Adaptive Curmudgeon

This weekend, space weather was fortuitous for aurora borealis. I seized that opportunity.

I waited a few hours after sunset and turned off my pole light. (Most rural farms have a pole light, it’s almost a necessity. What’s interesting is that most pole lights are hardwired to photo-sensors without an “off switch”. I paid to have a switch installed. I don’t use it often but when I do it’s worth its weight in gold.)

With the light off, it was pitch black. The sky had only a tiny sliver of moon. Indeed the northern lights were happening. It wasn’t the biggest baddest display I’ve seen. The colors were washed out. But who am I to complain? All northern lights are delightful.

I have a theory that either God or nature (I sense overlap in the two) wants to help you. I’d had a hard week and needed to recharge. In retrospect, the best thing I could possibly do was park my ass in a dark yard on one of the first warm nights of the year and stare at the Universe. How convenient I was coaxed into that very situation!

I had the dog on a leash. Alas, our dog is more bonded with Mrs. Curmudgeon than me. The dog was baffled. It kept looking at me quizzically as if to say: “Why the hell are we sitting here in the dark? Have you finally cracked?”

I sat in my lawnchair sipping beer and letting stress ebb. Our barn cat showed up. First it knocked over my beer, because it’s a cat. I grabbed my auxiliary backup beer and shrugged. Then the damn beast hopped in my lap and clawed my balls, because it’s a cat. After that it settled down. My confused dog sniffed at the spilled beer. The dog definitely wondered what would cause an otherwise normal human to sit perfectly still and silent in the dark night like a brooding ape. I pet the dog to reassure it but didn’t try to explain.

It was a dark night with not a breath of wind. Too early for mosquitoes. I didn’t even see bats. The sky was pleasant. I watched the colors fade in and out and my mind left behind all those worries about plumbing and whatnot.

There’s a lot of “nature” in my immediate surroundings. I drink deeply of that well. It does me wonders. Few people will sit in the dark. Fewer still will sit by themselves. We are trained to be fearful children; grasping herd beings huddled in the safety of crowds. Folks are almost repelled when I tell them I camp, or hike, or fish, or hunt all by myself. It takes a certain kind of humility to turn away from the cell phone’s brightly lit debasement and embrace the true nature of the world.

Is it worth it? I think so. But I guess that’s up to each of us. If you open your mind to experience things but you might like what you learn. Or you might not. Regardless, you won’t know unless you try and almost nobody tries. If you’re fortunate enough to know a place free of traffic noise and urban light pollution give it a shot.

On this particular night, with the air so still and the skies flickering with a perturbed magnetosphere, the world felt timeless. There was the sense that anyone who sat perfectly still long enough would witness the Universe’s secrets. Such a being would have knowledge of the sort most folks don’t even know they lack. I suppose, a feature of having such knowledge is the inability to communicate it with less ethereal brethren.

Animals were moving about, but not the common ones such as deer. Deer stay put during the darkest of moonless nights. I heard a ruffed grouse beating a log somewhere. Owls were hooting, as if to warn the grouse they were hunting and all’s fair in the world of nature. Bears are not unheard of in my yard, but I haven’t seen one lately.

I fancied if I waited long enough I’d move through time. Would I see a mastodon? How about a glacier? Neither would seem out of place in my yard. In some ways a mastodon makes more sense for my yard than my damn maintenance prone Dodge. The ice age is distant and yet it is not. One could argue we’re removed from it by either an unfathomable span of time or just the ebbing of a few short moments. It depends on how well you know things. It was yesterday to a geologist and never happened to the unobservant. How hard do we really look at the world around us?

I caught the faint whiff of a skunk. I’d been sitting perfectly still and silent for a good long time. Can’t blame a skunk for not sussing out that I was there. I let my presence be known. “Damn fine night for blasting a skunk to bits.” I said it in a perfectly conversational tone. From whatever vector Mr. Skunk had been approaching, he vamoosed the way he came.

Just about then Mrs. Curmudgeon poked her head out of the door to see how the northern lights were. She sniffed the air, identified the scent, and retreated into the house like we had a velociraptor prowling in the darkness.

I stayed on post. The northern lights faded in and out. I tried taking photos with my cell phone, all of which looked like shit. The skies weren’t 100% clear so I saw fewer stars than under ideal conditions. I started counting satellites and lost count around 13. In the middle of this I saw a righteous shooting star. Nice!

In the distance, far far away, I heard some howling. I hear coyotes all the time but wolves only rarely. This time it was wolves. The difference isn’t subtle. They were far away but I don’t know how far. The sound of a wolf howl travels some unknowable distance. I wondered what that distance might be; a few miles, a dozen?

My dog is a breed meant for killing wolves. It’s a healthy young beast of a size to make good on its heritage. On the other hand it’s a loveable creampuff. It roused from its slumber, listened carefully to the howling, and then looked at me with definite purpose in its eyes. “Alright, this has gone far enough, haul your civilized ape butt out of that chair, take me inside, and give me a dog treat.”

Of the two of us, the apex predator is the bearded old dude and not the hulking young dog. Go figure. But maybe the dog had a point. I’d been out there for hours. Might as well turn in; to my dog’s immense relief.

By then the northern lights had faded. The cat, which had been snoozing and purring while I sat, clawed the shit out of me as I stood up… because cat. I lumbered a mere fifty yards yet through dimensions of experience to rest on a bed, in a house, surrounded by walls and electronics and payments, and a very relieved dog. I fell asleep quickly. I dreamed of it all; mammoths and wolves. Everything was illuminated by northern lights which are always beautiful; both in skies teeming with satellites and emptier ones. The latter glittering above silent glaciers.

I didn’t want to end on a downer, so here are a few photos:

It’s right there on the cover, three score and ten. But it’s not meant to be resignation. There’s a line though that limit and Adams won’t let himself be defined by such things. It’s a happy little book which I recommend.

After cleaning out the motorcycle’s bedonkadonk and stashing the manual and some tools, I grabbed the last thing I planned to carry. Nick Adams’ “Adventures on Borrowed Time”. It’s the second Nick Adams book I’ve bought. I was initially using his literature to test my “books on dead tree are better than e-books” theory but now it feeds my dream of a fun road trip. His books are simple, just road trips in Canada. Specifically, solo, remote, motorcycle rides… that’s precisely what I want to do! I’ll take encouragement whenever I find it.

I’ve spent many years wanting to “drive to the end of the road”, which is an unspecified but physical location you can find in literal existence in Ontario. The dream was derailed by other things, raising children, normal life, etc… It’s not like I’m filled with regret. I didn’t sit on my ass doing nothing! It’s just that the “end of the road” plan got pushed back multiple times. Most recently Canada’s shitstorm over Covid was (remarkably!) even worse than America’s spastic flailing. (Isn’t it weird that some places sucked even more than the land of arresting lone surfers and little arrows on the floor at the grocery store? I wouldn’t have thought anyone could get dumber than America but I was wrong. Canada went full gestapo, Australia built actual concentration camps, and New Zealand became an island prison. The Professor struggles in a society of Gilligan.) Even after things returned to normal (actually they never returned to normal and they never will) came the soaring cost of fuel. The Bidenverse tripled the cost of fuel and, even though that bothers me less than the political prisoners, it partially grounded my Dodge. And then came a personal loss.

But that’s the past and I’m thinking of the future. By now I was suited up and the PC800 was warmed up. This was only a springtime shakeout ride, nothing more than a sunny afternoon and a little over a hundred miles. The odds were in my favor.

I was thinking about Nick Adams’ introduction in his book. He talks about the biblical time allotted to us all (if we’re lucky); three score and ten. That’s the source of his title. His life can be considered to be on borrowed time; having lived beyond 70.

He implores his reader; “do it now, don’t put it off”. I can almost hear him crying out to his keyboard; “Don’t let your doubts scare you away from living while you’re still alive!” I agree.

As I wheeled the bike out of the crowded garage I noticed the plastic bag of mouse detritus. I’d tossed it on the ATV (itself a vehicle currently ignored). On a whim, I put down the kickstand. I’d tie up the bag and toss it in the Dodge’s cargo bed. Might as well facilitate the first step toward the landfill right?

As I tied the bag I saw it. A little piece of paper, thoroughly mouse chewed, a relic from just about a year ago. Hand scrawled notes; just words really. One word stood out; “biopsy”. I’d stashed that paper in the saddlebags sometime early last summer. Less than a year has passed since I wrote that note, yet it has been a very very very long time indeed. Even back then I knew a process had already begun. It was too long and too short and it invariably ended as it will for us all.

I found myself crumpled up on the ATV. I try to avoid mentioning sad things on my blog but I won’t ignore the truth of life. My burdens aren’t particularly heavy in the overall scheme of things. I handle them neither better nor worse than anyone else. For now, and perhaps for a long while to come, sometimes I wind up crumpled against a dusty ATV while my motorcycle cheerfully idles on its kickstand.

Three score and ten.

Eventually I took a deep breath and continued living.

I grieve, sometimes in the slow bittersweet growth of human existence and sometimes viciously; as when an unexpected gut punch hits comes out of nowhere. But, that too is ok. It’s part of living. I might as well, as Nick Adams so pleasantly suggests, ride.

And so I did.

The future is far off, but it looms. I bought my PC800 with a plan. The plan was delayed but not defeated. I inch forward. Vague plans become more solid. What is fleeting and ephemeral moves forward, seemingly molecule by molecule, but it moves nonetheless.

I have hope.

I was carrying a box. The box had things that go with hope. I will store them in the PC800’s voluminous bedonkadonk. They are for the plan. I have a map. Many good dreams start with maps. I have an attachment that goes on the battery to allow me to jump start with the battery pack, directly through a charging wire. Thus, I should be able to jump start without pulling off panels to access an inconvenient battery. (I haven’t installed it yet.)

Then I have the pièce de résistance! A freshly printed and bound shop manual! I paid $70 getting that bad boy printed. I even bought a water resistant envelope to carry it. I now have the entirety of Honda derived instructional materials. Back in the 1980’s this manual went to dealers along with Honda’s new, carefully designed yet soon to be market failure, Pacific Coast.

The PC800 is an odd duck and it’s old. It has a Rubik’s Cube of cladding that was meant to be a killer marketing win. It scared bike guys away in droves. From what I can tell it fits together in ingenious ways as only Honda engineers could manage and (with a modicum of care) it pops open for most reasonable service. However, it’s not an easy “look at it and deduce what to remove in what order” situation. I have seen at least one such bike where a ignorant monster used a hacksaw (A HACKSAW!) to access the battery. Good grief, anyone with the slightest common sense would fucking know that the bike must have some way to remove and replace the battery and a hacksaw ain’t it. But people are stupid.

What kind of heathen sees this location and decides the best access method is a fucking hacksaw?

(Ironically, test driving that abused mangled bike sold me on the model as a concept. It ran like a top despite being beaten by apes, cut with saws, stored in a snowdrift, and otherwise subject to indignities that are mechanical war crimes. If a bike could run well after that… it was a good design! I didn’t buy that mess but was more confident when I bought a much prettier one that had been owned by a person who knew to patiently pull panels in proper order to mess with the battery.)

Anyway, people are apes and even many mechanics aren’t overly clever. Dealers in my area (which are few, expensive, and largely incompetent) won’t touch a bike like mine. Would they fuck it up? Who knows? Do they think they might? Yes. Thus maintenance falls to me.

I’m pretty sure I can handle routine maintenance; oil changes and such. Plus I’ve got hope that the well built little spud won’t need much. But there’s a whole different wrinkle. I have plans that involve very remote roads. Also, I ride alone. Shit could go south in a flash. This is the “working without a net” world where you don’t have cell phone service to call the tow truck that doesn’t exist. You have to get out on your own initiative. I have to be prepared. Which is why I printed the entire damn manual.

This is a real world test of “The Professor Theory”. Remember Gilligan’s Island? It’s an old TV show from just as black and white morphed into color TV. It’s so old that “the Professor” was assumed to be intelligent. I laugh just thinking of it. In the modern world I associate “professor” with words like “indoctrinated” and “irrational” and “intolerant”. (Forget what woke university swine say about “tolerance” and “diversity”, there’s never been a more lockstep, intolerant, uniform, population of useless looters on earth than the “professors” of modern time.)

Back to Gilligan’s Island. In the show, the Professor built radios out of coconuts, concocted plans to get the hapless castaways off the island, and generally acted as a voice of reason.

Gilligan, I’m three standard deviations smarter than anyone on the island and possibly eleven deviations smarter than you and your platonic male partner combined. Now get away from my coffee maker.

Also, it’s common knowledge that the only correct answer to the question “Ginger or Mary Anne?” is Mary Anne.

Of the castaways, guess who the Professor hung around most.

Even as a kid, it seemed clear to me that the Professor could, at any time, figure out how to build a craft, and with a bit of pluck, sail his ass home. It’s not that he was a boatwright and a sailor but that he wasn’t a dumbass and given enough time and motivation he’d figure it out. Alas, he was surrounded by idiots. Everyone else on the island, especially the weapons grade nitwit Gilligan, fucked up the Professor’s plans. Like clockwork, at the conclusion of every 25 minute episode, the Professor’s earnest attempt was thwarted as Gilligan covered everything in goo, or set it on fire, or ate it for dinner. The people around him dragged the Professor’s ass back into the crab bucket.

What’s this have to do with a service manual? Everything!

I plan on riding alone to places nobody goes. If something goes wrong there wont be a tow truck for me. And I’m absolutely not a good mechanic. I’ll have my inexperienced and untrained self, a handful of tools, and all the time in the world. And the book of instructions! If shit goes wrong, will I get off the island? Will I manage to read the manual, figure out the situation, fix what needs fixing, and get home? I guess I’ll find out.

While the PC800 idled in Honda-esque perfection, I popped the bedonkadonk to store these treasures.

Oh no! Fucking mice had moved in! I had anti-mouse satchels in there and it did no good. The rodent demons built an insulation nest right on top of it. They ate my goddamn gloves!

Panicked that they damaged more than gloves, I cleaned the mess. Luckily, that was the extent of the damage, no chewed wires or whatnot. I stowed the manual and maps and a tire patch kit and other parts of the dream and breathed a sigh of relief.

More in part 4 where I discuss the literary crack that’s the air under today’s wings.

After two weeks of intermittent rain (and plumbing issues enough to make me daydream about finally building that outhouse I’ve been meaning to build) there was a break in the clouds. A short glorious reprieve. I took a shower, fearfully watching the drain lest my recently resolved plumbing situation return to it’s former status as “I thought I fixed it but I didn’t”, and then I faced one of the rolls of the dice that northern people know all too well.

I walked out to the garage, key in hard, to find out if my least trusted motorcycle would start after a long winter’s freeze. I’d “put her to bed” ever so gently. I’d left StaBil infused gas in the tank. The battery was hooked to the umbilical of a maintainer. My garage is not heated, but it’s better than the brutal outdoors. I practically read it a bedtime story!

Folks without skin in the game might be forgiven for missing the import of the “first start of spring”. Of course it’ll start, it’s a mechanical thing bound by mechanical rules. Ha! Crom laughs at your naive faith!

Trust is earned, not demanded. It comes from long association and demonstrated performance. When a thing has done as expected, functioned as needed, done as instructed, been reliable when reliability is needed, then and only then can you trust it. Beyond that, it’s all bullshit.

But enough about politics.

I was too chickenshit to tinker with the plastic clad cream puff that’s my newest addition to the garage. I bought a 35 year old Honda Pacific Coast 800 just shy of a year ago. I believe it has the chops, but I don’t know that in my bones. I waited until it was a little warmer, lest the unobtanium cladding suffer damage in my Neanderthal hands.

The motorcycle I trust most is my ‘99 Honda Shadow. We (it and I) have crossed deserts and mountains. We’ve done city commutes and lonesome prairie expanses. It has never let me down. I trust it. So, as spring oozed into existence (with far too many fits and starts) I began by firing up the trusty Shadow. It started well and ran flawlessly; as it has since I bought it.

The Shadow is tough as nails but Honey Badger (my Yamaha TW200) has impressed me too. In the short time I’ve owned it I’ve decided the beast is unkillable. We (it and I) have bounced off trees, sunk in ponds, and crashed into ruts. I’ve overloaded it, overworked it, and over estimated my riding ability on dirt. I’ve flogged it mercilessly and it just doesn’t give a shit. It seems to thrive on abuse. It runs less like a machine and more like an immortal plodding mule that fears nothing and can occasionally charge like a rhino. I’ve happily zoomed around places through which I can barely walk. Honey Badger never falters. If I can keep it upright, the single cylinder brick shithouse will fling me through, over, around, and/or directly into anything at which it’s pointed. If anything on that man / machine pair breaks it will be me… the stupidly tough little motorcycle will probably outlast me. It’ll just sit there slammed into a tree or lying at the bottom of a cliff with a moldering skeleton on the seat. Eventually someone will brush it off, hit the starter, and it’ll leave my remains in the ditch as it has it’s next adventure. Alas, it’s not yet the season for off road mayhem. The trails remain closed (I think) and even if they’re legal, they’re soft and I don’t like making unnecessary ruts.

The PC800 is the new kid on the block. There is a ladder of trust in my garage, and the PC800 starts on the bottom.

Then again it’s a Honda and a model that’s well known for reliability. With minimal drama it started. Well done, cream puff!

Part 3 will ensue with my “Professor theory”.

Life sneaks up on you.

I’ve been meaning to blog but shit keeps happening. Literally.

On the heels (or at least within a couple months) of my earlier saga of plumbing (about which I blogged) I’ve had a second and entirely unrelated saga of plumbing. I didn’t need a second bout of the topsy-turvy whirlwind of uncertainty! Nor was it simple to diagnose and fix. I’ve had successes and failures. There’s been the thrill of victory. There’s been the agony of defeat. There’s been the creeping dread of when a thing you thought fixed… wasn’t. Each setback an undeniable reminder that we overclocked monkeys are but a hair’s breadth from civilization’s breakdown (or at least the loss of indoor plumbing).

It always comes as a shock when such things go wrong. It’s a short trip to becoming a defeated over-civilized fool. Eventually, you’ve exceeded your skillset. You can do naught but watch a turd circle its porcelain cage. A foul thing that’s doomed, pre-ordained from its inception, to go down to the black mire which it belongs. Yet it’s clinging to your world. It inserts itself in a place it doesn’t belong. It’s doing its best to stay relevant. It yearns to be a part of your life. It’s infuriating! A stinking loathsome disaster that does nothing but derail your busy day and reduce your standard of living. How we suffer when shit refuses to go down the hole where shit belongs.

But enough about politics.

Forgive the cheap joke. It had to be done. I’ll ramble more in part 2.

[Update: A commenter asked about my camp knife. I attached photos at the bottom of the post.]

Mrs. Curmudgeon has declared that she no longer camps. She once did. She doesn’t now. End of story. If I want to sleep on the dirt like a Neandertal that’s my business.

I accept that. I love her and she doesn’t drag me to events I don’t like.

However, I wasn’t far from home. So she dropped by for a picnic! She found me sound asleep in my tent… snoozing the afternoon away. I jokingly called her visit a “wellness check for wandering husband”.

She brought our dog. Actually the dog is her dog. It’s only my dog when it’s time to walk in a snowstorm. The dog is a happy sweet creampuff that charms everyone. It’s the size of a freight train but so damn fluffy you can’t help but hug it. The dog absolutely loves picnics but worries me in that it has the forest skills of a kitten. It might get lost halfway to the outhouse and it would probably die of fright if it camped in a tent with me. When the wolves howl near our house the dog hides near Mrs. Curmudgeon. (Maybe it’s protective of Mrs. Curmudgeon? All I know is that I don’t mind nighttime walks when wolves are about but our giant guardian dog will have none of that.)

I like that Mrs. Curmudgeon has a wonderful dog. I had a dog that was the best dog ever. I appreciated every moment. It died and this was to be the replacement but the dog and my wife bonded within seconds. I like that. The dog knew it was her turn.

The dog also likes it when I start a fire. That means food will happen soon. Have you ever seen a happier dog?

I skewered bits of onion, pepper, tomato, and marinated beef and cooked it over pallet wood in my Redcamp Wood Burning Folding Camp Stove. (I’ve used that little stove for years and it’s quite battered now. Well worth it!)

(Note: Amazon requires I specifically mention that I get a kickback if you shop from any links I post. Which is true, so I heartily encourage you to follow a link and buy anything. I never link to stuff I don’t like but in case you were unaware of the biases of the modern world, now you know.)

Yes, we had a firepit, but the folding campstove is a much more controllable fire. It also heats up faster and uses less fuel.

For skewers I used bamboo. Disposable and cheap. Why not?

Dinner was delicious, the dog begged shamelessly and got a ton of treats from both of us, and a good time was had by all. Then a single mosquito showed up. Mrs. Curmudgeon packed her folding chair in her car and vamoosed. The visit was nice though.

I packed up the leftover food, poured myself a drink, and settled in for a long productive session of doing nothing while sitting by the fire. Such relaxation!

After sunset I used my little shortwave to fish the airwaves. I own and highly recommend my TecSun PL-880. You can find it here on Amazon. I mentioned the search for it back on my blog back in 2014. I don’t use it much but I enjoy it every time I use it. It’s a good little radio.

In the massive ecosystem that is shortwave, you never know what you’ll catch. I was hoping for blues. I wound up finding something with acoustic guitars in Spanish. (Sadly not flamenco.) I don’t know what it was but it was delightful.

The next day, like every day, began with coffee. Here’s a hint, prepare in advance for soot. Nothing burns as clean as butane or propane and lately I’ve used everything but that. I coat my percolator and frying pan bottoms with bar soap. The carbon from whatever you’re using for heat builds on the soap and not the metal. It’s much easier to wash off later.

Note: I use both white gas and unleaded in the Dual Fuel stove. Unleaded does make more soot but it’s available everywhere. Wood is of course the sootiest.

In case you’re wondering, a well cleaned maple syrup bottle is a good way to carry a half gallon of water.

Breakfast had been planned as bacon and eggs. Since I had leftovers from last night’s kebabs it became; “put everything in the skillet and then put an egg on it”. Here’s some of my “leftovers”:

Dump it in a big mess and you’ve got an outstanding meal!

All chuckboxes should have salt and pepper. Don’t overthink it. Anything will do. You don’t need to spend a fortune on a “spice wheel”. I use these:

All too soon I had to pack up. I still had a few pages left of my book. I read them while happily sitting in an empty campground, next to a packed truck. I enjoyed the book so much I wrote about it in earlier posts.

Was it a big adventure? Heck no. Not every campout has to summit Everest. All you need is a chance to unwind in nature.

Happy camping y’all!

Update: The camp knife I’m using is a Gerber. It’s a fairly stout knife. I meant to use it for hunting but it turns out to be just right for cutting up veggies & cooking.

I meant to write about camping. I wrote about everything else. Meh.

Then, my in-box reported a few donations. I’m an easily motivated fool and wrote this post. After camping I’d wasted the opportunity to post a few happy photos and by golly I’d better whip out the keyboard and fix that!

Digression: Not like I’m a continuous ray of sunshine, but I put some thought into the ethics of posts which peer into the abyss during a time when everyone is jittery and half the populace is pissing itself. I try to limit consideration of things that cannot be solved. If it’s a done deal it’ll happen. Maybe at first it didn’t have to happen but when the choice is made, the Rubicon crossed, and the bridges burned, it’s best to stop looking in the rear view mirror. Better to write about butterflies.

Have y’all noticed I stopped bitching about the Federal Debt? It hit $10,000,000,000,000 sometime during Obamathon. I was like “huh, I guess it’s a done deal now”. Trumpski didn’t “fix it” because it was mathematically impossible to do so and probably he’s on board with debt anyway. (Only Rand Paul seems to care.) The Bidenverse has been spending like a monkey on crack. Now folks are shocked at the inevitable inflation that was inevitably inevitable. (Insert joke about Paul Krugman here.) I could post about it. But to what end?

In an amusing anecdote I had a $100 trillion Zimbabwe note… but I spent it.

Certain kinds of doom are neither our monkey nor our circus. So I try (and often fail) to focus on the light. Satirical squirrels and motorcycle dreams lead the way. And camping is the best light of them all!

Anyway, it was the donations that reminded me. I’d beaten the dead tree / ebook thing into the ground and was about to “peace out” when I realized “hey, lighten up dude”. It improved my attitude. BTW: I haven’t yet sent a thank you note but you know who you are and thank you very much!

If only to apologize for a camping thread that was all about literature and media delivery technology lets talk about my chuckbox.

A chuckbox is what campers use as a sort of “camp kitchen”. This is mostly car campers or possibly horse people. They’re too big for backpacking or whatnot. Most “chuckboxes” are filled with plates and pots and shit. Maybe a few spices or whatnot. I have all that but much more. I cram mine with all the normal stuff but also a stove, fuel, and enough food for a good long time. My idea was that (aside from water) I could grab the chuckbox and know for 100% sure I’d have enough for a few days. This is because I hate planning menus and shopping for grub. A “bug out chuckbox” suits me. I can say “fuck it” and blow town, knowing I’ll find something edible in there.

Lest you think it’s overkill (which it would be generally) most State / National Park campers are used to a grocery store or a McDonalds or something within a reasonable drive. I often (usually?) camp 50-100+ miles from the nearest open store; especially if it’s winter. That’s another good reason to cram a spare can of beans and a Mountain House in my chuckbox.

I use a Milwaukee Packout as my chuckbox. I love it! It’s tough as hell and stacks with other Packouts like Legos. It even looks cool. It’s probably not bear proof but they’d have to work hard to break it. I know it’s squirrel and bluejay proof. It’s waterproof and I wouldn’t hesitate to leave it out in the rain or snow.

If I ever join a cult, it’ll be based on Packouts.

As to details, the chuckbox is a Milwaukee Packout 22 inch Modular XL Tool Box. (I’d offer an Amazon link but for some reason Amazon sketchy about that one piece of Packout kit). It’s identical in size as the Packout Rolling Tool Box which I use for “tent stuff”.

(Note: Amazon requires I specifically mention that I get a kickback if you shop from any links I post. Which is true, so I heartily encourage you to follow a link and buy anything. If you buy something huge I’ll probably spend my little kickback on more camping stuff.)

Yes, the two components lock together tighter than two frogs fucking. I’m glad you asked.

I also use the Milwaukee 932471132 Packout Jobsite Cooler. It’s half the width of the chuckbox and locks down tight. It’s not the ultimate cooler but it’s a decent one. It’s a reasonable size for one guy. I can, if I wish, carry the cooler on my dirtbike too.

When I’m bringing my dirtbike for trail riding I bring a Milwaukee 15 in. PACKOUT Tool Bag. I put that on the other half of the chuckbox. It too locks down tight. I don’t use it for tools. I fill it with dirt bike things, a sweatshirt, maps, water bottles, gloves, etc… I ride solo and remote so I carry extra “survival” stuff on my bike. I’ve modified my dirtbike to accept half size Packouts. I can move the tool bag from the camping stack to the back of the bike in two seconds flat.

So if you imagine it, some bearded weirdo with a giant ridiculous Dodge shows up at camp. All these Packouts are bouncing around in the truck bed. He pulls out the wheeled thing and stacks the rest and they all lock together into a well planned out system. It’s heavy enough to kill a backpacker but perfect for a Dodge and he can effortlessly wheel it any reasonable “car camping” distance. You might think that guy has got his shit together.

The wheeled thing was originally the chuckbox, but the one without wheels has more internal room for stuff. And boy have I got a shitload of stuff in my chuckbox!

First thing’s first. Most people’s chuckbox doesn’t include the camp stove but mine does. See that plastic Folger’s can to the left? That’s an empty can that perfectly fits my Coleman Dual Fuel Stove. It’s such a perfect fit I swear the Folger’s people planned it. (It goes without saying that Folgers coffee sucks.)

Not only do I carry the stove in the chuckbox but I carry fuel. I bought a 20 ounce MSR liquid fuel bottle. It’s exactly the right size to fit upright but underneath the upper layer of trays! (Note: Someone is probably aiming to write about fuel stored inside a bottle, inside a tool box, which itself is tossed roughly in a truck bed. I don’t wanna’ hear it. My solution fits me and it’s not a rag stuffed into a wine bottle filled with gas. Nor am I interested in OSHA’s regulatory minutiae.)

Another note: when you’re fitting things together and getting them to work as a system, it’s worth it to pony up for the good stuff. Amazon is desperately trying to route me away from Packout boxes, Coleman liquid fueled stoves, and MSR brand bottles. Amazon is wrong! Get what works for you, not what Amazon decrees.

Some Packouts come with one tray that sits above the deep well where you keep your shit. There’s room for two. I scrounged up a second tray. It’s a slick arrangement. Little stuff like forks and soap and matches and skewers live in the trays and don’t get lost among the pots and pans below.

I probably have enough food to 5 days (or longer if desperate) in my chuckbox, but I cooked mostly fresh food. I’ll mention that in my next post. Stay tuned.

On my last campout I read The Road To Missanabie on dead tree. It’s not even remotely deep but I thoroughly enjoyed it. Just pure enjoyment. Highly recommended for the six guys out there that want charming stories about riding old motorcycles on the backroads of Ontario.

This was a dead tree book win! Nothing is quite so fine as sitting at a campsite flipping through a paperback. Such a simple pleasure; cheerful campfire burbling away, bourbon seeping though my bones, foolish luxury of a bright Coleman lantern burning away over my shoulder to illuminate the pages. Yes, I drink alone and read in the dark. What about it?

Anyway the book was such a good fit I took a photo.

The author doesn’t do anything earth shattering. He just fires up old motorcycles of the supposedly less reliable sort (he talks at length about the pros and cons of his antique Moto Guzzi bikes) and then he rides all over Canada (often to remote locations… which are my favorite places!).

Of course, I’ve got a bit of wanderlust myself. Y’all might remember I bought an “antique” motorcycle of my own last year? I bought it specifically to road trip from nowhere to nowhere. Just like Nick Adams. Apparently, I wanna’ be like him when I grow up!

Just like Nick Adams likes his goofy Moto Guzzi motorcycles, for a “touring bike” I rejected the obvious mile hauler Honda Goldwings and purchased Honda’s oft mocked market failure from the 1980’s: the Honda Pacific Coast 800. It is supposedly mechanically excellent and incredibly reliable and I know for experience it can carry a lot of luggage. On the other hand it’s repelling to most motorcyclists based on its visual aspects alone.

I absolutely love my PC800. I know it’s weird and (in some eyes) butt ugly but who cares? I like “ugly ducklings”. I also like how it “does what I want it to do without getting in my way”. (Hard to explain but a true thing.)

I’ve only ridden my PC800 (purchased used of course) a few thousand miles so far. It hasn’t been started in 2024 yet. I never got to take that big ride I dreamed of. But is a new year isn’t it?!?

My funky PC800 practically causes organ failure among chromed out Harley guys who care deeply about looking cool. (Non-rider females have called my bike “cute”… which I take as a compliment. “Cute” comments would cause Harley guys to freak out. Go ahead and tell some dude his chromed out cruiser with Screaming Eagle pipes and the optional skull motif paintjob is “cute”. See what he does!)

The PC800 looks so un-cool as to make the word cool belong in a different dimension of time and space. I humbly think I do that too. I bought one and had high hopes to ride it many miles.

Then things went south. I had a hard 2023. These things happen.

Anyway, Nick Adams turned his questionable taste in motorcycles toward my chosen ugly duckling and decided to get one of his own! Here’s a video of Nick Adams buying a $750 Honda Pacific Coast 800 and roaming around Canada.

Could there be a video more perfectly tuned to motivate my ass? Bike, location, attitude… everything is perfect! Adams hit me dead center with a shot of optimism I desperately needed. I can do naught but follow.

As they say, the first sample of crack is free. After that, you gotta’ do the thing!

After reading his book and watching the video… I looked at the still melting snow and sighed.

Then I got “pro-active”. I bought a high quality paper map of Canada.

It cost $14 and it’s very nice; fiberglass “paper” that’s hard to tear, really excellent resolution, etc… It’s worth $14. (Especially for a man who’s been inspired to ride to the vicinity of Nowheresville Canada!) I intend to navigate by paper map… as God intended!

You have to be careful buying it. Amazon will do everything in it’s power to route you to purchase damn near any other map. I hate how Amazon just can’t shut up and serve the thing I request but it is what it is.

I was very particular about the section of Canada I wanted and Amazon is baffled. I suppose it should be. There are parts of Canada where even Canadians hardly go. This is the place I’m headed. Here’s the map:

I also bought a cheaper more generic “gas station map“. It cost about half of what the National Geographic map costs and it’s less than half the quality. Two is one and one is none.

I don’t know if I learned anything about dead tree books versus e-books but I did get a happy and appreciated kick in the pants. Nick Adam’s low key happy little adventures spurred me to get back to living. Neil Peart’s very well written and deeply thought consideration of grief was just too hard on me at the time.

Two Canadians. Two books. Two motorcycle road trips. One I couldn’t bear. One lifted me up almost by accident. Adam’s whimsical Moto Guzzis did what Pert’s superior BMW couldn’t. I’m glad for both authors, they both did their best. Now it’s up to me and my shiny new maps (and the weather). Wish me luck.