot of cranking and choke to get her started but once it was running it ran great. I was delighted.

Driving winding dirt roads is always fun. With the Jeep-Thing it’s extra fun because there are no worries. It’s already beat up so I need not fret about damage and (within reason) it’s unstoppable. I don’t have to fret that I’ll take a road that’s too rough.

We set out to re-locate the dispersed campsite I discovered last fall. I couldn’t find it on foot during a brutal failed January attempt. (Read: Walk To The Edge, Then Walk Back: Part 1 and Part 2.) In my defense, in January I was ill and I was on foot with a bum leg at -10f at sunset. Bailing out was the right call. Driving around on a sunny summer weekend is a whole different universe.

Halfway to the dispersed campsite I took a random turn. Why? Because I noticed a road I’d never seen before. Five random turns later I had no idea where I was. I was sure I could backtrack out of where I’d meandered; but I could’ve been in an alternate dimension for all I could pinpoint on a map.

Abruptly, the road ended in a turnabout. There was a small river nearby. Not an easily accessible rocky streambank but a swampy reedy mess. A muddy walking path went from the turnaround to the stream. It was a good landing spot to put in or take out a canoe or kayak and obviously well used for that purpose.

In fact, there was a guy already at the spot! He’d beached his canoe and was rehydrating. Many people go down this little branch of the river. Some for an afternoon, others for multi-day trips. I was reluctant to mess up this guy’s private solo time in nature, but he seemed happy to see people.

“How long you been paddling?” I asked, trying hard to not look or sound like a scary extra from the movie Deliverance.

“Two days.” He looked beat. I’m guessing the swampy area he’d just paddled was hotter than Satan’s armpit. I know it has a million switchbacks so progress must have been slow. “I haven’t seen anyone in two days.”

“Then you need the fruits of civilization. Would you like a cold soda?”

His eyes lit up like I’d just handed him a winning lottery ticket. He gunned the ice cold drink like only a man who’s been roasting for days would. I’ve been there, I know.

Unwilling to further mess up his solitude, I vamoosed quickly. He was all smiles.

After we’d driven away I realized my mistake. That poor bastard is going to have to haul an empty soda can all the way to wherever he’s going. I should have stayed and retrieved it from him. Oh well.

Mrs. Curmudgeon and I agreed the place was pretty cool. It looked like you were in the primordial wilderness but it wasn’t that far out. Also, the access road wasn’t too bad. I GPS marked it on my SpotX for further review.

By now, Mrs. Curmudgeon was looking a little wilted. There’s no AC in my vehicle and it rides like a cement mixer. Once I got my bearings I made a bee line for a small rural “store” not far away. (I try to mentally map every “service” I find in various hinterlands. You never know when you’ll have an emergency. Indeed, it was handy that I knew it existed.) “There’s a grumpy lady at a place nearby that sells good ice cream.” I said.

We pulled in and got ice cream (which was top notch). I setup our lawn chairs in the shade of a tree. It was a fine afternoon. Mrs. Curmudgeon beamed. I was happy too. We’ve been married forever and yet I’m still super happy when I can do something silly like get her a cone. That’s what life is all about; eating ice cream with your sweetie in the shade next to your rusty old vehicle.

The store lady came out and joined us and talked our ear off. She was super friendly. So much for my carefully filed memory of her being grumpy.

We set out for the dispersed campsite but I was already daydreaming of an overnight at the canoe landing. With a few twists and turns we found the spot which had eluded me in the January gloom. I’d probably been within 100 yards when I turned back. (No regrets! Many things could have gone wrong that day and turning around before they happened was a wise move.) The spot is large but hidden in a pine plantation. You don’t recognize it until you’re right there.

We parked and I busied myself making a bratwurst “picnic”. There was a firepit but I prefer my Redcamp Wood Burning Folding Camp Stove. (I get kickbacks from Amazon if you buy shit from my links. It doesn’t cost you a penny. I only recommend stuff I like, own, and use. Lest you think I’m hopelessly biased by the pocket change I get, I’ve given you proper warning of my devious plans.)

I’ve been meaning to do a “long term review” post about that trusty little gadget. Just know that it rocks! I first mentioned it four years ago. (TW200 Mods, Front Rack) It’s a simple little bugger but it’s super handy. I take it on every campout and I’ve used it on a zillion little “cookouts” in my lawn. After 4 years of hard use, it’s still completely functional but a little warped from the heat.

It’s such a handy thing I bought a replacement (or depending on your point of view a backup). I feared they might become unavailable or more expensive or lower quality. Since it’s cheap and convenient and a good deal at twice the cost why not stock up? In fact I bought a replacement, a second auxiliary spare replacement, and still kept the perfectly good but slightly worn original. I’ve got three! Wealthy isn’t just bank accounts and stacks of Krugerrands, sometimes it feels good to have a “lifetime supply” of a $30 gadget.

I set it up right in the firepit, why not? Fires are legal in a makeshift fire pit. They’re legal if I clear debris from under the camp stove. They about as safe as humanly possible if you put one inside the other. Not that it matters after all the rain, but I’m always cautious.

The camp stove is often more practical than a regular campfire. The little box heats up with a tiny amount of fuel; much less than an unconstrained campfire. It also cooks better than a plain fire. In particular, I prefer cooking food on the included grill over holding a stick like when roasting a marshmallow or making a pan dirty.

Campfire food is always delicious. In that time and at that place, basic brats were food fit for a King.

After chowing down we drove home. The vehicle started a lot faster having had it’s batteries topped off by driving around for several hours. I should “exercise” it more often.

Enjoying a story with no depth and lots of happy? More to come…