Adaptive Curmudgeon

[This was to be the last post in the series and the series was to end on election day. Alas, I spent too much time pondering the spiritual and gallivanting in the shoal waters of Luggable Loos and other camping gear. At the risk of scrambled chronology, I post these thoughts today; election day. The text goes live via database scheduling, I’m not even sure I’ll be on-line. The rest of the story will continue tomorrow.]

A few days after my return from camping I got an e-mail. Apparently, the urban county that supposedly needs election judges… doesn’t. I’d clearly indicated I was “willing to travel” on their form but they didn’t care. My volunteer application had been routed from the urban zone where staffing is inadequate (and shenanigans might or might not happen) to my rural county which is duller than dirt but has no drama. My rural area dutifully reported to me (as it has before) “we don’t need anyone here”.

They did not call. I am not going.

I’m not upset about it. First of all, the situation spares me a decision I didn’t quite know how to handle. It also spares me several hundred dollars in expenses; not to mention a long and unwelcome trip. Finally, I feel like I did what I was meant to do.

I felt obligated to offer help, which I did. I never felt obligated to kick down the door and force myself on a system that doesn’t want or need it.

I was prepared to do a task. That is all. That doesn’t mean I was looking forward to it. It’s better to do something than bitch about the world. I can truthfully say I wasn’t inert in the face of challenge. It’s the second time in a year that I was ready to go to the mat. It’s the second time I was spared an unpleasant situation. It’s the second time I’m very grateful.

I’ll probably spend most of election day in the forest; as the universe has decreed I should.

I type this well before the actual day of the vote. This text will be stored in the great database in the sky; from which the data will auto-post as scheduled. The post will happen regardless of events. The post will happen if the elections are squeaky clean diamonds of sanity that secure “the consent of the governed”. The post will happen even if everything gets shutdown at midnight and trucks full of ballots arrive at key locations where the windows are blacked out in the complete anthesis of transparency. Mobs in the streets or happy citizens waving little flag stickers… who knows which… or both.

As for myself, I don’t even know if I’ll be on the grid the day the election plays out. I don’t even know if there will be an election day or a month of “lawfare” leading to mushy compromises.

I’m not sure it will do me any good to watch it in real time. I’m not sure it’ll do anyone good. The last time I went to bed in one universe where things were seemingly ordered and there were a few weird hiccups in a few key places. I woke up in another universe where everything had changed. Concertina wire was part of elections and soon we had political prisoners doing hard time for “parading”.

I’ll always felt split by that. The dichotomy is almost visceral. It’s like the innocent act of sleep put me in a parallel universe; we’re here now and there’s no way back.

I don’t know what will happen this election. Neither do you. I pray that it is drama free. I still don’t quite know what to think of the last election. For once I’m not alone. Nobody is really happy with it, on either side. All evidence indicates our society neither confident about the future nor successfully digesting past events.

The guy who showed up at my campsite seemed to think it wasn’t a big deal. It will be as it will. Politics distracts from reality; it divides us from the spiritual. Also, it’s not inconceivable that clean behavior could restore faith in our institutions (though it’s asking too much to heal our society in one fell swoop). I hope it makes things better. And if it doesn’t, that too is how it should be.

Take care everyone.

A.C.

[I return now to the story (and life) so rudely interrupted (for better or worse) by the elections. I hope y’all have been celebrating not just political wins but re-emergence of a society that can manage proper transition of power. Meanwhile, back at camp, I’d just finished a small motorcycle maintenance issue and an exhausting tire change.]

After all that work, I wasn’t in the mood to run my freshly gassed and packed dirt bike. I grabbed my shotgun and my hunting jacket (which is also bristling with survival gear) and headed out on foot. As always, I was alone. This time I was in a genuine “trackless” area.

If you don’t go off trail you might not know this but there’s happy nature and there’s grumpy nature. Two sides of the same coin. The same glorious natural environment that lightens your heart can be a stone cold bitch that’s out to kill you. It all depends on the circumstances.

The place I’d camped was at was the dead end of a spur road that forked into a big chunk of nothing. Five minutes out of camp I was in a roadless area that was last “civilized” a century ago. It has no “hiking paths”. It doesn’t even have UTV trails.

There’s occasional logging action out there but most of that is winter based. Heavy equipment comes in through the swamps when they’re frozen. If you follow their tracks in summer they’ll lead you astray. Overall, this place was a navigational mess.

Navigation tends to settle on three things; points, edges, and areas. There were no edges to the nothing. No “if you get to the ravine you’ve gone too far”. No “the area terminates at a big obvious lake”. No points either. Occasionally a tree that’s a little bigger than the other trees, but nothing that would show up from a distance as a legitimate point of reference. No good views of a mountain peak; I couldn’t even see the sun in the western sky. Nor could you navigate by “areas”. A solid block of pines or a solid block of aspens would give two things upon which to fix your place in the world. This place didn’t have discrete chunks of different conditions so much as a messy dispersed stewpot with a little of this and a little of that. Everything blended into a giant uniform matrix of “this messy stuff here” and it went from forever to forever in all 4 directions.

I wandered around out there hoping I’d see a bird that didn’t hear me coming from a mile away. I was aware of the risk I was taking. I’m perfectly skilled at such things. This particular terrain was extremely maze-like but I’ve been in mazes before. The sky was cloudy and the air was chilly. It felt like it wanted to rain again; it would be a cold icy rain for sure. The sun would set in due time and I couldn’t even identify the sun itself. (The whole sky was a uniform gray.)

I went about a mile; checking behind me often to make sure I’d get back out. Finally I decided the risk reward equation was too far gone. Reward was 4 ounces of bird. Risk was some hunter finding my skull in a decade. A lot of it was that I was tired. If you’re going to do solo things you need a mind firmly under your command. You need to rationally assess your own condition. If you want to pretend you’re something you’re not… stay in town.

It was late afternoon, I was bushed, the place was a maze, it might turn to cold drizzle at any minute, and I’d never been there before. Red flags all. So I turned around and hunted back toward camp.

Call me a wimp if you wish. In my defense, I’ve lived a lot longer than some people who’ve ignored nature’s hints.

Plus, I was just starting a re-read of a good book!

More to come…

Inevitably “tourists” arrived. This is a beautiful place and it’s game season. I knew there would be more action that usual. Even so, I’d underestimated the draw.

All morning, UTVs with 2 or 4 people each kept showing up. It was always the same, the first thing they’d do is run for the outhouse. Then they’d wander off at a much more relaxed pace. There are more UTVs out there than you’d think.

One notable group was a grandma/grandpa set in a shiny new UTV followed by a beaming kid on an archaic 3 wheeler (ATC). Don’t go all safety nerd on me, the kid was riding it just fine. And boy did he look happy!

A few people rolled by very slowly to peer at my tent (which is unusual in design). They did this while failing to address me, the dude sipping coffee right next to the object of interest, how gauche!

One lady emerged from the outhouse and then made a beeline to my camp to look at “the little hut”. She had a chicken and wondered if a tent like that would keep it warm. I suppose so, but it would be the most expensive chicken coop in creation. I offered that if it keeps me alive it’ll keep a chicken alive but for my chickens I just make sure I’ve got enough chickens that they can huddle together. Keeping one chicken warm is hard, keeping 6 or 12 is no problem at all. She ignored my practical idea, which sums up 2022 precisely. We talked about ice roads for a while and then she wandered off. Her chicken must be a hell of a pet.

One fellow stopped and gave me a thumbs up. He had a question; “Is that a Russian tent?”

“Yes it is.”

“Nice.” He enthused. Then he added one more thing. “Fuck politics, I like that Russian tent.” Almost like he was afraid he’d get caught having committed Crimespeak he immediately clammed up and rolled his UTV out of there. Poor guy.

Having encountered a guy afraid of the entire topic, I ponder the Russian angle to what should be peaceful camping equipment. I bought the tent for several irrational reasons; none of which were geopolitical. I don’t have anything against the people of Russia. I think they suffered enough within the Soviet Union; which is gone. It’s not 1962; Khrushchev, Castro, and Kennedy are all dead. I feel like nobody knows the USSR no longer exists and the the Russian Federation is a different thing.

Back on the topic of the tent, I shocked myself at my own commitment when I spent the money. It simply felt right and I did it. It was only a few months after the Afghanistan retreat and not 6 months before a new improved war popped up. There’s always a new improved war. Would sanctions have interfered with the purchase? No idea. Was the eternal calling my bluff? I don’t know that either. How would a man know that?

It’s clearly of Russian origin but it’s built to very high standards. It’s rare. It’s not something you’d find at Gander Mountain. I think that’s funny because a lot of the stuff at Gander Mountain is made in China. I don’t know if I only had one shot to own this tent. I know I’m glad I made the leap when it felt right.

I spent a scandalous length of time making an overly elaborate breakfast. This was a form of procrastination. I really am tired from “life”. I was just out of steam. I had brought my motorcycle (“Honey Badger”) and I’m equipped to take the little beast on trails looking for game birds. But there’s a time when the right thing to do is to percolate coffee and do nothing. It was a decision made as much by my body as my mind.

I began reading a tattered old paperback. Robinson Crusoe!

Soon a new kind of tourist began filtering in. Bird hunters started arriving. UTV’s with 2 or 4 orange clad, shotgun toting bird slayers made the same beeline to the same outhouse as the “tourists”; but they did it with more armaments. Pretty soon so many groups of UTVs had shown up that I couldn’t tell when one cluster left and the next arrived.

I’d only read the first chapter of Robinson Crusoe when the onslaught of people finally drove me into motion. With coffee perking lazily on the fire I was set to read all through a chilly but pretty day. I gave up when three UTV’s (some with four seats) showed up toting a grand total of 5 men, 2 women, and 2 dogs. How many birds are out there?

I rolled my motorcycle off the trailer and prepared to go… somewhere. Alas, I discovered an annoying maintenance issue. The chain was too slack. The proper solution is to jack it up on a bike stand (which I don’t own) so the rear tire is suspended. After it’s suspended loosen the rear axle and twist a couple of “snail brackets” to push the rear axle back a bit. It’s not complicated.

Last time I did this while camping I used an old tree stump to elevate the bike. It worked. This time there were no appropriate stumps. That made the simple task into a struggle.

I strove mightily, finally solving the situation by balancing the bike on front tire and kickstand while perilously leaning it over my hunched shoulders just enough to lift the rear tire off the ground. It was a dumb, dangerous, solution and hard work too. However, it got the job done. I lubed the (now tight) chain, checked the gas, loaded the usual survival equipment (I ride loaded for bear), and was ready to go.

Frankly I was pleased I’d solved the chain dilemma. “Nothing has worked out but everything has been more or less drama free” I thought. Everything could have been a disaster but I’d handled each new issue like I knew what I was doing. Nice.

Then I made a discovery that kyboshed everything.

The truck was on a flat! Not cool when you’re a million miles from nowhere! (As a practical matter a rear flat on a dually is something I could probably ignore it enough to limp to a garage. Not that there were any garages anywhere nearby.) I wanted to ignore it and simply ride away on Honey Badger; let “tomorrow Curmudgeon” deal with it.

But it was better to deal with the task at hand when many people were around. There were six people hanging around the outhouse. Including a sweet old retired couple cooking a picnic on a little BBQ. Something could go wrong. If that happened it would be advantageous to my safety. Also, what if I needed to haul the tire to a shop? My motorcycle can get me to civilization but it can’t haul a truck tire. There was a chance I’d need to beg a favor!

I lowered the spare, checked that it was holding pressure (it was, and frankly it’s nicer than my other tires), and started struggling with lug nuts. 8 lug nuts sounds cool until you have to do them by hand. I jacked up the truck, swapped the tires, re-installed the lugs, set her down, and retorqued the lug nuts. That doesn’t sound like much but it was quite a workout.

I’d started the weekend already tired. Then I’d done some light motorcycle fiddling. I’d followed up by swapping the rear tire on a truck that’s just about as big as consumer trucks get. I was out of steam!

I also noticed something, the instant my truck was in the air EVERYONE VANISHED. Literally dozens of people coming and going TURNED INTO NOBODY AT ALL. What’s up with that?

Well I’m used to working without a net so no big deal. I’d done all that grunting and lug nut torqueing without so much as a nod from any of the UTV people. There’s no mystery in that. The UTV people that might have been incoming seemed to know to go elsewhere. Now that’s a mystery.

More in the next post…

I was exhausted. From one point of view I was just a loser sitting on a tree stump whining at the universe; a distraught redneck talking to himself next to a campfire. From another point of view, I was working through the mysteries of life; just as all men have done since the dawn of time… or at least the portion of mankind that is aware enough to care.

Indeed, what is the purpose? Why are we here? And finally, what’s the right thing to do?

The fire had died down. I checked that it wasn’t going anywhere, pissed on a fern, and called it a day. I felt like I’d just taken a test. I hoped I’d passed.

Stumbling in the darkness, I sought out the tent I’d bought with what I thought was going to be my last paycheck. I spent big bucks on my hot tent and the thing is a fortress. I’d already setup the interior firebox (knowing that starting a fire in the middle of the night is hard on a half asleep brain). All it would take as a match to warm things up. But didn’t light it. I was too worn out to mess with it. I crawled into my sleeping bag and went straight to sleep. I was slightly chilled from my long vigil but it didn’t matter. I lacked the energy to light the woodstove.

I was disappointed when I woke after only a brief rest. Then I checked my clock and realized I’d slept for hours. The only reason I was awake was because I had to take a leak. I guessed I’d been zonked out for at least 3 hours.

It was raining. I don’t have a thermometer but it was biting. It seemed just barely warm enough for the rain to be rain instead of snow. I lit the fire and the tent went from chilly to sauna. In 10 minutes it was noticeably warmer, in 20 it was like a toasty little oven. If you’ve never camped in a hot tent, you’d be surprised. It’s quite the experience.

I adjusted vents and throttled the stove’s air but I couldn’t fall asleep. Except I woke up an hour later. I’d been falling asleep so deeply it’s like time warped. (Before you get all safety freak on me, I have a smoke detector in the tent.)

This time it was the sound of an engine that woke me. Some jackass was coming to visit the clan that was camped nearby… or maybe the Mad Max dudes escaped Australia. Whoever it was revved a loud diesel engine like he was going “roll coal” in the forest.

He probably meant to arrive loudly as a joke to his compatriots. He probably didn’t realized I was there (my tent is pretty well camouflaged and I know he didn’t see it). I heard his boisterous arrival at the camp greeted with some shouting. I could imagine what they were saying: “Quiet down jackass, my kids are sleeping!” Which, I have to admit, he did.

By 7:00 am the fire was out. I took a leak and restarted the fire and boom… out like a light. I was dead asleep AGAIN. Apparently, I was REALLY tired.

You might think I’d greet the day that followed the quiet thoughtful night with the happy demeanor of a man who’s soul feels pure. Nope, I hate mornings and I hate everything about them. I’m only happy after I’ve had my first cup of coffee.

I may have mentioned this before but humans annoy the shit out of me every friggin’ morning. For some reason they get up too early. I wouldn’t mind that but as soon as they’re awake they start talking. People, if observed from a mental distance, sound like a fucking penguin rookery. I, when alone, can go all day without talking. I’ll nod or say a word to the dog, but that’s it. Most people open their yap the instant their eyes open… like baby birds. Ugh!

Anyway, I don’t know why this is but I’ve also noticed that many people camp in groups and that people who camp in groups always start making a racket at the ass crack of dawn. This always involves a lot of talking and invariably pisses off the kids that they’ve brought with them. You can tell by the crying of jostled and annoyed infants. It’s as predictable as night and day. The poor kids are sound asleep in comfy sleeping bags and then some nitwit ruins the whole thing for no particular reason. If you can’t sleep in when removed from cell phones and jobs, when the only thing around are trees and dirt, then you can’t sleep in until you’re dead… which is probably how it is for some of them.

By the time I was sipping coffee they’d been shouting, yelling, laughing, crying (children want to sleep late too), and clanging pots and pans for a good long time. They rolled out in a caravan of 3 trucks, one ice shack, a pop-up camper, and a couple of UTVs. Presumably they were hunting, but do you need to roll out with your pop-up to chase a pheasant? Probably they were in a rush to get home and away from the quiet splendor of nature.

Anyway, as soon as they were gone the place was dead silent… as I prefer.

The silence and emptiness gave me a moment to test some camping equipment. I bought a luggable loo years ago. I’ve never used it and I wanted to see how it would work. This was unnecessary as there were two very fine outhouses near the church, but what’s to become of humanity if a dude can’t shit in a bucket once in a while?

Turns out, it worked very well. Nice to know.

Did I end a post talking about a dump? Yes, I did. I could’ve planned it better but that’s not how I roll. If the story pauses after a shitbucket, the story did that and not me.

Let’s see if I works out better in my next post…

My hectic day finally drew to close. The campers off in the distance were long asleep. Presumably I was the only awake person within 20 miles. An owl hooted in the forest. Just once and that was it. This was a night when nature was dead silent.

This was the real reason I was here; to think. I needed thought free of the distractions of civilization (or more recently the distraction of the wheels coming off of civilization).

Uncharacteristically, I left the whiskey flask in my gear. I boiled some water and added a packet of cocoa. The expiration date on the cocoa was 2018! I’d been carrying that packet for a good long time. It tasted fine to me.

The sky was gloomy. Too thick to see stars, no moon. The air was humid and cold. I drew up close to the fire… and waited…

It didn’t take long. A bearded fellow with long hippie hair (not unlike mine in days gone by) glided up to the fire. He took a seat on the log on the other side of the fire. He looked at me. “Are you ready for your annual performance evaluation?”

“What?!?” I stammered. “I am not going to envision the almighty as an HR exercise!”

He smiled. “The imagination does what it will. You’re already trying to figure out how to explain legitimate spirituality on your little blog. You just can’t imagine a glowing white angelic being… so you see me like this. And you’re going to describe it as you wish. You’re already wondering if you’re going to piss off someone when you write it like your mind sees instead of the market tested Hallmark card version. But that’s exactly how you’re going to write it.”

“Performance evaluation?”

“Flat joke? Oh well, it’s your mind that made it, not me. I’m eternal you know.”

The being took a drag on a cigarette and relaxed.

“Smoking? Really?”

“I was nailed to a post. You think I’m going to be a chill hippie… in your head? Have you seen your head?”

“Um, from the inside I guess.”

“Just be happy I look like an unemployed coal miner and not a towering old testament menace. I can be Lovecraftian if that’s what you need. Your imagination isn’t all squirrels and Subaru’s you know.”

I shivered at that thought. He continued. “Plus, I’m eternal. It’s not a health risk to me.”

It’s hard to argue with that. I was seeking peace, not a heavy metal video. If the mind does what it does who’s to complain about it? On that night, in that cold air, with the slightly damp firewood and the wet moss under my feet… it seemed like the eternal would have a pack of smokes. It doesn’t have to make sense to be true. “Um, about happy.” I began, “I want to say I’m glad I still have a job.”

“Gratitude. Good.”

“I was willing to go to the mat. I didn’t have to. Honestly, I didn’t expect that. I figured I’d buy this tent”, I waved to the tent, invisible in the darkness behind me, “with my last paycheck.” I paused. “Beyond that I didn’t have a plan. So it’s nice to still be employed. I guess more people had more spine than I thought.”

He looked at me. He knew there was more.

I tried to articulate the unfathomable. It went nowhere. Maybe Hemingway or Shakespeare could to it, but me… I write about squirrels.

“Humility. Also good.”

I took a deep breath. I was alone by the fire, in the darkest night, off in the distance I heard the faintest of chimes. Up in the bell tower of the decrepit old church someone had hung chimes. They didn’t tinkle merrily. They were hushed… somber if you will. Moving just a little in the cold breeze; high up there above the trees.

I sniffed the air. There was indeed a breeze, however slight.

“Are you why I’m here?” I glanced at the darkness where I could sense, if not see, the old church.

“Hard to say. You wanted to be in a field 10 miles away. But it’s you that drove here. Things happen as they are meant to happen.”

Ugh, I hate philosophical circles. I should get a HAM radio and chat with someone in Mongolia via Morse Code. Talk about the weather.

“I’ll give you a hint.” He leaned forward. “Regardless of why you’re here, I’m here because of you.”

That seemed a good thing. Then it all came out. Just an avalanche of things that I’d been holding in. Some were deep concerns over the fate of man. Others were minor gripes and irrelevancies. We all carry a bag of problems, I dumped them out on the fire. I probably bitched like that for 20 minutes straight.

“You done?” He was nothing if not patient.

I searched my mind. For once, there was no back burner filled with things good and bad. The tank was empty. “Yeah. I think so.” I felt relief.

“Feel better?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Good.”

“Anything else you need to say?”

“Um, I get it now. I didn’t get it before.”

“You still thinking about history?”

“Yeah, why people didn’t get out of Dodge before things went crazy in the 1940’s. I didn’t get it before but I understand it now.”

“Happy about that?”

“Not really.” I said honestly.

“That’s OK. There are a couple parables about knowledge. You might want to ponder them.”

Ouch.

“And the thing that’s your most recent conundrum? What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

At this moment I’ll interrupt to fill y’all in on a thing that yours truly has been doing. A tilting at windmills if you will. I’m now a certified election judge. I did this of my own volition but frankly, I want nothing to do with it. It sounds boring. I don’t want to sit around all day watching people vote. But if honest people do nothing then honest people will have done nothing.

Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, my rural home county has hardly any need for such thing. Elections in my area are quite adequately managed by sweet little old ladies and smiling geezer farmers. Before COVID, grandmotherly attendants would give you a handmade cookie when you voted. I believe my county’s vote count is as pure as the driven snow. Some of that is the ladies and geezers and some is straight up math. Nobody finds a spare truckload of mysterious ballots in a county that’s just a rounding error to the rest of the state.

Anyway, I did the training and I submitted my application but the county doesn’t need me. Probably they won’t need a new election judge until one of the existing ones dies.

In a fit of civic minded-ness I’d offered to be an election judge in a far off city. It’s like any city; good people and bad. Suburbs and slums. Some honor, some corruption. I’d offered to drop everything on a three day window around election day. I’d offered to leave my rural comfort zone and venture into what I perceive as a festering den of iniquity. I offered to drive all the way on my own dime. I’d have to stay in a hotel on my own dime too. Then spend all day in whatever zoo I’d found myself. Hopefully watching nothing important happen. Ideally I’d be an irrelevancy handing ballots to people and stickers when they were done. My worst nightmare would be to find a chaotic mess and get sucked into their morass of corruption. Regardless, I’d have to spring for another night in a hotel. Then spend another several hours driving home.

All this I’d offered to do before realizing it conflicted with something very important to me; a long anticipated hunting trip. I was twisted in knots over the conflict.

Hunting trips cannot just be moved around the calendar. There’s an entire ecosystem of rules and regulations. Nor is it a trivial distraction. To me, the hunt matters. Yet, I’d volunteered. All for the good of society. Like an idiot, I’d painted myself in a corner.

“Painted yourself in to a corner?” He shook his head. “Sometimes you really do fail to communicate. Folks are going to think this is a minor thing; like a sports fan missing the game on TV.”

“Which is the right thing?” I whined. “Hunting is the cycle of life. You know how it matters to the people for whom it matters. Yet am I to ignore a society determined to decline? Both are the right thing to do. But they both can’t happen at the same time.”

“What will happen next?” He repeated back to me.

I’ve never volunteered in this way before. I don’t really know. “I guess they’ll call.”

“And then.”

“I guess I’ll go.”

“If you are called, you will go.” He repeated.

And then I was alone in the forest.

The story continues in the next post…

I had driven, with a truckload of camping gear, to exactly the forest meadow I wanted. Then came a huge plot twist. (There’s always a plot twist. That’s why dispersed camping is nothing like renting a designated campsite.)

The meadow was in an area where “dispersed camping” wasn’t allowed! Land under Federal control has a plethora of rules, limits, regulations, zones, and plans. When I’d been there a few weeks prior I’d checked and rechecked the map. I was sure the meadow was appropriate for “dispersed camping”. But when I got there it obviously just wasn’t so.

It was on the wrong side of an arbitrary boundary line! How had I missed that line just a few weeks earlier? It was pretty clear once I noticed it. I glared at the map and the sign in the forest and considered it from all angles. I was screwed. No amount of squinting at the compass would change the boundary. The meadow was OK for hunting or a picnic but not OK for overnight camping. Damnit!

I try to follow natural resource rules as best I can. Obeying rules (when they’re reasonable), is one of the traits that separate the honorable man from politicians and assholes. Nobody would have cared (or noticed) if I camped there but I’d have known and that’s all that matters. I certainly could have “hidden my camp”. It would be easy to setup out of view of the road. The road is almost always empty anyway. It’s dirt, hardly used, and goes from nowhere to nowhere. (When I’d been there for the picnic we saw only one truck drive by in 3+ hours.) But that wouldn’t change the fact of my behavior. I could cheat, but that’s not my way. (One caveat; in a true wilderness emergency I’ll setup camp anywhere necessary and do so without hesitation.)

I got back in the truck and kept driving.

So now what? Sunset was coming fast and I didn’t have a plan.

I sifted though my mental model of the terrain and pointed the truck toward a different place. Half an hour later I was at a sweet little semi-abandoned church in the forest. It’s on Forest Service land but the vicinity had a few camping spots and fire rings indicating it’s fine for camping. It wasn’t my original plan but it was the only nearby option. I found it just about a year ago. I wrote about it here:

“Nestled beneath tall pines, was a crude little church. It was in an area that had clearly been flattened in an old forest fire. These pines must have grown after the fire, and most of that happened after the homesteads and villages were gone? The little church was older than the trees around it. It was shady there and sweet smelling. I counted seven UTVs and one ATV. There was a smattering of picnic tables. Some were unused, some had UTVs and people picnicking there. A bit further off, a group had started a fire in a steel ring. They were cooking over the fire and lounging in chairs.”

I was nervous about this. The planned empty meadow (without the slightest hint of services) fit my style. It was terribly remote but that’s just a logistics issue. Solve problems in the order and urgency in which you see fit. Provide for yourself what nobody else is providing. Easy peasy.

The new alternative was entirely different; it was a church!

Who knows what that entails? A church means a community. Someone takes care of that church. People must worship there. They might invite me to attend. There might be introductions and, God forbid, hugging! I like the idea of churches and I’m super glad people go to them but I’m a part of no groups. I have a great deal of respect but no desire to join. I was near sick with concern I’d be doing some faux pas on the holy grounds of the little church.

Alas, you do what you must with what options you’re given. At that moment I needed a firepit and flat ground; and I needed it soon. It was the best option left.

As I’d remembered, there were a few informal spots and an outhouse adjacent to the old pioneer church. I remembered a slightly removed little opening, the remnant of a long gone homestead. That would put me a bit further away. But as I swung the truck around I saw it was occupied by a clan (or family). There were three trucks, two campers, a handful of UTVs, some dogs and (judging from the sound) a few kids. I couldn’t impose upon that!

There was naught for me but to camp closer. I was right in the shadow of the church. This wasn’t just any church. It was an old revered aging pioneer church from a lost time and built to serve a town that’s gone. If you’re going to trod your unworthy feet around a church uninvited, it ought to be one of those crappy urban shopping center churches. They lack the whiff of holy. This was totally different. I have reverence for that which merits reverence, and this place is special. I sometimes show my respect for special things by keeping my ignorant self away from them. This whole situation made me nervous.

I parked the truck and hoped I had a good enough soul for what I was about to do.

The small but cozy campsite was a couple hundred yards from the happy clan. Closer to the church. There was nobody else for miles and miles. Despite my misgivings, the site was gorgeous. It was nestled deep in a shady conifer grove. The ground was flat and mossy underfoot. (No need to worry about grass!) There was a nice, if somewhat battered, picnic table. There was a rusted but serviceable fire ring. Tree branches spread overhead, outhouses were stationed not far away, and an endless flow of water from a little artisan well burbled in the distance. It was beautiful and had everything I needed. I could hardly complain.

The temperature was dropping fast but, wisely, I didn’t rush. I setup my hot tent with extra care. I staked down more than the minimum, fretted over the orientation of the door, installed the optional “hard door” (a sweet feature on this tent!), and so forth. Even so, it didn’t take long.

By my reckoning it took less than 45 minutes to go from “truck is parked” to “ready to ride out the worst of winter conditions”. That includes everything. No cheating! Camp is ready when the cot is setup in a well staked tent, and the sleeping bag and mattress are rolled out, and there’s some minimal firewood positioned in the hot tent near the stove. (And of course the stove and chimney are assembled and installed.)

In that time I’d even lit the lantern. It was sitting on the picnic table with my food box and lawn chair close by. Everything was ready to start cooking dinner.

45 minutes is not as fast as my patented 11 minute summer camp setup, but it’s good for what I was doing. (I’ll never break 11 minutes with a winter setup anyway. There are far more details for winter stuff; half of which is the assembly of the stove itself.)

With practice I’ll have it down to half an hour for “truck parked” to “fire lit”. You never know; heat and shelter in 30 minutes might save my life someday.

Speaking of heat, the firewood in the tent was the last of my pallet wood… my pallet source has dried up! The area around camp had tons of fuel but a lot of it was fairly wet and the rest was partly rotten. Using adequate but punky materials, I lit a smoky fire in the fire ring (not in the tent’s wood stove). I used the fire to dry out more wood for use later in the evening. It was getting chilly!

The clan in the other campsite was relatively quiet. Nothing to complain about. I had plans for an elaborate dinner but there had been just too much hassle just getting there. I defaulted to Mountain House.

When all needs had been attended to, I did the most important thing of all: I sat by the fire for many hours.

More on that in the next post…

I’d found the perfect meadow in which to “dispersed camp”. I planned to return immediately but a few weeks passed. The last week of the delay had been the worst; a complete meat grinder. By the time I finally headed out, I was hardly in a spry mood.

To further complicate things, my preparations hadn’t been entirely successful. I’m incrementally and cautiously leveling up my camping gear and skills. Someday I’ll be prepped and confident enough to ride out a blizzard on a glacier in Greenland (I exaggerate but less than you’d think). That’s a tall order so I’m moving slowly. Winter “dispersed” camping (which I did in my youth but that’s a long time ago) takes more skill than a State Park in July. Equipment helps (my hot tent is awesome) but that’s just one piece of the puzzle.

I’d planned an alternate vehicle to the trusty Dodge (which is a fine 4×4 for farm chores but too damn huge and unwieldy for deep excursions into the season of snow). The alternative didn’t work out. It’s been down for WEEKS and there’s nothing I can do about it. These things take time. (I’ll post about the alternative vehicle when it’s actually running… unless I don’t.) For the moment, I’ll just keep using the Dodge. It might become an issue in true winter but it’s fine for autumn.

Other details loomed and I wasn’t sure what I’d do about them either. The meadow I’d targeted for dispersed camping had waist high grass. How would that interact with a hot tent? I’ve zipped out the tent’s floor. How would a floorless tent work in deep grass? I still have the floor and keep it in the tent bag. Should I re-install it? I wasn’t sure. There are pros and cons to fabric floors. This is especially true when you’re playing with different surfaces like ice and snow.

If you’re thinking there’s no drawback to a zipped in floor, it’s because you’re thinking in theory but nor reality; or limiting yourself to summertime camping on designated tent sites. It’s a whole different ballgame when you start melting into the ice… or “dispersed camping” in deep grass.

Another thought was the lack of an outhouse. [WARNING: Scary details about being outdoors follows. If you like the outdoors only in terms of the Ansel Adams commemorative calendar you hang on the eggshell white walls your urban condo… run! Skip this part and wait for the subsequent posts which deal with more palatable issues, like man’s relationship with the almighty and the concept of organized religion versus individual spirituality; you know… the lighthearted stuff.]

At the most basic level, the lack of an outhouse is no big deal. Bring a shovel (or don’t) and do like the bears. I’ve done that for years. (Since I’m “truck camping” I’d tossed a long handled round pointed shovel in the truck bed. Why not have the best shovel for the job?)

However, I plan to “level up” with my camping. First to camping on full frozen ground and (eventually) lake ice. It’s a pita to batter a “cat hole”  into frozen ground, and you can’t simply shit on lake ice! (Well, I mean you could but it’s socially unacceptable. Even in our modern fraying society, there are some things that simply aren’t done.)

The solution is simple enough. Two years ago I bought a “Luggable Loo” (that’s the name brand). The “loo” is nothing special. It’s a 5 gallon bucket (a nice high quality one) with a toilet seat & lid. The concept ain’t rocket science.

At the time I was a little embarrassed to have spent real American dollars on a special bucket when could just grab one from the barn. I’ve got a zillion buckets I’ve been using for chicken feed or whatever. However, there’s cheapskate and there’s stupid. I think it’s sound logic that once you take a dump in a bucket, the bucket has no other legitimate use for all eternity. I’m not going to re-use a dump bucket for the chicken feed. Nor do I want to approach every bucket in the barn as if it has a biological IED within. I wanted a discrete, special purpose, can’t be confused with farm materials, bucket. I have standards!

Even on the drive to camp I decided the “investment” was worth it. The lid is handy! It clamps down firmly and it’s either watertight or nearly so. I can (and did) toss it in the back of the truck and ignore it. It won’t blow open at 70MPH or have 6″ of stagnant rainwater within when you need it.

Further, the seat is non-trivial. It’s not great but it’s more than a tree stump. What man is so fiscally constrained that they deny themselves the luxury of a seat? Doth one’s buttocks not merit at least some comfort?

Not rocket science but worth having.

In addition to the “Luggable Loo” (affectionately and accurately called “the shitbucket”) I bought a 10 pack of Double Bag Toilet Waste Bags (affectionately and accurately called “shitbags”).

These aren’t ordinary bags and they cost more that ordinary bags. You’re talking $2.50 a pop!

They have some sort of chemical voodoo which the marketing blurb calls “a biodegradable powder that instantly turns any liquid into a gel“. This might be the sort of thing that’s more important for women? Men who are out camping aren’t putting anything liquid in the shitbucket. They mark their territory willy nilly. (See what I did there?) As for the other 53 sexes, they got bigger problems than camping logistics.

The second feature of the expensive bags is that each bag is two; a bag within a bag. At first that seemed gimmicky but as I write this (well after the campout itself) they impress me. When you seal it the thing it’s like a vault. Not stinky or yucky. If used properly, the bucket is nearly sterile when you’re done. If you’re going to be carrying the ultimate icky thing, double bagging is worth it.

Inner bag exposed.

Outer bag sealed so tight it’s like you’re storing it for future generations.

So yeah, that’s all TMI and also a moment of weakness in that I spent more than the minimum needed for equipment. But I have no regrets. All in all, it was worth it.*

One last note: outdoor equipment  must be tested. If you’re doing stuff and you haven’t done that particular thing with that particular gear in that particular environment, do a little experimentation before it’s mission critical. Things never work exactly like you’d predict.

Back to the story…

Unfortunately, my timing was a disaster and I never got that extra time I’d allocated to testing and unforeseen issues. I intended to arrive around noon. I failed. I got to the meadow an hour before sunset!

Showing up at noon would give me hours to figure out if I did or did not want a zipped in tent floor. I wanted time to experiment with grass management techniques. Ignore it? Stomp it down? Throw down a tarp? Should I bring a gas weedwhacker? Remember, this is a hot-tent. There would be a wood stove on top of the dry grass and it would be inside the tent.

Nobody wants a grass fire inside a fabric tent! (OK, the subsequent blog post would be epic… assuming I survive. But that’s the only positive I can imagine.)

An early arrival would also give me time to test my little electric chainsaw. I’d cut up a righteous pile of fuel from the nearby logging slash.

That’s how things go from “no big deal” to “somewhat chaotic”. With my new tent and an unknown surface and other gear slated for testing and a cold moonless night coming up, things were not “dire” but they were approaching “interesting”. Maybe the word isn’t “dire” or “interesting”. How about “sub-optimal”? Regardless, I was behind the eight ball before I even started.

Then came a huge plot twist. More on this in the next post…

A.C.

*One last note: two years ago I purchased a Luggable Loo for $19.99 and the 10 pack of Double Bag Toilet Waste Bags for $21.99. (At the time I was pissed off that 10 bags cost more than a whole bucket!) Now the $22 bags now go for $26 and the $20 shitbucket now goes for $45 (!!!!). Just like there’s two consecutive quarters of declining GDP and the press tries to find words other than “recession”, I suppose we can describe a 125% increase in the cost of a shitbucket as something other than “inflation”. As always YMMV.

The next morning I woke more rested than I’d been in months. The mattress had been heavenly, the quilts cozy, and the pillows fluffy. The brutal rain of the evening had soaked all of the great outdoors but we’d been dry and toasty all night. Through the big picture window the chilly sunrise was glorious.

There’s no getting around it. Waking up in a tidy little cabin with a merry fire in the gas fireplace is just plain better than crawling out of a sleeping bag in a tent. I even took a long hot shower… GLAMPING!

I insisted on percolating my own coffee instead of using the kitchen’s provided coffee maker. Still fretting over my singed beard, I decided to forgo the explosive BBQ and just use the kitchen stove. The coffee was delicious as usual.

Preparing breakfast became an issue of scale. I deliberately “over-pack” food. If I’m waylaid by weather or a vehicle breakdown extra food is the different between mere inconvenience and misery. Also, nobody does “hangry” like Mrs. Curmudgeon. It’s good to have snacks within reach.

Mrs. Curmudgeon saw me preparing breakfast and helped. She wound up chopping up most of what I’d packed. It felt like enough food to feed a dozen lumberjacks; which I was then obliged to cook. In the end, we had a delicious breakfast but I’d need a week of farm chores to burn off all that food.

We were in no hurry to leave the cabin. Then we dithered around the local vicinity for a few hours; including the dog taking me for a good long drag down a length of beach. The dog may be a puppy but it’s strong! I’ve worked with log skidders that have less torque.

We turned back toward the heart the National Forest. It was just as gorgeous as the day before. Without any particular plan, I began looking for a good place to stop and have a picnic. I spied a particularly pleasant forest meadow. We stopped and I started a fire on the cleared earth of a logging skid trail. The area was just plain wonderful.

The place was gorgeous and I was glad we’d stopped. I felt at peace. It was a grassy meadow that checked all the right boxes. Sweet smelling, pretty, level, easy walking, and plenty of room to park. There was a logging slash pile a few hundred yards away which would yield infinite firewood! I thought “this is a good place, I shall return to camp here”.

I decided I would return the following weekend to test my hot tent (and gain a little experience with it). As much as I was enjoying glamping it’s also good to spend some time truly immersed nature. I needed to have a chat with the creator. If the creator was anywhere, he’d be in that meadow. I imagined it in my mind. I’d listen for wolves howling in the distance and watch the skies for shooting stars. Some time alone would help me digest a weird and unsettling year that is disconcertingly part of a string of unsettled years.

With that in mind, we hung around the happy field. We had a fine picnic. The dog heartily endorsed the area by running orbits around us like a chipmunk on crack. She chased sticks and dug in the soft earth and at random intervals rolled in the dirt like a fluffy white mini-buffalo.

I started a fire and grilled up some more brats. I couldn’t talk Mrs. Curmudgeon into more coffee but I setup chairs for both of us. Neither one of us was in a hurry. It was very relaxing. It was nice to watch the meadow (and the dog provided comic relief by actively trying to trample every blade of grass within reach). We enjoyed the smells of autumn. It was easy road access yet surprisingly remote. I firmly settled on the flat grassy meadow as an ideal setting for winter camping.

After lunch, I grabbed my shotgun to amble a bit. I was theoretically looking for game birds but really I just wanted to stretch my legs in the easy walking grass. Rather than let the dog pull my arm out of its socket (again!), I left it behind. Mrs. Curmudgeon doesn’t hunt and happily remained in her chair with a good book. The dog whined like it was the end of the world as I walked away. Truly a piteous sound! I felt guilty.

There was no need to feel guilty. I later learned that the exact second I was out of sight the dog completely forgot about me. It insisted on getting in the car. The puppy strongly indicated to Mrs. Curmudgeon it was time to go; as if to say “the bearded one is dead, we all knew it would happen eventually, let’s go get ice cream.”

I returned an hour later (empty handed) to find the dog sleeping in the car like a happy toddler while Mrs. Curmudgeon idled the engine. When our kids were tiny we’d sometimes strap them in the car seat and drive aimlessly to lull the tykes to sleep. Apparently the dog needed the same treatment. The car’s idling convinced the dog it was in motion. It had been restless until it was sure that the car had driven off; abandoning me to the forest! Having accomplished that, it was blissfully asleep.

Mrs. Curmudgeon explained the dog’s behavior to me. “Man’s best friend”? So much for that! Our dog would gladly leave me for dead!

I joke, but it’s OK. Dogs choose their owner. Our last dog chose me. It was loyal, grumpy, noble, stupid, courageous, dedicated, steadfast, and brave. It bonded with me like welded steel. I loved the dog and it loved me. It would have slayed a dragon to protect me (or anyone else in my immediate circle). Our house was a fortress with that dog inside! It cared for the whole family of course, but it was always at my side. The two of us were inseparable. One sad day the dog passed on. The loss nearly killed me. I still mourn but also treasure the memories.

The new puppy was supposed to be mine and restart the cycle. Instead, it chose Mrs. Curmudgeon. Things work out not as planned but as they should. They’re two peas in a pod. The dog is perfect for her. It’s sweet, cuddly, fluffy, fun to be around, clueless, scared of the dark, kind, beautiful, and (now we know) will happily leave me for dead in the forest. This amused Mrs. Curmudgeon greatly. It makes me happy to see her and the dog so close.

For each person there are rare and appreciated “perfect” dogs. I had my dog. Someday maybe I’ll have another. In the meantime, it’s my wife’s turn. This is her perfect dog; one which likes ice cream and car rides and figures if I’m dumb enough to go alone in the forest I deserve what happens to me.

That sunny day I didn’t get a game bird, but the hook was set. I eagerly planned to return to the little meadow on the very next weekend! Of course life intervened and it took much longer. Depending on how you measure such things, it didn’t happen at all.

More on that in the next post…

Why do I start a series at zero? Because of course I do!

It was mid-morning during my most recent camping trip when I thought “nothing has worked out but everything has been more or less drama free, that’s odd.” Five minutes later I saw the Dodge’s tire. Flatter than a pancake. I was screwed! Everything clicked into place and I relaxed; “That’s more like it…”

The story of my recent camping trip begins long before the flat tire denouement. It begins weeks prior when Mrs. Curmudgeon outwitted me like a chess grand-master outwitting a rabbit. (All hail the crafty lady that can steer her Curmudgeon so subtly he hardly notices. Nudging my grumpy supertanker of a blogger’s mind back and forth can’t be easy, but she’s damn good at it.)

The fall weather was gorgeous. I had a mind to go “frolic”. (Of course I’m of the age where I ought not be “frolicking”. In fact, such a verb never officially applied to me. Even in my youth I wasn’t a bouncy frivolous thing… that’s reserved for dipshits and hippies.) Also, I do not go (or admit to) “hiking”. “Hiking” has been marketed to death. It has become a word firmly under the thumb of the manbun and spandex crowd. Even when I’m hiking I don’t say I’m hiking; for fear an REI catalog will spontaneously generate in my hand and I’ll wind up buying a $80 set of whimsical titanium bear bells. When I’m in the forest “not-hiking” I’m often carrying a shotgun but I take it easy while small game hunting. Also, I’m forever scouting for places to spend a night under the stars. Thus, I intended to go not quite hunting, not quite camping, and definitely not hiking; which is close enough to “frolic”.

As the leaves changed and became more glorious, my desire to frolic became undeniable. Unfortunately, I’d had a mild injury. Nothing too serious but I’d missed a few day’s work and I’d been taken down a peg. I was in no condition to be rambling far and solo (which is the only rambling I know). This made no difference. I’d do it anyway.

I made preparations for the upcoming weekend. Toward the end of the week, Mrs. Curmudgeon announced “I’m going too”. This was a surprise! In her youth, Mrs. Curmudgeon and I camped as a couple but now it’s a solo thing. Some years ago she announced there would be no more sleeping in tents for her. Furthermore, if I was to tromp aimlessly through swamp and over mountain that was my madness. It had nothing to do with sane people like her. She’d read a book and monitor my satellite communications in case the Mounties needed to be alerted. For her, scenery is a thing to look at, not roll in.

Um… OK. So what did this mean? Plans were changed. Before I knew it, Mrs. Curmudgeon had me packed in the passenger side of her car. Our rambunctious puppy (a huge white Great Pyrnees) was in the back seat. The only acknowledgment of my initial backwoods exploratory intent was that I was holding a map and I’d crammed the cargo area with food, camping gear, and a shotgun. (I was hoping to see a game bird.)

Clutching the map, I guided us through one of my favorite locations. I kept us carefully on tame-ish roads that wouldn’t annoy Mrs. Curmudgeon or hazard her adequate but mild vehicle. I sunk into the seat a little. I was more worn out than I’d expected. I was enjoying being chauffeured around.

Every now and then I’d announce “good bird habitat”. Mrs. Curmudgeon would stop the car and sit patiently enjoying the scenery or reading a book. I’d tromp around for 45 minutes while every bird hid or flushed a hundred yards away. Or maybe I’d see nice scenery and take the dog on a leash to go explore; trips which the dog enjoyed immensely. The dog isn’t particularly well trained or forest wise. It dragged my ass through the undergrowth like I was the plow hooked to a John Deere.

Our new dog is very much my wife’s baby which made me nervous. I’m more or less unkillable and my wife knows it. If I came back all torn up that wouldn’t bother her much. But if the dog got lost or injured I’d be better off shooting myself with the bird gun than coming back to the car with an empty leash.

We eventually stopped at an informal camping area I remembered from earlier outings. Usually it’s abandoned. This season there were a fair number of bird hunters setup to camp/hunt from that base. By mid-day the place was only partially “staffed”. Camping trailers and tents remained but UTVs and trucks had been dispatched with most of the populace. They were either chasing birds or driving around pretending to. A smattering of campfires were maintained by the older cohorts and a few “retired” dogs; all of whom happily soaked up the late fall sunshine.

I insisted on making a fire of my own; on which I brewed a pot of coffee. It was delicious (as always). Then I made bratwurst. They were tasty for us and orgasmic to the dog which received a ridiculously large treat from the Mrs.

When Mrs. Curmudgeon walked out of view to use the outhouse. Our puppy (which is huge) whined and carried on like it was going down with the Titanic. “Calm down ya’ big baby!” I complained. But it was pretty cute seeing the big dog fret over its master.

As soon as Mrs. Curmudgeon returned, the dog was all bounces and smiles; knocking over coffee cups and trampling my daypack in her eagerness to get to the “cool parent”. Am I jealous of a dog? Maybe… a little.

A good time was had by all but, as the sun approached the horizon, Mrs. Curmudgeon announced she’d had enough fun. She’d made reservations at a hunting/fishing “resort” and it was time to check in. At the main office she swiped our card, making sure I didn’t see the price. This is one of those magic ways long married couples compromise. We’ve been together forever and prettily happily. Part of this is my cheapskate self pretending I don’t know how much we spent on a cabin or trying to talk her into a pup tent. Her end of the deal is drinking fire percolated coffee instead of Starbucks and not complaining when I get the dog’s beautiful fur filled with brush and dirt. We’re a team!

The cabin was much nicer than I’d rent for myself… which isn’t saying much because I’m pretty comfortable “slumming”. In fact, feel wasteful when I drop $25 on an official park campsite when there’s perfectly good (and free) “dispersed camping” to be had. I’m sure we paid ten times that much to rent a sweet little cabin… but I don’t want to know. I consoled myself that next time I’d camp in the weeds somewhere for free.

The cabin was friendly and warm (the air was already cold and getting colder as evening wore on). I insisted on cooking kebabs. The cabin had a full kitchen but I was still in “outdoorsman mode”. I elected to use the outside BBQ.

As it was dark out, the dog had no desire to join me. (I think the dog is halfway afraid of the dark!) The dog had discovered the gas fireplace and stretched out in front; soaking up the heat. Mrs. Curmudgeon was happily parked on the couch with her book. Neither one would move for hours.

Outside, I faffed about. The BBQ was somewhat the worse for wear. It didn’t have a proper ignition button. One thing led to another and a small pocket of trapped propane went off like a campsite IED. Fooomp! I burned the hair off one hand and singed my beard. Yowza!

These things happen. Anyway the kebabs were delicious.

After dinner I began to drift off while the dog eagerly wolfed down it’s share of “secret treats” from it’s indulgent “mom”. My singed hand was chilled with a slab of frozen bacon wrapped in a plastic bag. I’m classy like that!

Suddenly, it dawned on me… I was exhausted. I’d done nothing much, mostly riding passenger and occasional short hikes, yet the ebbing effects of injuries in the previous week (plus nearly blowing my face off at the BBQ) had me plum tuckered out. Had I gone solo, I’d be a wreck!

I sagged on the couch and then staggered to a bed that was nicer than the one we have at home. “You planned this!” I announced. “You knew I was worn out. So you connived to get me into a safe comfortable cabin.”

She grinned.

“I… I’d usually be laying in the dirt, my head on a log instead of a pillow, shivering next to a sooty fire.” I was rambling happily. “Bugs and stuff… ants climbing on my food… maybe cook a bird on a stick… wolves prowling the dark…” At the mention of wolves, our dog began to snore. Outside it had started to rain. Soon the rain picked up and the wind began to whistle through the trees. It was a bad night to be out! Mrs. Curmudgeon had probably checked the weather reports!

Scandalous! I’d fallen for a comfortable outcome without even knowing it. I intended to complain further but the bed was sooooooo soft. The pillows were extra fluffy. The dog rolled on its back while my wife scratched it’s belly.

Damn she’s smart; my wife, not the dog. If she’d said “don’t go camping, you’re too worn out” I’d have ignored her sage advice. Instead, she’d connived to tuck me into a comfy bed in a sturdy warm cabin. I’d hardly noticed. Well played!

She’s a keeper! This was just another of her long term gambits to keep her idiot husband safe. The dog ripped a fart, I giggled because every fart is always funny… and then fell asleep so hard it was like I’d never slept before.

All night the rain pounded on the cabin roof. It rained cats and dogs. The wind was brutal and the temperatures were chilly. Inside, the gas fireplace was warm and glowed cherry red. I couldn’t have had a better place to rest if I’d spent a million dollars. I’m definitely too stupid to think of such things myself.

Glamping! I could get used to it!

I’m only just getting started, stay tuned…