Adaptive Curmudgeon

When I took the stupid direction at the sketchy fork off the trail that felt like it went through Namibia… things got weird. The grasses and reeds in the sketchy landbound estuary morass I’d ridden through were tall but once I’d gained some elevation they had dry soil for their roots and they got aggressive.

I was riding more or less straight, which is good because I couldn’t see where the front tire was making contact with the ground. Then I couldn’t see the front tire. No worries for the little motorcycle, just roll slowly and hope you don’t hit a badger hole… or a boa constrictor that somehow teleported to the wrong latitude. I’m starting to appreciate winter! The place I went would be a killing zone if winter didn’t eliminate most living things.

I had hope it would all turn out well because someone had driven that way before me. Something with very high clearance that squished the grass but didn’t kill it. A tractor?

I was very happy to see the tracks. I wasn’t ridiculously far out but from a practical standpoint I might as well be on Mars. This was exactly the point where “this is fun” turns into “I shouldn’t be here”.

But the tracks were true and eventually I found a hay field out there. Someone had baled it. Human existence. A good sign.

The bad sign was that the tractor had baled the field and drove back out the way it came. I kept rolling along and now the grass was unblemished. Yikes.

I caught the tiniest hint that maybe an ATV had been there once. Meh, that’s enough to keep going.

By my reckoning I was following a survey line that had the ubiquitous “access trail” on the boundary and the access trail was more theoretical than actual. One side was Federal, the other side was the farmer’s land that wasn’t good enough to be a hay field, on every side the ticks brushed from the grass and crawled on my jacket.

I expected to find a turn in the boundary. A 90 degree deviation. Make the turn and you’re heading back toward pavement. Miss the turn and you’ve become an idiot bushwacking though a swamp following the idea of a compass bearing as envisioned by a surveyor in an office in the 1900’s.

Damn. I must have missed it. I stopped. I tried to put the kickstand down and it was so tangled in grass that it didn’t fully extend. I almost dropped the bike! I had to stay on the bike because I didn’t feel like messing with the ground enough to make a clear spot for the kickstand. But still, I didn’t think I was actually “lost”. I’d been watching, if there was a boundary line it must have been the faintest of traces.

Honey Badger said “relax, we got this”. I rolled ahead. I promised myself I’d turn around if I went another 200 yards without finding the turn. Not 20 yards later I found it. It was so obvious that an airplane could see it… but not me. Down there in the mess it was completely invisible until I was right on top of it.

I took the turn and things mellowed out quickly. Within a few hundred yards there were tracks again. Then someone had done a crude half assed job with a brush hog. I stopped to brush off ticks. Heaven! A quarter mile later I passed a remote off grid cabin. More tracks. A couple miles later I was on pavement.

A lesson in life. I’d been so mired in grass that the kickstand wouldn’t go down but I was simultaneously very close to the route out. It had been a perfect little detour.

Also, a great test of my equipment. Everything but my GoPro had worked flawlessly and who needs photos? Spoken too soon!

When I met Odin and his side chick a few miles later I didn’t get a photo!

(To be continued.)

It wasn’t me that took the trail, it was Honey Badger. The silly little motorcycle simply loves doing stupid shit! I’m an innocent in all this I swear!

So there I was, trundling down a road that had become a sketchy road that devolved into a trail that was fast becoming a path. Then I saw what I call “a clue”.

There’s a whole ecosystem of legal designations about what you can legally drive where. (This is utterly unrelated to the vehicle’s ability.) There are “national forest roads” and “minimum maintenance roads” and OHV roads and ATV/OHM trails and multi-mode whatever they call those. It’s the natural result of bureaucracy trying to draw lines around the continuous spectrum of “try not to fuck up the soil” and “this thing can traverse this terrain”. I’m sure many meetings were held.

I gave up trying to remember all the errata but there’s one sign that gets my attention like a gunshot. A very few times I’ve seen a sign that says “limited to 1000 pounds GVW”.

I don’t know where they come from. I don’t know what makes them different. For all I know it’s a BLM thing? All I know is that every time I’ve seen that type of sign I’ve wound up on a very old dike or related earthwork that’s super fun and would eat a jeep and chew on a fat UTV. They always go through absolute impassible hell and they’re always fun.

Perfect!

In case you’re wondering, Honey Badger is legal just about anywhere wheels are allowed. It has plates for pavement and any OHM/OHV sticker that could apply in this area. I’m sure I was ok. Also Honey Badger weighs 300 pounds at most. I’m pretty light by modern UTV standards.

Then again there wasn’t a living soul to bitch at me anyway. I suppose I could have brought a bulldozer. Regardless, when I see “limited to 1,000 pounds GVW” that just warms my heart.

I already mentioned that my GoPro battery was toasted. No photos. But it was super fun.

It feels like I rode a levy or dike that probably was put in around the time narrow gauge railroads were a thing. It was pretty but also very odd terrain. You might think North America is mostly forest or prairie. If you’re into such things you might know the difference between tallgrass and shortgrass prairie. But there’s a lot more diverse shit than most people know.

By my observation I rode out of a forest biome and into Nkasa Rupara National Park in Namibia. It was a wetland, estuary, marshy, reedy, muskeg, bog, um… thing. I’m looking around like “this looks more like the place to find a hippo than an elk” and the motorcycle is talking back to me “relax, we got this!”

Now you know why I carry lots of equipment.

By the odometer it was only a few miles. By experience it was a safari.

The grasses got taller, the path got narrower, the water closed in on both sides. No worries though; I had a nice solid patch of gravel about 6″ wide. That’s all I needed.

I paid close attention. If I were to go off the path on either side I’d be catapulted into a quagmire. It wouldn’t be dangerous but it would be yucky.

I was happy that there aren’t a lot of poisonous snakes here (and any self respecting timber rattler would bail out of this fetid trailer park of nature asap) but the ticks had been waiting their whole life (literally!) just for me.

I was covered head to toe in motorcycle gear/armor. Armored mesh pants (my stillsuit!) zipped tightly over motorcycle boots. Jacket tightly zipped up, long sleeves velcroed over motorcycle gloves. Full face helmet. I might as well be wearing a space suit… but still the bastards were everywhere. They were crawling around my crotch! They couldn’t get through the mesh armor but I couldn’t take my hand off the handlebars to brush them away. Try to concentrate when there’s a tick trying to get to your nuts. It’s hard!

I wanted to stop and enjoy the view. Despite my description (and the lack of hippos) it was truly breathtaking. But every tick for miles was crawling around my face shield and forearms. Fuck that!

I kept on and eventually I gained just a little bit of elevation. It got a lot less um… savannah-ish and became something like North America again. The path widened and soon was two tracks again. It looked less like a place that might harbor a hippo and one that might hold a lion. Infinitely bettter!

I stopped at the first suitable place (right in the middle of the track… not like anyone was coming) and did a tick eradication sweep. Yikes! Nothing more gross than a tick.

I drank a ton of water and gave Honey Badger a salute. She’s slow but nothing stops her. I’ll have a heart attack before the bike loses traction.

Behind me, buried in the grass, was a sign for people approaching from this side; “limited to 2000 pounds GVW”. One thousand from one direction and two thousand from the other? How can that possibly make sense? Also, if you drive a ton of anything in there… you’re going to wind up regretting it.

Stretching my legs, I hiked a quarter mile further (picking up 18,236,437,723 ticks as I did so). There was a fork in the trail; an intelligent direction and a sketchy one. You know exactly which one I chose.

(To be continued.)

You don’t need to climb the highest mountain to have a “natural experience”. The earth is always right there under your feet.

I abandoned pre-conceived plans and was simply riding. My little motorcycle Honey Badger seemed to know where to go and I was happy to see where it would lead. I thought I’d “explored” this area thoroughly but within minutes I was in terrain I hadn’t before seen. Perfect!

The little trail I’d taken ambled into a logging operation. Some machinery was parked off in the distance; that was probably the nearest landing. Since the wood was fresh cut (it smelled wonderful) and the machinery still present, it was an active worksite. If I’d arrived on a working day the place would’ve been impassible. Logging is serious shit done by serious men trying to make brutal payments on absolutely daft machinery. They’ve no time for an idiot on a motorcycle and don’t need the extra concern of wondering if the bump they just felt was from driving over a stump or a human. I’d have fled in the opposite direction lest I wind up squashed by a skidder or have a tree dropped on my head.

Any logging landing will accommodate a log hauling truck. I’d arrived on a trail that would manage a UTV at best and it had vanished under the disturbed vegetation. So I bounced and jostled among the skid trails until I got to the landing.

Is that common verbiage? Broadly speaking, a “landing” is where off road capable ground based log skidding equipment gathers freshly harvested tree trunks. (There are exceptions so let’s refrain from getting pedantic about aerial logging shall we?) At the “landing” logs (or sometimes chips) are transferred to on road capable equipment (invariably a semi tractor with trailer).

The point is not to examine industrial practices (which I find fascinating but will bore a normal human); the point is that any time a semi can get to a log deck (a “deck” is a pile of logs) you can get out on the same path. It’s not rocket science and after a few hundred yards of faffing about on skid trails I was at the deck. From there it was obvious and I zoomed down a two track “road” that led to the forest road system.

Here’s where a lot of folks who know little about life and less about trees get all weepy about the messy nature of logging. They’ve got a pre-programmed Pavlovian response to bitch about the harvest of trees. I don’t. A logging operation is ugly like a butcher shop while in progress but you don’t get bacon by raising pigs to old age and you don’t get forest rejuvenation unless something stirs the pot. (Generally if it’s not humans that remove the biomass it’ll be fire.)

I was delighted at what I’d found. The harvest will soon bring forth a bunch of little trees. Such regeneration never had a chance in the shady understory but now it’s got the necessary resource of sunlight and water. (Boomers and Gen X and Millennials need to have related discussion of workforce demographics.) Game animals don’t eat full grown trees, they eat branches and shit (browse). (That’s painting with a broad brush and there are nuances. Elk and buffalo like grass and moose will wander about in aquatic vegetation until it freezes.) This fall critters would be gnawing on branches left after the harvest. In a few years they’ve be munching on waist high regeneration.

By my reckoning I was on Federal land which is open to hunting. This place might be prime hunting ground. Hunters aren’t fools and they’ll all be watching the spot but they’ll likely come in the front door. The little trail I found might be the back door to slip into the far reaches of the harvest. Who knows what the future holds but it’s nice to have a dream.

The path of the log trucks led to a forest road I’d seen on a map but never ridden. This hit a T with a slightly larger dirt road. Obviously, the log trucks were heading left, so I turned right. I was now in ranch/agricultural land. I was still on public roads but I’d ridden off the public lands. A couple miles later I turned left, for no particular reason. Then I started trying to veer back into the public forest area.

My first attempt failed. The road turned east, which was a good sign, and then it turned north leaving only an anemic little two track headed straight (the direction I wanted to go). I followed it a while and it went from bad, to worse, to ugly, and then finally I got to a clogged culvert which had turned the road into a shallow weedy mess. I could go further but clearly there was no point. Retreat and try again.

Back at the three way intersection I consulted my map. I heard the sound of motors and waited. Sure enough a convoy of 2 UTVs rolled by. They were in a “ditch trail” adjacent to the main-ish road heading north. I couldn’t see the ditch trail from my vantage on the road itself. Neither of the UTVs saw me and I gladly let them by without bringing notice to myself.

That was the first humans I’d seen all day. They never saw me at all.

A couple miles later I found a better road heading the way I wanted and took it. A few miles down that road there was another T intersection. By now I was deeply in forest.

I was supposedly heading toward a gravel pit. UTV/ATV folks love gravel pits! I should point out that doesn’t mean an active operation. A gravel pit for this purpose is the ridge or hole which was dug up to make all these nearby dirt roads, along with some piles of dirt stored for future use.

I find it amusing that public land managers 20 years ago were constantly bitching at people to keep out of gravel pits. Trying to keep ATVs out of an empty unused gravel pit is like trying to keep minnows out of a bay. What are you going to do? Fence and patrol the perimeter of every dirt hole in creation? With time, they’ve shown the hint of wisdom. They just mark them on the map and put up anti-litigation signs; “Caution, if you drive your ATV off a cliff it’ll hurt. Try not to do that.” See? After only 20 years (or maybe 50) one portion of one Agency adapted to reality.

ATVs and UTVs (and what few motorcycles exist) show up, drive around like extras in a Mad Max movie, and then leave. It’s a good system. It lets them blow off steam in a place where erosion and such are already managed. The dirt piles don’t seem to notice all the ATV/UTV attention.

I don’t really like gravel pits but they’re handy. They’re a good spot for a warming fire in high fire danger (not a problem this trip). If I knew anyone, which I don’t, they’d be good gathering and rendezvous points. Also they are sometimes a place to get out of vegetation. Bugs were getting thick and I’d like a place to rest. An open area with less vegetation and more dirt would be ideal. I was getting hot and needed water.

Unfortunately, Honey Badger saw another trail and I was off exploring again. It wasn’t me, it was the motorcycle. No way I’d be that dumb.

(To be continued.)

I rolled out of base camp literally days behind schedule. I’d planned some serious exploration but had opted instead to sit on my ass brewing coffee and reading books. No regrets on that choice!

But now it was adventure time! I was on Honey Badger, my 2020 Yamaha TW200 that I’ve mildly equipped to my own specifications. It’s basically bone stock but bristling with “survival shit”.

Out on the trail you’ll see bikes (rarely) and ATVs (and the much more common UTVs) traveling in packs. Individually, they’re lightly equipped. Collectively they’re still lightly equipped but usually someone remembered to bring whatever one person forgot. Also the safety of a pack is that they can always send one of their number to fetch help or a specific thing should it be needed. Anything from jumper cables to a ride in an F-150 at the nearest road can be arranged without much drama.

I always travel alone. I cannot send someone for help and nobody will come to rescue me. Even if I use the SpotX to send up a digital flare, the response time would be many hours. In the less dire situation of a dead bike and walking out, I’d be facing a hike measured in days not hours.

In the wise words of FortNine: “On a bike that never falters, it’s easy to get caught way out there.”

Thus, I was loaded up like my little mule and I might be out there a week. I had a spare gallon of gas, a gallon of water, an assortment of tools, zip ties, duct tape, spare glasses, navigation aids & maps, my SpotX, a GPS, my jump starter battery (which is also a flashlight and charges the SpotX), my GoPro, matches, a Lifestraw, a Thermacell, shit tickets (TP), an MRE, a couple bottles of Gatorade (it was hot out), clothes I’d need should I wind up out there overnight, and the luxury of a paperback. (That’s not a complete list.) From one point of view Honey Badger is just a cheap bike and I’m just a bearded dude who is too old for dirtbikes. From another point of view, we’re serious, equipped, capable, and loaded for bear.

I had a plan. There’s a forest road that goes from X to Y through the absolute middle of nowhere. I didn’t expect it to be a challenge but there’s a special quantity of nowhere that produces its own quality. It was a long ride, far for a little dirtbike and me for sure. But the line on the map calls to me. I wanted to traverse the area, because it’s (barely) possible. I also wondered if there was a fly fishing option in a certain spot where I was sure virtually nobody ever goes. (You can only learn so much from topo maps and satellite images.) There were also a few hunting spots I wanted to scope out. Some might be unreachable given the wet year… only one way to find out.

It was going to be a long day.

When I built my sailboat I stumbled across some words pertaining to the mysteries of such craft. A passagemaker is a vessel designed for long voyages. This is very different from the white fiberglass beauties you see at most marinas. Most sailboats rarely leave for longer than an afternoon spin. A passagemaker hunts the horizon.

I built my boat and by choice it was tiny. Small boat = big adventure. Also, I have no payments. No slip fees, no maintenance budget. It doesn’t even have a motor, it has oars. I built simple, small, cheap, and strong. I’m happy with my craft but it’s far too small for long trips unless I get a lot tougher. (Some brave maniacs have gone on long trips in little craft like mine, but those guys are pirate/adventure sailors of the mini-boat world. I’m still learning and can’t do half the shit they’ve done.)

I discovered another word; gunkholing. Gunkholing is the gentle art of meandering aimlessly in the shallows where bigger deep draft boats cannot go. The goal here is to find and enjoy isolated little inaccessible spots known only to you and God. The cost of such an adventure is bravely slipping about in soughs, inlets, creeks, marshes, coves, and other versions of watery nowhere. My boat is ideally suited to shallow water and by personality I’ve taken to gunkholing. I instinctively gravitate toward the habitats of herons and turtles and find myself struggling to master sails and my retractable daggerboard in the complex mess of a backwater rather than harnessing the open wind in search of speed.

I have sailed where a heron walked.

What does this have to do with motorcycles in the forest? Nothing and everything. I had an entire route carefully mapped out in my head. I had plans, a schedule, destinations and target times to get there, all in hopes that I could complete a certain circuit and return only slightly after dark. I was to be a two wheeled passagemaker.

Six miles out of camp I spied a trail I hadn’t seen before. It was small and going the wrong direction. I liked the vibe. Something about it seemed attractive.

Without hesitation I took the turn. Passagemaker became gunkholer. How? I don’t know. It just… happened.

An hour later little Honey Badger and I were deep in a swamp, lost, off the map, thoroughly coated in mud, the GoPro had conked out, and I was covered with bugs.

I couldn’t have been happier.

(To be continued.)

All night the owls hooted and I enjoyed the sound. The loons were silent though.

I avoid summer camping and one reason is mosquitoes. Sure enough a few found their way into my tent. I have a bug zapper flashlight and I clicked it on. I was fixin’ to be pissed off but I fell asleep so I guess it wasn’t that bad.

I woke up later to cool air. I’d left the bug zapper on and probably wasted some battery but I didn’t particularly care. The air smelled sweet. A new front must have snuck in. Looking up through the screen roof of my tent I could no longer see the stars.

This ain’t my first rodeo. I got up and put on the rain tarp.

Then the rain hit. Just a gentle misting downfall but I felt rather smug to have deployed the tarp with precise timing.

Getting into and out of the tent let in a new herd of mosquitoes. As before I turned on the zapper. I expected to be pissed off by the mosquitoes but once again drifted off.

Dawn was humid and slow. I like to camp in the wilderness or at least alone but I was in a Park. Dispersed camping is free but entails more uncertainty. For a holiday weekend I just didn’t feel like screwing around. I did reservations on-line and was spared any potential bullshit.

The thing with Parks is they’re infested with humans and I don’t like humans at dawn. The birds begin with their pre-dawn song. I can live with birdsong… barely. After the birds the humans start moving about. Humans being humans start talking the moment they’re ambulant. I don’t know why, they just gotta’ talk. I can sit with a cup of coffee and say not a fucking word. Most people babble like a damn word factory. Once they start talking it sounds like a penguin rookery to me. The indistinct chatter of human critters isn’t loud but they’ll keep talking until they go to bed and it vexes me.

I’d wind up crawling from my soft and inviting sleeping bag just because the bastards drown out the birds.

I felt like I was losing time; that I should get up. There were plans for the day. I was burning daylight. I had shit to do!

Mankind is split between morning people and not-morning people. I am of the latter. If you’re a not-morning person you’ve drawn a short straw in life. You’ll get no end of shit from the majority of society that are morning risers. Society from birth through death is calibrated to haul your sleepy ass out of bed… every day… until you die. When I die, they’ll probably schedule my funeral early in the morning.

The training regimen starts when you’re a kid. Mom drags you out of bed to catch a bus to your school (indoctrination center). From then on it’s a life sentence. There’s no reason any bus should run at any particular time and there’s no reason a kid needs to learn fractions at any particular time but schools always run in the morning. Why? Because if you sleep late you’re lazy. This has been beaten into my not-morning skull every fucking day of my life.

Oh and while I’m bitching about it… morning people need to shut the fuck up when they conflate arriving early with working hard. Someone who shows up at the office at 7:00 am will flounce about like they’re God’s gift to the timeclock but if they they stampede out the door at 3:30 that’s 8 hours and a lunchbreak. Who’s impressed by that?!?

I once had a boss that went beyond morning person and into morning asshole. We theoretically had flexible hours but he figured I ought to plan my life like I’m milking cows or some shit. I’d amble in at 9:00 am but work like a mule until 7:30 pm. If you can count using both hands that’s 10 hours and a lunchbreak. He’d preen and look at the clock all morning and then unass the area 4 hours earlier than me; every fucking day. Dude never worked 8 hours and a spare minute but was forever giving me shit that my 10 hours started later than him… every fucking day.

Old school bosses never figure this out. Lucky for me, most of ’em are dead now. Also lucky for me, timesheets (even back then) are run by computers. Dude couldn’t count but computers can.

But I digress.

I rolled out of my cot feeling like maybe I should growl at things, swear randomly, and maybe just generally be an asshole. You must get by now that I hate mornings.

Then everyone shut up. Why? It had started raining again. Everyone had fled back to their tents.

Ha!

I flopped back into my sleeping bag and was instantly lulled into sleep by the gentle rain.

I don’t know how long I slept but it was delicious. It was the first night in years I hadn’t set an alarm. I didn’t have a cell phone or clock handy. I slept until I’d slept enough. I need more of that!

By then the rain had stopped again and the kids were up. I don’t like the sound of adults doing their penguin thing, but happy kids is a whole different matter. They were laughing and riding bikes and wallowing in every mud puddle and it was glorious. Kids are great.

I tested my new stove. Before departure I did a sweep of my garage and found four cans partially filled with “Coleman” white gas; three of which were impossibly old. As far as I can tell, white gas that’s at least 10 years old is still fine. There might have been a bit of flickering of the flame but that could have been just a gust of wind. I decided the lifespan of white gas is “long enough that it doesn’t matter”.

I percolated coffee nice and slow… like a guy who has zero fucks to give. Then I whipped out the little iron frying pan. I cooked bacon from my own pigs and saved a little of the grease to keep the eggs from sticking. (Plus I threw in some grape tomatoes I’d brought.)

A meal fit for a king!

I’ve been camping a good long time in the comfort zone of freeze dried mountain house. The thing about comfort zones is you must test that it’s a pleasant groove and not a limiting rut. For the whole campout I cooked canned goods and groceries. It worked fine.

The area might have black bears but no grizzlies so I happily disposed of the extra grease in the fire. That kept my Neanderthal brain entertained and smelled glorious.

My dirtbike was poised for action but I just didn’t feel like hard work. I broke out a paperback and brewed another pot of coffee.

Sometimes you have a day that starts just right. Enjoy those simple moments.

(To be continued.)

I slept the peace of nature…

It has been a long hard um… how does one calculate time? Has it been a tiring week? A tough year? An interminable decade? Hard to say; there is only before and now. The realization hit me long ago and has since trickled to the densest CNN viewer that a Rubicon has been passed. Regardless of how we got here, the society to which we’d return is gone. (That said, I’m optimistic about the road ahead.)

Please forgive the egghead contemplation (and if you don’t why are you reading this blog?) but we must rest when needed. One tends to think “I’ll bust my ass until X and then shit will calm down”. It never works. You finish X but Y and Z have stepped into the ring and are beating your ass during what ought to be your victory lap.

Half the shock of covid was that I’d allocated the months previous to a far more important matter; the care for and loss of my aged dog. I sailed straight into the fog of loyalty and grief and mortality and renewal only to find safe harbors fewer and already crowded with refugees when I emerged. Society went apeshit over a virus! Then it imploded!?! My loss is a tiny molecule in the tidal wave of collateral damage wrought by fools.

I’ve saying “it’s been a hard week” too often. It worries me.

All weeks are hard.

The intellectual half of my mind needs to watch for what the emotional half cannot see. The tendency to endure without rest is an affliction of the strong. A risk as deadly as an inviting couch to the lazy.

So it is that I found myself camping. As always, I was solo. I was not lonely, I was enjoying solitude.

This was the “vacation” I needed and it was months and months overdue. Oh yes, I’ve had “vacations” by common definition. I’m not always clocked into the hamster wheel. Yet if vacation means “spiritual rest” I’ve had little since last September. It was then that I last camped under this particular pine and let it go.

That campout (last year) was the last few days of the fragile ceasefire that came before “the event”. How was I to know what was coming? After all we’d endured, President Biden (who appears to enjoy kicking groups of citizens which don’t meet his standards) put his geriatric crosshairs on me.

(Here, as required by the successor to rule of law, I’ll note that Biden won more votes than any other candidate in history. He won the record vote count. Doubt this infallible dogma and you risk joining America’s newest cohort; domestic political prisoners. Remember I said there was a before time? I once believed my government wouldn’t imprison people for political reasons. President Roosevelt’s domestic concentration camps should have been sufficient warning. I was dense and apparently needed to learn anew.)

Seeking to divert attention from the disastrous Afghanistan withdrawal, Biden made an angry speech. He would correct the 100 million Americans who’d chosen to remain unvaccinated. His was the will to rule and his “patience had worn thin“.  I hadn’t made the correct choice voluntarily, so it would be made mandatory.

Most speeches are flowery bullshit. This one was angry and judgmental. Biden was ready to use force and outlined the beginning steps in that dangerous march. First he’d hassle you, then he’d get you fired, then “whatever was necessary”. An abusive partner pleads with his victim; “don’t make me hit you!”

These statements weren’t hidden behind walls of soothing fluff, they were sharp nails dragged across a chalkboard. In order to stand against evil, you must first see it. Biden’s speech was without humility or forgiveness; it was about whom he would force to do what and how he’d inflict his will. It straightened my spine and hardened my heart. Presidents aren’t God. The fucker acted above his pay grade!

I reacted viscerally. “If you want to force me to do anything, you’re going to have to actually do the deed. Kick in my door and make it happen or shut up and crawl back to your basement.” I was pissed but also I was resigned to whatever came next. “Ball’s in your court asshole. Are we going to do this thing or not?” I assumed I was doomed. I’d be a single unheard voice shouting ineffectually while bureaucrats steamrolled me. I didn’t care. I would do what was right. Others have been called to do far more. Some have died in battle, the worst I risked was poverty and social pressure. Faced with evil, who is so weak they won’t endure unemployment?

Nine months. That’s all it took. America gave a resounding “fuck you” to the whole thing. The senile monster who confused “elected” office with Godhood is now the wretched punchline of a cosmic joke.

It seems unreal but it really happened. Never forget what was intended. Never forget why it hasn’t (yet?) happened. When a man takes a swing at you and misses, don’t assume he meant to miss.

It was a dark time but the result was the best outcome. Americans (at least some of them) remembered they were Americans! After eating shit for years, a sufficient portion (myself included) finally said “this far and no more”. The mass compliance projected on a Utopian theorist’s spreadsheet evaporated at first contact with stoic free citizens. The house of cards collapsed. It continues to collapse. Such a glorious and horrific collapse that it happens everywhere and all at once and seems to know no bounds.

Biden (he of record breaking vote counts) has become less popular than dogshit. Biden fell even lower than Carter and he’s still dropping in the polls. Everything he touches turns to shit. Every action he takes blows up in his face. The man who’d have subjugated me is the least popular president in 77 years! (Link)

Perhaps God thought the crucible was necessary? It was a teaching moment for every single person. Everyone learned their mettle. Everyone had a choice, everyone did what they did. Those who got the shot as a reasoned choice but wouldn’t dream of the Nuremberg madness of forcing it on others are safely on the sidelines where they belong. Others who got the shot because it was “the cool thing to do” question their decision. Why doesn’t it make them feel immune? If the fourth shot doesn’t help, will the fifth? What after that? Those who were bullied or coerced into it know what made people carry their own luggage onto a boxcar. A few, who’d gleefully someone else onto a boxcar, know their twisted selves too. Every mask wearing Karen knows that she lusts for the burning of a witch.

As for me? No regrets! I never forced my will on another. I’ve never been subjugated. What more is there?

But, I’m tired. I need rest.

Such were the thoughts in my mind. I remained awake late into the night; letting my mind roam the comforting pines. Sitting in the dark by a little fire, the world becomes just that little circle of light.

I found a measure of renewal. I began enjoying the fact that I’m not broken. It was America’s birthday after all! I’d done well. In a time of mass hysteria I held firm. I can look in the mirror without reproach; as a free American citizen should.

My tent and little dirtbike hunkered just out of reach of the firelight. They were for tomorrow. For right then, I was in the moment. I watched the stars above and listened to the owls in the clear warm night air. In nature, all is as it should be.

I gave a last fleeting thought to politics. I’m still here motherfucker! Chuckling, I kicked out the fire and turned in.

Soon I was fast asleep. I’d let it go.

(To be continued.)

I’ll be posting a new travelogue starting tomorrow. Vignettes go live every morning for a week.

Every bit is true, including the parts where my motorcycle makes decisions and how I personally met Odin and his side chick. Lets face it, the modern bar for truth is so low that a guy like me can sail over it as a veritable paragon of honesty… even when I include talking squirrels.

If you want to throw a tip my way I’d be a happy camper. I’ll use it for the motorcycle gas and camping supplies that make travelogues happen. The links are on the right column and I (maybe?) copied them below. No pressure though. If you’re broke, I get it.

I hope you enjoy the story.

A.C.

Having read and reflected on a tiny bit of reason in a world gone mad, it was time to go. I’d drank so many glasses of ice water the coffee shop staff was looking at me funny. I put a big tip in their jar and wandered out. I used the restroom to switch to mesh pants in full stillsuit mode. Nothing but skivvies underneath! The mesh would provide adequate protection (definitely more than denim) with more air flow. It was only a small improvement but sometimes that’s all you need. (In case you’re wondering, the mesh is opaque. I wasn’t flashing my hairy ass to the world!)

I kept thinking about how wonderful and kind everyone had been the day earlier. Either I looked like I was dying (which is possible) or rural people are coming together in the current times of strife (which is my hope). A bottle of water and a free meal! In the heart of America, far from cities, folks seem to be going out of their way to be good Samaritans. I basked in the happiness of it all and resolved to be a better person.

To my discredit, I blew it! Only an hour later I saw them. Woke motherfuckers! My good intentions and warm feelings vanished in a flash!

Lined up like mental dominoes, they were standing on the sidewalk in the center of a city. What’s the point in protesting at this location? They were in the bluest city in the bluest county in a blue state and they had gathered to bitch publicly that they were now in charge of their local affairs. This State is almost certain to support abortion for whatever gender(s) get knocked up. I think (?) this State preemptively passed pro-abortion laws in anticipation of this very moment.

The crowd was whiter than rice in a snowstorm. They were unfocused and I assume they’d hastily assembled. It was about 3:00 in the afternoon; maybe they wanted to be in the evening news? This wasn’t a gathering of deep thinkers. I can guarantee none of them had read the decision. I’d bet they were sketchy on the difference between State and Federal law.

The demographics were weirdly unbalanced. The sexes (apparent sexes?) were split into two distinct age classes. About 1/3 of them were young anemic male-ish soyboy manbuns. The other 2/3 of the crowd were blue haired shrieking older female-ish harpies. The female-ish beings were decades older and formed a tight central herd; thus relegating the man buns to the periphery. The manbuns looked scared and young and uncertain. I could almost imagine them being eaten by the larger elder harpies. I couldn’t do a full assessment while riding but that was the demographics at a glance and you can make of it what you will.

From a practical standpoint almost nobody in this crowd was both female and of a biologically fertile age. (Since nobody there appeared capable of delivering anything but a pizza, their concerns were either fashion, eugenic, or intellectually weird. If they were legitimately invested in sketchy jurisprudence they’d cleverly disguised themselves as if they didn’t know their Plessy from their Ferguson.) My base evaluation was that they were protesting because that’s what they do in lieu of a real life. If they weren’t protesting a court ruling they’d be equally happy protesting an oil pipeline or demanding war in Ukraine or shouting about peace or demanding a tax or bitching about paying their student loans. I can’t imagine the harpies getting laid anyway. Then I wondered if the harpies were cougaring the skinny manbuns? I shuddered at the thought.

So, given that God had provided me with two remarkable acts of charity in the last 24 hours, did I react properly?

NO! I flipped the bird! Arm held high in the air; proud and clear…. Fuuuuuuuuck them!

I passed by slowly and only ten feet from where they stood on the sidewalk. They got my point loud and clear. A few looked legitimately shocked. I think they’re used to “protesting” in an environment where everyone and their cat either agrees with them or keeps their head down.

The thing that bothers me is that I did not pay forward all the kindness I’d received.

I’m probably going to hell.

Since then I’ve been looking for a chance to buy someone’s meal or save a kitten from a tree or some shit. No dice. I got a hint to be nice and a perfect opportunity to rise above. I blew it.

Do I have regrets? I wish I could say I have regrets but I don’t. Not yet. Just being honest with myself I’m bitter about the evils they’ve done recently. Two years ago this same crowd was either burning down cities personally or cheering for the act. Nine months ago they brutally sought to force me to take a vaccine. Putting aside the pros and cons of the specific medical treatment, until 2021 nobody on earth tried to inject me with anything I didn’t want. Before Omabacare and Covid, medical bureaucracies were inept and expensive but they weren’t overtly evil. Old school doctors told you to eat better and quit smoking but they didn’t actively threaten your livelihood or freedom.

In protesting the Dobbs ruling, the crowd was horrified by greater control over their own fate. They must enjoy personal subjugation as much as they love coercing others. And boy do they love coercion! They moved heaven and earth and insisted on complete disregard of all normal safety protocols to get the vaccine (for free!) but it wasn’t enough to shut them up. They were miserable because I didn’t want what they wanted. They were driven to, lusted to, deeply needed to coerce me. This remains true even as they stood on a sidewalk fretting that they were no longer at the whim of an invented blanket centralized “penumbra”. They’re terrified of local representation by their State of residence because it’s a step closer to self control and they hate it.

In their stampede for the vaccine they’d have gleefully held me at gunpoint. The only reason corrupt bureaucrats didn’t go full Nuremberg is because they couldn’t pull off the logistics. I’ll repeat that because it’s important; the reason they didn’t perform crimes against humanity was lack of power, not lack of intent.

To some extent they succeed in their drive to subjugate. I’m a loner in the hinterland but they’ve altered the whole of society where I live. They’re tied up in why I can’t go fishing at my favorite Canadian lake and I wonder if the bank will freeze my assets for wrongthink and we all assume they’re cooking up some other panic like monkey pox to lockdown the world yet again.

I can’t forgive them. I miss a society composed of adults. They’re nasty children who’ve made the whole world into the kids table at thanksgiving.

Yet this was my chance for personal improvement. I could have been magnanimous in victory; even after 50 years of penumbras. The harpies and man buns weren’t doing anything unusual for their sort. Street theater and social preening and various forms of mental masturbation are expected (required?) within their ranks. I could have rolled by; neither agreeing with nor taunting them. Just because they were acting out their chosen role as adult children didn’t mean I had to act out mine as a mean scary biker. But I didn’t rise above. I flipped them off just like a big mean scary biker would. I played my role without hesitation. Shit!

I should forgive. I’ll keep trying. Wish me luck.