Adaptive Curmudgeon

Other folks showed up. Some locals had been snug in their homes during last night’s storm. Others had been at anchor, either sound asleep or getting battered… I’ve no idea.

There was pressure in the air. Like a species waiting to migrate; we needed the signal.

I was nervous and mentioned it:

“I get all jittery before I launch. Like I’m going to screw up and wind up swimming. I can’t wait until I get a little more experience so that goes away.”

One of the more nautical looking guys replied:

“That never goes away.”

I picked this as a mellow replacement to canoes? Shit!

Then everyone headed out. I don’t know why at that particular moment. Maybe it was a change in the winds? For all I know it was pheromones and hand signals. My new “first mate” showed up, we hiked to car jail, and carpooled to the ramp.

[Note: I use the term “First Mate” with respect and kindness, I don’t want to violate someone’s privacy by using their name. If “First Mate” is insulting or a euphemism for something they do on Epstein’s Island (egad!) that’s not my intention.]

My intended design specs for my boat are “from driver’s seat to sailing in 15 minutes”. This is, apparently, a tall order. I think I’ll get there though.

[Note: My nautical terms are meant for a blog reader and not Popeye. If I’m misusing vocabulary don’t dogpile me.]

Rigging a boat is a flurry of knots and lines (if a rope is nautical it’s a “line”) and a dozen minor but required tasks. I have to affix the rudder, raise the mast (by hand, it’s pretty light), throw in various gear, unstrap from the trailer, remember the oars, find my life vest, tie on the boom and yard (a boom is the pole of wood on the bottom of the sail that will hit you in the head, the yard is a diagonal boom at the top of the mast/sail), etc…

Then comes the haulyard. The haulyard is the thing that hauls the yard up the mast. Clever name eh? When you pull it, you get to say “hoist the mainsail” non-ironically. [For the knowledgeable readers, I’m rigged with a balanced lug.]

When I’m ready to pull the haulyard I discover I screwed up. Every time I forget to thread the line through the block (pulley) at the top of the mast. Down comes the mast, the line goes through the pulley, through a ring that has been recently relocated, around the mast (to keep the sail from shifting too far away from the mast), and stoutly tied to the yard’s outer end. Bowline… rabbit comes out of the hole, around the tree…

Meanwhile me and First Mate were having a verbal dance of politeness. My rigging was out of whack. I knew the sail wasn’t rigged quite right. It looked weird but I couldn’t say how. The positioning and tensioning of knots is something of a trial and error situation.  First Mate knew what was wrong but deferred to me because it’s my boat, I built it, and possibly because I look like a serial killer. I deferred to First Mate because I know jack shit about rigging and am not a slave to ego. I was there to learn! End result: there was a lot of deferring going on.

Him: “Um, I don’t mean to be rude but why did you tie the ring there?”

Me: “I picked an arbitrary spot somewhere in the middle of the yard. The instructions said ‘tie a ring on the yard’ but had no measurements.”

Him: “I think it would be better over there.” (He points to a place 10” up the yard.)

Me: “Awesome.” I untie it, move it, and re-tie it with an incredibly bad knot.

Him: “Um, I’m sure it’s OK but why did you tie that knot?”

Me: “Because it works on a tent. Please show me how to do it better.”

He undoes my mess and reties with a much cooler knot. It simply shines with awesome. He’s worried about annoying me but I’m delighted. This continued all through the process. In the end it takes at least half an hour but the sail is a zillion percent more awesome.

This is when I learn you can “hoist the mainsail” in a parking lot. Who knew? Every launch I’ve ever done has been a floundering mess as I drift helplessly around the ramp/dock trying to hoist the sail while already afloat. That’s how Jack Sparrow does it so I assumed it was necessary.

I back it down the ramp (with glorious sail already hoisted!) and…

STOP THE PRESSES! IS THAT A SUNK SAILBOAT JUST OFFSHORE?

Yep, there’s a 25’ fiberglass sailboat lying on the bottom. It’s in shallow water so about 1/4 of the front deck is above water. It’s probably holed. Nobody knows why it’s there or where it comes from. I have terrifying visions of some poor bastard dealing with huge expensive repairs. The sails are not deployed so there’s conjecture it blew away from a marina during last night’s storm? That’s better than a dramatic “All Is Lost” situation. There are no bodies floating about and no sign that it’s that sort of scene. Everyone shrugs and ignores it.

I’m pondering the spiritual ramifications. Launching my homemade craft within sight of a vastly more impressive and yet totally fucked boat seems arrogant: “Hey, Poseidon! I see you ate a 25′ commercially made sailboat for breakfast but I’m going to launch this tiny plywood box anyway. Bite me.”

On a more practical lever, all is well. For every other launch I’ve floundered helplessly at first, but this time the sail is ready to go. A quick tug on the mainsheet (the rope you use to position the sail) and it catches the wind. We sail away from the dock like a boss!

Launching is more a matter of “getting the boat going” than anything else. We’re gently underway but not fully deployed. That said, it’s already working smoother than me splashing about with oars. Our controlled motion gives me plenty of time to put down the daggerboard and rudder. (In earlier launches I tended to get blown to land before the sail was doing its thing.) Once the boards are down, we make a quick turn (either a jibe or a tack?) and boom… we’re in business! Thanks to the new tweaks the sail has a nicer curve than usual. Huzzah!

Impressively, my little craft is perfectly happy with the weight of two full grown men. First Mate handles the sail, I handle the rudder. Secretly I’m calculating the mass of First Mate. Imagine all the cool camping shit that would fall under his weight limit! Is ballast a good thing? Soon I’m daydreaming of sailing home with a deer after a nautical big game hunt.

How fanciful the mind wanders when it’s happy!

It was a leisurely morning. I didn’t expect that! I assumed rugged macho sailor types would be sail at dawn; either with or without some nautical rationalization.

I’d mentally steeled myself for an early morning. All my life I’ve been surrounded by morning people. As a night owl I’ve accepted my lot in life; 300+ days a year (year after year) I’ll be dragged out of bed by some social norm that doesn’t give two shits if I’m groggy and miserable. Then someday I’ll die.

I fuckin’ hate mornings.

Well aware that I’m the odd duck, I darted out of my tent as soon as I heard voices. Indeed, everyone was up and fixing breakfast and so forth. I did my level best to be polite and be ready. I didn’t want to be left behind. (This is unusual for me. 99% of the time I’m doing my own thing and don’t give two shits about sticking with any group.)

I was ready but nothing happened. WTF?

Folks hung around the sopping wet campground. Everything was listless. If I’d known I could have slept another hour! I coaxed a smoldering fire to life (barely) and settled in my chair (which was bone dry!) to percolate pot after pot of coffee. (I down coffee damn near as fast as the old-style percolator brews it. First cup is a mite weak, but the latter ones have a deep and rich taste. I’m slowly mastering the art of making perfect coffee and keeping a steady supply at the ideal temperature. If you meet someone with this skill, congratulate them.)

Eventually, the truth dawned on me. Getting up early and fixing breakfast wasn’t a sign they were early risers; it was a matter of everyone’s tent leaking. Once again, my supertent had shined. My tent floor was bone dry. Also, my cot is something like 19” high. It could have been ankle deep water and I’d have slept through it. All hail the raised sleeping cot!

From time to time someone would stand up, turn their back to the fire, and stare at the waters. They did this with a cool photogenic pose… pensive… deeply observing the situation. It was majestic as fuck.

I had no clue what they saw. Nor did I have any idea what would happen next. Nautical words were spoken. Was the wind too light? Would it build during the day? What about the fog? Would the wind become a broad reach from the south? Was the chop short? I have no idea what a short chop on a broad reach means but it sounded like serious shit.

Frankly I didn’t care and it was a nice break. I’ve spent too much of my life leading the way. I was absolutely basking in “being a follower”. I would follow when they walked toward the boat trailers. No need for me to worry my pretty little head about the chop on the reach. Is this how most people live their whole lives?

Thus, I had plenty of time to drink coffee while smarter people than me pondered the day’s events. Nice break for the Curmudgeon. (More to follow.)

Among the best things in life (insert Conan quote here) is sitting around a campfire listening to stories. What a great evening.

Folks who build boats (no surprise here) “think outside the box”. They find unique solutions to life’s problems. While I’d been fretting over “operation old guy” everyone had their own thing going on.

One of the guys hadn’t even set up a tent! The sky was cloudy and “troubled”; hot and muggy air might very well resolve into a rainstorm. At first, I thought “this dude is totally hard-core” and felt oddly guilty about my “supertent”. I’ve often laid a sleeping bag on the ground tossed a tarp over my body and called it good… but I never liked that for rainy conditions. With the huge flashy tent had I betrayed the “toughness” of youthful times?

Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! I was reading it all wrong! Eventually the tentless fellow wanders off towards “car jail” mentioning something about “sleeping in my Prius”. I was about to make a joke about it when I remembered the vehicle back at “car jail”. It was hitched to a trailer with a cool, long and narrow “sailing canoe-ish” craft. (I’m sure there’s a nautical term for that kind of boat but I don’t know it.) He’s probably getting a zillion miles an hour to tow his sleek narrow boat. The perfect fit of tow vehicle and trailer gives me new respect for Prii (that’s the plural right?).

My “solution” is crude by comparison. Running the biggest consumer diesel on the market to drag a 100 pound craft is hurling dollars out the window.

Then he mentioned he can run the AC all night long in a Prius. It’ll cycle the engine on and off silently as needed. I was in the presence of genius!

I went ape coming up with my tent / cot combo and it truly is the lap of luxury… but AC all night long? That’s leveling up!

A few other folks were already asleep in their boats; happily anchored off shore. That seems pretty cool. My little boat isn’t suitable for such shenanigans. (That said, there are lunatics on the ‘net who’ve slept in tiny PDRs like mine. My back aches even mentioning it.)

Another guy had neither a boat nor a car. How the heck did he get there? Apparently, he just met the Prius fellow and he tagged along. He’d brought a tent but no car or boat. Easy peasy. Carpooling all day in a car with a stranger is what will happen to me if I’ve sinned and go to hell. Yet these two hit it off great. People impress me. I mentioned I know jack shit about sailing but I have a boat. His ears perked up and soon I had a knowledgeable “first mate” for tomorrow’s sailing. How awesome is that?

I’d have liked to have sat by the fire forever but bourbon and the long drive had taxed me. I retired to my cot (in what was now forever cemented in my mind as the “supertent”). I collapsed on the soft mattress but slept uneasily in the heat. I dreamed of air conditioning.

Two camping successes merit mention. First, if you’re of the sort that defaults to overly heavy sleeping bags, bring a sheet when it’s hot. A $6 sheet from Walmart was a big help. Also, my “bug zapper flashlight lantern” really worked. I hung it from the “supertent” ceiling, set it on the blue “bug zap” setting, and ignored it. In a half hour the handful of mosquitoes that would’ve pissed me off all night were dead. Wow! The screened in tent was a perfect use for an “attract and kill” approach.

Later that night the wind picked up. I zipped up the windows and since I had room I pulled in my tote-o-gear and my chair. (Nobody likes a wet chair in the morning.) Perhaps this was unnecessary, a tiny hint of clear sky at the horizon hinted it would pass quickly.

WRONG! The tiny hint of clear sky was receding.

ALL HELL BROKE LOOSE! Lightning, thunder, torrential downpour, four horsemen of the apocalypse, etc… As with the windstorm on my first trip the tent walls bowed in. However, the wind on the last trip had been completely off the hook and this was just a normal thunderstorm. It seemed no big deal for the tent.

I couldn’t sleep in the racket so I clicked on my lantern, sat in my chair, put my feet on the tote, and read a book. I have never ever sat upright in a folding chair inside a tent… much less while riding out a serious thunderstorm. Nice!

Soon it passed and the temperature was 40 degrees cooler. I burrowed back in my bag (which was ideal for the cooler weather) and slept like a baby.

Eventually I’ll hit the water, stay tuned.

A.C.

P.S. The next morning I noted with embarrassment that my outlandish showy tent “shook a bit” in the storm. Folks had been asking me about its performance and I felt obligated to admit it was “a bit loud” during the worst of it. Everyone laughed. I was the only one in camp that didn’t get either wholly or partly soaked in the downpour. Another successful test of the “supertent”.

P.S. A battery powered mosquito fryer seemed suspiciously like a dumb gadget when I got it. However, it has been surprisingly handy. It’s great as a lantern, battery life is fine, and the zapper really zaps. It not a magic wand in the forest but it’s quite efficient in the enclosed space of a tent (or Pruis?). You’ll do well to add a Nebo 6587 Z-Bug lantern to your multi-layered bug defense. Don’t let the toy like appearance dissuade you.

Sail/Camp Adventure #2 of 2019 got off to a rough start. Preparation and departure was a fiasco. My “boat rickshaw” was a complete cock up. It wasn’t fitting on the trailer. I had miles and miles to go to the rendezvous point but a lawnmower disaster that couldn’t be avoided busted my schedule. That, coupled with the loading disaster, meant that I left a solid four hours later than planned. Shit happens.

I drive a lot but I’m trying to take it easier on myself lately. I force myself to take breaks. Stop and smell the roses y’all. Long term it’s wise self-care.

But I had blown the departure phase and had to make up for it during the driving phase. I kept my ass glued to the truck seat and flogged the Dodge. We were to meet at a campsite that’s somewhat unique. This particular campsite has a gate that’s sometimes closed. I had to get there before deadline or I’d be stuck in a hotel somewhere.

I made it. I swooshed in just before sunset. I paid my fee at the gate (which was manned by kindly but very strict people). Secretly, I nicknamed the gate “Checkpoint Charlie”. They have a policy where you can drive your car to your campsite but then you must drop your crap at the campsite and drive your car back out to the parking lot. The car must stay in the parking lot, in vehicle jail. When it’s time for you to leave, they will open the gate… ONCE! They are very proud of their policy and appear to have no sense of humor about it. I’ll admit it probably cuts down on hoodlums, noise, and so forth but there’s a big mental difference between “park your car and chill out” and “you get one and only one chance to select the items from your car that you wish to retain a campsite”.

Addled from a very long drive, menaced by the gatekeepers, and mindful the sun had already set, I rolled into camp. I started grabbing shit off my truck in a hurry. I didn’t want to forget anything and I figured the easiest way to make sure I didn’t forget something was to set it up.

The whole point of this outing was human interaction and the other members of the group were politely saying “hi”. I was wigged out by the impending “closing of the gate” and only offered a perfunctory greeting. I was polite but distracted (also sore from the long drive). I figured I would be free to talk by the fire in due time. Folks offered to help me set up my tent but I was like “nah, I got this” and (shockingly) I did.

Proof! My Gazelle T4 tent practically sprung upright on its own (I don’t usually believe marketing hype but this thing really is super-fast to setup.) Eyeing a cloudy sky, I put on the tarp and staked the crap out of it. (A happy kid was with the group so I handed him a hammer and told him to check my work. I love giving kids hammers!) Elapsed time? Maybe 2 minutes.

Soon I was dragging my cot into the tent. It takes a bit longer to snap together my super overkill Teton Sports Outfitter XXL camp cot than it does to erect the monster 4 man tent where it lives. The cot takes ½ the tent. Being a fan of overkill, I tossed in a rolled up “floor protector” on the half of the tent where I’d be walking. (It’s a carpet runner.) Then I unrolled my glorious and back friendly Teton Outfitter XXL mattress. The cot and the mattress are huge overkill compared to an inflatable mattress on the ground but my God it’s comfortable. It’s also basically instant. I did it all in less than 5 minutes.

Without putting much thought into it I set down a couple big ass totes. They look neat and organized but they aren’t. Just that morning I’d hurled gear hurled inside as a big jumble. But it’s water resistant and looks orderly even when it’s not. The last step was a cheap fold out chair.

Total time to setup camp? Maybe 10 minutes; 15 at the outside. After years of lightweight wilderness camping it all seems so luxurious as to be decadent.

Then I drove away before the Checkpoint Charlie people could come and harass me. At the parking lot I abandoned my “big red security blanket”. Walking back in the dark, I realized I’d done something not unlike the old guy cooking his fish. Sure, my gear is newer so I lose some “cool points” but I’d grabbed stuff smoothly and set it up in a flash. Also, even though I sound like a salesman when I list off all the new stuff, it wasn’t overly expensive. I’d figured out a system where all the parts fit together well.

Sometimes I don’t look like a dumbass. Go figure!

Dinner went smooth. I’d been too rushed to stop at a grocery store to fill my cooler with human food. As a backup I’d grabbed a handful of Mountain House dinners. They’re pretty tasty and super-fast to cook. (“Chicken and rice”, delicious.) The kid that came with the group looked hungry and had never seen Mountain House. I gave him half the bag and he loved it. Soon he was pestering his dad to get more “stuff like that”. Yes, I’m probably going to hell for that. Finally relaxing, I switched my percolator from “boil water for Mountain House” to “make a pot of hot cocoa”. I like cocoa with a generous helping (about half) of bourbon.

Then and only then could I let go. It’d been a heck of a trip to get there but I was pleased with myself. I’d setup camp and made dinner with a surface ease that equaled my “river runs through it” imagination.

Tongue loosened by bourbon and enjoying the night sky, I even enjoyed chatting by the fire. Who says a stray dog has to always be a stray? Things were going my way and it was going to be a great weekend.

More to the story soon.

Years ago, I interrupted a harried road trip. I stopped by a beautiful river, grabbed my lunch, and boulder hopped out into the stream. I perched on a rock beneath the shade of a pine and basked in the scenery. The air was clear, the temperature was perfect, the birds were singing; it was one of those times when the world is heartrendingly gorgeous.

I live as well as I can. I did well stopping to rest on that rock. I rarely have regrets. I regret cutting my time on that rock short.

As I was enjoying my sandwich, a fairly old, but well-maintained, truck stopped. It had a fairly old, but well-maintained, slide in camper. The driver backed between some trees; driving as only an experienced driver can. He shifted forward and backward a few seconds to get level and shut down.

A guy hopped out of the truck. He was fairly old, but well-maintained; just like his truck. He gave me a pleasant nod and disappeared into his camper. A minute later he emerged completely outfitted for fly-fishing. He’d changed faster than Superman in a phone booth!

Without the slightest hesitation he strode from the truck and splashed into the river. He started casting. I have a fly rod but never use it. My “go to” fishing method is a cheap open face spinner reel on whatever rod was on sale last winter.

Despite our different approaches, it’s always a delight to watch a fly fisherman casting. He was graceful and unhurried. He looked nothing like Brad Pitt but was definitely channeling that damn movie from the same river. (I haven’t watched it. The only movie about fishing I’ll tolerate is Jaws.) On reflection, I think I misspoke. He wasn’t channeling anything. He was the spirit that fiction wanted to capture.

In no time he landed a trout. I expected him to release it or keep it in his creel bag for dinner. Instead, he assessed the fish, nodded to himself and waded straight back to his truck.

Then he performed another miracle. In less time than it takes me to make a bologna sandwich he’d hung his waders from a tree, setup a little table in the shade, fired up a camp stove, filleted the fish, cracked a beer, and was halfway through cooking.

I can do everything he’d done, but I can’t do anything so smoothly. I’d trounce around dropping shit on the dirt, misplacing things, and generally looking clueless. I’m always a little chaotic. I’d take more time checking six pockets to remember where I left my matches than he did to setup a whole kitchen. If I had a little table it would invariably wind up stashed in the camper somewhere inconvenient and blocked by a half ton of other stuff. For that matter, I don’t own a camper.

Awestruck, I thought “this old guy has it together. I dearly wish that someday I’ll be as cool as him.

Soon I’d finished my sandwich. Time to go. I would’ve loved to strike up a conversation but it was not to be. Presumably he was retired and had time to kill but I’m not and I don’t. I was behind schedule just from eating a sandwich. He was of the river and I was just visiting. It was a moment in time I didn’t seize. My loss.

…

Continuing reluctantly down the road I observed several more pull off at various points on the river. Some were empty, others had people like me taking brief breaks, a few had millennials with mountain bikes, and so forth. However, several spots had fairly old, but well-maintained, truck and camper combos. Now that I was paying attention, I’d discovered a secret society!

I’d seen the heretofore unknown world of supercool retired dudes who camp and fish like a boss! I was jealous. I want to be like them when I grow up.

…

Back home, I explained my discovery to Mrs. Curmudgeon. Awesomely (as always), she didn’t laugh at my blissful vision. She let me ramble about the difference between “cool” and “workin’ on it”. She smiled as I enthused about the magic old dude who set up camp in less time than it takes me to dig my backpack from the jumble in the backseat of my truck. I think anyone who is “doing their own thing” is cool and I do plenty of nifty things myself, but now I had a vision of style. I’d been in the presence of a master. I was determined to learn from it.

This spring I made a first step. I treated myself to new camping gear. I’m adapting from my usual setup (small light gear hauled ounce by ounce in a canoe) to the more domestic world of camping near my truck. I leaned on my imagination about the retired fellow. He seemed to have his shit together. I’d be like that! None of his stuff was expensive, it was just ideally suited to his environment and not stored in disarray.

Mrs. Curmudgeon coined the term “operation old guy” for my vague notions. She’s quite supportive. My first step was a tent swap. My old and trusted (but finicky and unforgiving) 4 season backpacking tent has been retired. Using a hard-core expedition tent had been forcing me to make concessions to the gear instead of the gear serving me. Who wants to burn 20 minutes to setup a small rugged tent suitable for summiting Everest when you’re on flat level ground and the load had been carried there by diesel instead of the sweat of your brow? Fortunately, a new tent is pocket change compared to buying a slide in camper. It has already earned it’s keep dissuading me from the hotels I was starting to default to.

For my second “walkabout” of 2019 would “operation old guy” thought experiments continue tobear fruit?

More to come…