Adaptive Curmudgeon

Whatever circle jerk CNN’s pet sycophants cook up won’t be a debate. Debate is supposedly an attempt to suss out truth, or at least test knowledge. Sigh, ok fine, it’s really just nerds doing word based rhetorical gladiatorial combat. Still it’s nothing of the sort when “officiated” by biased mental nullities like CNN’s staff.

I imagine an ideal situation where it’s better. Join me in a flight of fancy!

I ponder learned men and women discussing issues of great import. I imagine Socrates rocking a Greek toga while Cicero in Roman garb that’s basically a hipper version of an old Greek toga strides about. Everyone there is smart, civil, and intelligent. Any moderator who interrupts gets stabbed. You need to swear on your mother’s grave that you’ve read at least three books per quarter just to watch. If you’re lying, the Oracle of Delphi knows and rats you out. Liars are thrown down a well… which, now that I think of it, should be applied to Congress starting now. We might need to dig more wells.

Socrates is a stone cold asshole who answers every question with a question. The crowd shouts and complains. Thinking is hard. They don’t like it.

Cicero is such a mental bad ass that he can share conjecture with a re-animated a 200 year old dead philosopher. On the other hand, he’s an elitist douchebag.

Cato the Elder seizes the microphone and shouts;  “Furthermore, I consider Carthage to need to be destroyed” and drops the microphone. (The microphone has a function which is unclear to a man from 2,200 years ago but it looked cool when he watched rappers drop theirs and he wants to look cool.) The Republic of Tunisia exclaims “not cool dude” but nothing happens. This is because almost nobody in America knows Tunisia exists and of those only eleven people know Carthage was an ancient city there. Those eleven people are all killed when a single elevator mishap at a Holiday Inn Express kills the entirety of the “East Wichita, Mensa / Carthage Special Interest Group”. However, Cato’s words incite Syria to invade Iran which attacks North Korea which assassinates the Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria, for reasons nobody understands.

Confucius tries to calm the crowd, imploring them to use their greater reason and morality; which seems to work. Then Socrates askes another damn question “Oh yeah? And how do we know you even exist?”. Pandemonium breaks out!

Then, because it’s my imagination, Diogenes shows up stark naked and carrying a plucked chicken. The scene fades as the greatest minds of humanity help Diogenes beat the cameraman with the chicken.

CNN has a 5% boost in stock value that lasts for exactly one day before the whole thing is forgotten. Meanwhile, the United States has the greatest debt ever assembled in all of human existence, so Congress wisely passes laws about transgender street signs.

Would that be worse that what’s going to happen tonight?

Today is the day of the “debate”. Ugh! “The Thing That Haunts Dem’s Nightmares” and “Totally Legit Joe” are going to “match wits”. I think I just got sick.

It’s bullshit and you know it:

First of all, nothing happening in the CNN studio is going to change anyone’s mind. It might be fun to watch “Ow My Balls” on TV but don’t think that makes you a better or more informed voter. Both players have had approximately 10,000 hours of press over the last 50 years to demonstrate what they say. More importantly if you’re not dumber than a sea slug you have seen for yourself what they’ve done. There’s no need to examine words, you’ve seen both do the job for 4 years and you’ve seen both through their long public careers.

Folks who make decisions based on a “debate” (if they ever existed) haven’t been paying attention since JFK’s hair was better than Nixon’s on black and white TV in 1960. In 2024, you’ve either hardened your opinion into granite or you’re a flake who’ll serially agree with whomever you last interacted.

This election is more or less over. What “uncertainty” there is comes exclusively from the 6% of the populace that is either in a coma, stoned, or so clueless they can’t identify the two participants. That and the 2,938% of the ballots that will be found at 2 am November 6th. They’re probably already in the back of a truck which is already idling outside of whichever counting venues have the greatest statistical influence. But of course, such conjecture is de facto illegal in 2024 so I’m just saying it as satire.

The thing that won’t happen but would be cool:

Orange Man Bad is one hell of a showman. I wouldn’t put it past him to use the 11.3 seconds his mic is live to drop the name of his VP pick. That alone would send everyone scurrying for Wikipedia while Captain Depends sought to regain attention.

I picture Biden shouting: “Hey fat! I’m still here and I fought in the trenches of WW1 in Delaware to earn this attention. I didn’t take enough shots of meth to kill a trailer park in Tennessee just to be ignored! I’m relevant gosh darn it!” He begins to shake with anger as Trump’s smug smile shreds his brain until he comes off the drugs like all of Fleetwood Mac going straight in a heartbeat. Biden pictures his signature accomplishments from decades ago; Amtrak. “I like trains.” He mutters. Jill swoops in to shuffle him back to his recliner, while flipping the bird at Trump, who is trying to browbeat the cameraman into voting for him.

But what I really want to hear is this:

“Today I’m announcing my VP pick; Mike Rowe. You know the guy. He did the TV show Dirty Jobs. Very good guy, the greatest really. Our first joint announcement will be the ‘if you aren’t currently wearing scuffed work boots, you ain’t getting shit from welfare’ initiative. God bless you all and would someone bake me a cake with a file in it next week. Thanks!”

I won’t plow with my truck because it’s a Dodge and product of Detroit. It’s hard enough keeping the steering straight. Plus, plows for a dually ain’t cheap. I could easily drop many grand on a plow only to beat my truck to death. In the timeline where I live right now, the truck is irreplaceable. Financing a new truck under current inflation rates and paying it off with Bidenbucks might sink me financially.

It’ll be my tractor or nothing. I didn’t plan on being a plow guy. What would I need to turn it into a side gig? Long term I’d need to get to more customers, which means a trailer I can’t afford. Short term I can lumber down the road to a few nearby potential customers. That’s legal if annoying. I’d need flashing lights to avoid getting creamed by highway speed vehicles. And I’d like a radio so I could monitor weather and (hopefully) not get too bored.

Installing a radio:

My tractor is a Kioti and it’s a fine tractor. It has a few quirks. First of all, they rigged the world’s most inconvenient terminal access onto an otherwise decent battery position. It’s the first time I’ve used a 12mm short combination wrench. What a weird setup.

Tractor cabs are brilliant. So much better than freezing my ass off! And look here, it’s already setup for a radio!

And what’s this? A tiny little antenna! (Note, having tested it a while, it doesn’t get the best reception. It works and it’s small enough I haven’t smashed it into a tree yet, but it’s sub-par.)

I popped off the cover and spent a few brain cells analyzing this ridiculous wiring harness.

Then I bought a radio off Amazon. I tried very hard to get exactly what my tractor needed. This whole “wiring harness” thing seems excessive. The last radio I installed, in a Buick, was from before CDs. It had power / antenna / speaker. No harness at all.

They used to be so universal I could just buy one and jam it in. I think I got one from K-Mart (before Walmart even existed). Does that date me?

Bad moments in engineering, the fuse is in the back of the radio. I’d have to pull the whole damn unit to replace a fuse?

Great moments in engineering. The rear of the radio has a generic wiring harness and there’s an adaptor to match the vehicle I requested. I expected something like that. The radio came with a “pigtail” converting directly to my tractor’s wiring harness. There must be a factory somewhere with a bunch of people creating “pigtails” (possibly on demand, as they are ordered) for every conceivable harness system.

The vinyl (?) on my roof was too tight to allow the mounting hardware. I trimmed it with care you’d associate with defusing a bomb. I really don’t want to fuck up my almost new tractor!

Now the “receptacle box” is installed. Once I figured out the little press fittings it worked out nicely.

It doesn’t look like a gorilla installed it!

I don’t like the six exposed screws. I paid a few bucks extra for the “face plate” and I think it was worth it. To my dismay I had to drill it to fit. Luckily, I didn’t screw that up either.

Not bad eh?

There is even a snap on bezel to really “clean it up”.

I was reluctant to tweak my tractor, given that it was so very damn expensive to buy it. But the install is complete. I like it.

If the world goes to hell, I’ll plow driveways for anyone who can pay more than the cost of diesel. I’ll probably need the money.

If the world doesn’t go to hell, I can happily listen to books on CD while I plow my own driveway.

Win, win!

P.S. The tractor came with a “slow moving vehicle” placard. I kept bending it against tree branches so I removed it. I can re-install if needed. Legally, that’s all I’m required to do. (The tractor came with headlights and all that!) Realistically, I’m not leaving my property without a blinking light. I haven’t yet installed a blinking light. There’s time. Winter is coming, it ain’t here yet.

[I planned to slack off but I got another donation. Suddenly I’m motivated! Y’all are the greatest! Also, I set out to write about a tractor but veered into philosophy. Why? Because I modified the tractor due to philosophical thoughts. There is no reason why “preparing for the unexpected” has to be naught but canned beans and stacked ammo.]

I reflect on how we got here. In the swirling currents of current instability I can’t deduce where we’re going. You can’t either. Recent history suggests that absolutely nothing is “impossible”.

So long as society is in disarray it’s good to be humble about one’s predictions. The two things I’m most certain of are that it snows in winter and anyone who says they know what the future holds should be kicked in the balls.

Sit back and think of all the many possible timelines we’ve skipped from and to in the last few years! It’s mind boggling!

Most of us don’t take enough time to think. I implore you to do so now. Allocate to your soul the necessary time to process and digest what you’ve so recently experienced. Sit down, shut up, and think about it. Think about how you got where you are. Isn’t it weird?

Writ large, the nation lurches from timeline to timeline… each more perilous and weird than the last. It’s good to remember the madness; the stumbles and reversals. Settle it into your mind. You must do that or the gaslighting of the present and future will erase your awareness. Remember what you personally witnessed or you’re nothing but an NPC on someone’s vote farm.

Things were churning along one path; the economy was roaring back after 16 years of Bush / Obama. Half the political landscape was furious at all the… prosperity? Endless shrieking was touched off when Hillary’s Coronation in 2016 was denied. People dressed up as vaginas and broke glass windows in the streets. For some reason this wasn’t considered odd. An orange menace paid attention to American citizens outside of DC and for that unforgiveable sin, he became an avatar of hate.

The Gutenberg sized revolution of social media drove most of us mad. Words turned from communication to tools of control. Pretty much everything spoken in public now had shaded meanings; often implying the exact opposite of what the words were defined as. Consult a printed dictionary from a saner past; you’ll be surprised. The word “true” and “false” were twisted into “misinformation” and “fact checking”. Notice how the press never says simply “this fact is true and that fact is false”? Reality was bent on the anvil of ideas.

Then came the “Pants Shitting Hysteria of Covid”. It hit like a freight train and upended us onto a completely different timeline. After a few months it still wasn’t ok to leave the house to work or hug grandma but it was totally patriotic to burn shit down. Thus, we stepped on the altered path of “The Summer of Mostly Peaceful Protests”. Summer chaos led directly to “Statistical Improbabilities Which Shall Not Be Named”. (Indeed it is within the letter of the law to discuss such things but not the defacto application of such. The formerly free speech zone of USA reels under the weight of things which cannot be said.) Statistical anomalies created the next step. Now we’re stumbling along in the hot sweaty armpit of existence that is the “Bidenverse”. All this is right and proper and D.C. has the political prisoners and deployable mobile concertina wire perimeters to prove it.

Imagine that! Now it’s three years later. Gas tripled in price and we blithely pay. Meanwhile the press is actively “fact checking” whether the President did or did not shit himself on stage. (I’ve no opinions on sharts versus old men trying to sit in invisible chairs. Heck, I’d look stupid on camera if you followed me 24/7 so what do I know?) Regardless, that’s the timeline of our lives now. The Bidenverse drifts into the Shart-opia and we have convicted opposition party leaders to prove it.

We all have to live in a world where things are dumb. Unverified octogenarian bowel movements are a legitimate political discussion but things the National Debt is ignored.

What’s next? I’ve no idea. You don’t either. Anyone who’s lived through the last few years should be very humble about “what is simply impossible”. Do you think you really know what’ll happen? Did you predict, in 2019 while experiencing the lowest unemployment since 1968, that mass hysteria over an effect that originated in a Bio-Lab in Wuhan China would close your bowling alley? If you didn’t make that call in 2019, you don’t know what the rest of 2024 holds in store.

That’s ok. Life would be boring if it were too predictable. Knowing where you’re going is denied to mortal man. Unless you’re into pre-destination and have a direct line to the almighty, you’ll find out just like the rest of us… when it gets so weird that you notice it.

Where am I going with this? I’m grasping for things that I know to be true (extremely likely) for my own personal future. One thing I predict with full confidence is that it will snow in the winter. Neither of the shitweasel parties can change the planet’s orbital procession (though they sure talk like they can!).

Spastics like Al Gore and Greta Thunberg proselytize that 1.) Winters will cease and 2.) it’s your personal fault. But they don’t count. Anyone dumb enough to believe that shit is too dumb to be relevant. (I’m speaking here of the Nobel Committee and the UN, both of which are about as wrong in everything as a Paul Krugman economic prognostication.)

So back at the ranch… Mr. Curmudgeon accepts that anything from a return of $2 gas to invasion by space aliens can’t be ruled out and the only sure thing is snow. What to do with this information?

If winter is coming. Make winter your business.

Every human endeavor north of a certain latitude involves pushing snow. It was true of the Germans trying to invade Russia. It was true of the Russians trying to invade Finland. It’ll be true even if our economy and society crawls up it’s own ass and dies there. Commies, capitalists, rich, poor, sophisticated, simple, urban, rural… everyone pushes snow.

I plow my own snow. My driveway is huge and I spent a fortune on equipment to handle it. Maintenance ain’t cheap either. It’s a choice I made and I’m glad I did. My tractor and plow will work equally well under Orange Man Bad, Captain Poopy Pants, or Lrrr the Ruler of Omicron Persei 8.

Right now I don’t plow driveways as a side gig. I have too many irons in the fire. But…

Suppose shit goes pear shaped… I mean goes even weirder than now? (Which is hard to imagine but is clearly possible!) Might as well gear up to be Mr. Plow.

Even if I don’t need to be Mr. Plow in this particular universe, I’ve already decided we don’t know what timeline comes next.

The next post is when I break out the screwdrivers and power drill and actually do something.

This update has nothing to do with coffee or cups; a nice reader sent me a “coffee cup tip” and I appreciated it. I hadn’t posted all week but, with virtual coffee in hand, it only seemed right to rectify my lack of writing. I’ve been super busy so this post is somewhat random. I hope y’all don’t mind. Also, THANKS!

It’s supposedly summer but spring rains haven’t let up. Every time the sun shines I run out there to do stuff. Alas, I can’t get much sustained work / play done before the conditions revert back to rain. At least it’s nice and warm… if a big muggy.

This, of course, is normal. Sometimes it rains more than other times. It gets hot in summer. Also, nature is going wild. You and I may bitch about the rain but the plants are on a tear that won’t slow until things dry out.

I was buying tractor fuel at the gas station/feed store. The screen on the wall was blathering. The weather channel was in apoplexy over… weather. They had various maps tinted in dire shades of red; everything from dark wine red to lungshot bisque. They seemed desperate to imply heat in June is unprecedented and terrifying. I don’t know why.

The spokesdrones were muted. I squinted at one of the graphics (a sea of blood red like they’d committed murder across the map). I saw a temp of 83. Um… 83?

It’s June. 83 isn’t crazy. It’s not even unusual. It’s not even overly weird for the freezing ass of North America. (I’m guessing it hits 83 in Prudhoe Bay once in a while.)

I asked the guy at the counter. (I know him but forget his name. He remembers mine, which worries me.) “What’s with the weather channel? Is there something real or are they new to the idea of 83 degrees in June?”

He shrugged. “They’re always like that. I think it’s something they put in the water.”

I paid for my stuff and he asked about my homestead. “Get your hunting plot planted?”

“Nope, I skipped it last year so the sod’s established. Then the grass grew like a foot and a half. I was brush hogging it when the rain stopped me. The soil is wet as shit and it gets too slippery for my tractor. I’m not sure I can disk it up if it doesn’t dry.”

He’d been hoping to sell me a few pounds of food plot seed. I’d like to be at the point where I could use it. Alas, you don’t always get what you want.

Still, I’d admitted I’d fucked up and was in for some good natured ribbing. “Don’t sweat it. I heard you’re a super hunter who never misses.”

I swear to God I was near to blushing. Don’t hate me, it’s a guy thing.

Then came the punchline. “But then I heard you got a crossbow. You’ll come up empty handed with or medieval shit like that. Since you’re gonna’ get skunked you don’t need a food plot.”

“I might get scouted and ready.” I stammered.

“Really? Didn’t you say your best tree stand that was leaning?”

“Actually it’s gone.” It’s true. One of my favorite spots has been neglected a long time. The forest has overtaken it and I’m surprised the recent high winds didn’t completely topple it. I doubt I’ll get a replacement built before fall.

He beamed while I thought about my odds. Time to be realistic. “Ah well, I’ll wing it like everyone else does. The food plot was just hedging my bets.”

Then I added “freezer’s full anyway”.

We both nodded. Having a full freezer and appreciating the miracle of such is a secret handshake. Dweebs on TV ramble about “food deserts” and spend a lifetime hovering three days from starvation. Us yokels talk about food in units of “quarter cow” and “a pretty big buck”. It’s never guaranteed but always appreciated.

We’re a continent spanning portion of the populace utterly ignored in politics or social discourse. Us deplorable non-entities in flyover country know it. We’ve gotten (have always been?) cynical. Yet we keep our freezers full if we can and that seems to help. We hope to be eating steak (from hunting or farms) each fall when the Weather channel is freaking out as they discover snow. It’s hard to be pissed off when you’ve got a full freezer.

Over the weekend I couldn’t get my shit together enough to go camping. I had too many homestead duties. I’d promised myself I’d camp the instant the weather was good but sometimes one must “adult”.

Combining diligence and luck, I finally hammered back the lawn and brush hogged some feral fields. I’d like to say I “mowed” the lawn but really I just dragged the finish mower across the easiest spots. I dropped high ankle deep grass down to recognizable lawn without even pretending to trim. I sometimes call this “triage mowing”.

As finely manicured lawns go, I have an excellent firebreak.

I was interrupted by rain; which is good because I was tired. I napped during the rain. When the rain stopped I forgot about hunting plots and lawns. I spent a full day cutting firewood like my ass depended on it. (It’s not an emergency but it matters in the long run.)

A handful of smallish trees got windthrown in a spring storm a month ago. After a lot of work, they’re gone processed from flammable litter to “not yet split and stacked” firewood. The mess is, of course, heaped in a pile on my not-quite-lawn. What are lawns for if not to stack bulk materials? At the least, I’ve started the drying process.

Then the weekend was over. So much for camping.

Last year I bought a 1989 Honda Pacific Coast. It was to be my happy fun-time touring bike. I dreamed of “motocamping” road trips in remote (but paved) places. Alas, 2023 kicked me in the balls so it didn’t happen.

Well it’s time to try again. For better or worse my employer gave us Wednesday off work. In America, the land of formerly constitutionally guaranteed first amendment free speech, I’ll refrain from opining; lest censors crawl up my ass and eat my blog.

It’s only one day off, so I’d have to blast out on the road right after work the night before. I packed my bike early in the week. I bought some ROK straps last year. A super nice reader sent me two awesome drybags last year. Also last year I bought a backpacker’s air inflatable mattress and tiny air pump. I also have a tiny tent.

The issue is this; I’m nervous about motorcycle camping. I’ve grown used to camping with heavy luxury equipment; my fat comfy cot with mattress and fluffy rectangular sleeping bag in one of two equally large tents. What works when traveling by Dodge can be a luxury or it can be a crutch. If I go on two wheels I’ll once again sleep on the ground with minimal gear. I’m older than I was when I last did that. Will my back hurt without the cot? What about the tiny claustrophobic tent in mosquito season? What about this? What about that?

So many things can go wrong. So I packed my bike in advance and planned the world’s lamest overnight somewhere close to home. If it sucked, it would be only one night and I’d have a whole vacation day to recover.

The planned departure day it started to rain at mid-morning. Then it rained more. And more. I fretted but tried optimism “it can’t rain forever, just chill until 5pm and then roll out”.

At 5pm my packed bike was warm and dry in the garage. The world’s longest rolling thunderstorm was still in progress and felt like it would last 40 days and 40 nights.

I gave up. I almost never give up but I willed myself to do so. In theory I’ll camp in a fuckin’ hurricane if I feel like it. But I’m trying to be “good to myself”. Also, I wanted to test motorcycle camping, not prove I’m tough enough to huddle, wet and miserable, for a long crappy night. I know I can still do that.

The rain didn’t stop until nearly dawn. By my guess the “thunderstorm” went most of 26 hours. Ironically, this came with none of the hyperventilating weather alerts of the previous Covid thunderstorm.

The next day dawned pretty clear. It would’ve been a great day to camp! Unfortunately, the next morning I had to be at work. Ironic eh?

I unpacked my bike and then ran off to cut more firewood. Why not? After a full freezer, nothing is as nice as a huge pile of firewood.

This year, like every year, my lawn has gone feral. No worries, this happens at the beginning of every summer. Once the soil gets drier, the grass will slow down and I’ll catch up.  (I’m happiest when the grass goes dormant or just plain dies.)

The weather hasn’t cooperated with mowing. It kept raining and it’s a mess if you mow wet grass. I waited for a sunny afternoon and indeed one came. It was the kind of glorious day you’d die for in January! I had plans to fire up my tractor in late afternoon. I wouldn’t get my lawn all mowed at once before dark (it’s a big lawn) but at least I’d get a start.

A text came in. Mrs. Curmudgeon was warning me a storm was coming. I glanced out the window. It looked glorious! WTF?

I checked the internet and indeed my county was under a storm warning. The warning was impressive! It included, among various dire predictions, 3″ hail, strong winds, a deluge of rain; damage to buildings, roofs, and cars was imminent. It sounded serious!

Mrs. Curmudgeon’s phone and the internet agreed; all hell was going to break loose!

It felt off. I stepped outside and examined the horizon. It was clear as a bell. Not a cloud in sight. WTF?

I busied myself “battening down the hatches”. I don’t have a garage that’ll fit my truck. 3″ hail is the size of a fucking baseball and would surely curbstomp the body. Should I just bail? I could book it in a direction 90 degrees off the approach path? Alas, the storm warning was pretty wide. Maybe that wouldn’t work.

For a “hunker down” plan, I parked adjacent a couple of young healthy not too old and not too young pines. My thinking was that the young flexible limbs would break the fall of epic hail… not stopping projectiles but slowing them to “not-denting” speed. I hoped that the young trees would be more limber and more root firm; less likely to uproot in the anticipated winds. The tree selection thing was not easy because my choices suck. My land has mostly old decrepit trees that love to uproot in high winds.

Having stashed the truck as best I could, I was out of things to do. I stood there testing the air.

Now I’m not a meteorologist but I have what I’ll call “woodsmanship”. I humbly understand that radar and satellite imagery can see what a man on the ground cannot, but plain old common sense will go a long way. Hints at the local scale help one understand the atmosphere. Unless it’s an extreme cold front coming like a freight train in the dark of night, you can see what’s coming and have a good chance to react intelligently.

I observe basic weather stuff as you’d expect out of a person who’s generally in tune with nature. I’ll recognize a cumulous or cirrus cloud and know what each means. I know the way the wind generally blows in my area. I often know what to expect and when it’s likely to happen.

This warning just didn’t fit the world I was seeing. I looked at the leaves on the trees. I checked birds’ flights. I sniffed the humidity in the air. I scanned the skies in the direction from which the threat was supposed to come.

Something didn’t add up.

Without being able to put my finger on it, I knew (as well as one can know anything weather related) that the conditions were ripe for something bad but some key ingredient was missing. You need energy and you need the trigger to unleash it. The energy was there but not the component parts of the release. Whatever was going to happen was either not going to happen. Or maybe it would happen elsewhere. Or possibly it was busy tearing up the county upwind of me (which I doubted because it inexplicably hadn’t sent indicators downstream).

There wasn’t a big thunderhead to pull the hot humid air from low and shove it high into the cold atmosphere. There were gusty winds but not a solid developing front. The fucking birds were singing!

The thing about outside information is that it’s the voice of the media, not God. You’re a smart monkey. You can (and should!) compare reports to observation. The report didn’t look right for what I was seeing.

Rather than just standing in the glorious sun, I started mowing my lawn. I’d at least knock back some of the grass before it got wet again.

I got to work.

I recently added a radio to my tractor. I plan to post about the installation sometime. The intention was that I’d have NOAA weather updates while out plowing snow. I’m not a commercial plow guy but things could change. I could be one if I was desperate. I wanted a radio so I’m better equipped should I need to become one. I also need a flashing light so I don’t get creamed on the road. That’s not installed yet.

(Note: It is wise to have options during uncertainty. We’re in an economic house of cards and it’s collapsing around us right now in real time… as we always expected. There’s no point in wailing about our sad fate. We should adjust as well as we can and then roll with it. Snow removal equipment is much a “prepper” tool as anything. I’ll take it over another pile of ammo or yet another stack of MREs. Yes I have ammo and food, but beyond a certain point you should branch out. Shopping is not preparation. Realistic scenarios include things like snowplows and road conditions. It’s not going to stop snowing in winter. Do you need another 40 loaded magazines before you get a spare shovel?)

I started mowing in the glorious sunny weather. The local FM rock station is crap and the AM antenna wasn’t great. I settled on classic music.

I humbly assumed the storm would arrive eventually. When or if the mystery weather front actually arrived I’d hustle to the barn asap. I’d get soaked running to the house but the tractor would be fine. Plus, it was nice to get some grass cut.

The radio had other ideas. I was chilling to violins and shit when they interrupted the music:

“NOAA weather reports that Curmudgeon’s county is about to get stomped by a storm. Reports are that it will be ‘Godzilla-like” and leave ‘smitherines’. We return you now to your sleepy old people music.”

I shut down the PTO (it’s a three point finish mower deck) and stepped off the tractor. Despite the engine’s racket, everything seemed peaceful. The air seemed reasonable, if a little “twitchy”.

I shrugged and continued mowing. To the south a few clouds had drifted in. My airspace remained clear.

Another announcement, this time read by hand by a guy who sounded terrified:

“A weather report for… um… Curmudgeon’s township. NOAA says everyone is going to die and there will be no stone left on top of another. Er… Well… NPR will miss our lost viewers.”

I stopped again and checked the sky. The clouds to the south were cumulonimbus. They certainly could develop into a shitstorm but they weren’t “done” yet. I assessed them to be still growing in height. Clearly weren’t yet releasing pent up energy. No lightning, no thunder, no hints of rain. They were plodding along my southern horizon like they were in no particular hurry. They didn’t seem to have a pent up front behind them. Skies over my head were still clear. I went back to mowing.

“We interrupt this sleepy music from whatever a philharmonic is to specifically warn ‘Curmudgeon’ that he’s going to get ass beaten. Hail, tornadoes, Poseidon’s own rainstorm, and probably a herd of rabid Chihuahuas wills trip the flesh from his bones. This is the end! This is not a drill! All you rural hicks deserve your fate as the deplorable rednecks you are!”

I tried to ignore it but ten minutes later another warning came. I found myself watching the gradual drifting cloud heads. They were not over me. They were not coming toward me. They simply weren’t doing anything at all. I’m betting on radar they looked like Satan’s ass crack but I didn’t see rotation and I didn’t see density and I didn’t think they were even ready to release raindrops.

With nothing unleashing from the impressive but inert situation, the logical thing to do was mow lawn and relax. The storm would come if it came, and it didn’t appear to be coming my way at all.

Another warning. And then another. Good grief!

I gave up. All the warnings were getting me jittery. It was as if the whole world was in a strange alternate universe of hailstones and destruction. Yet here I was in a sunshine filled heaven. WTF? I parked the tractor, carefully locking the door. It was as safe as anything on my rickety homestead.

I stood there, in the bright glorious sunshine, wondering what the fuck was happening. It was still sunny. Not a drop of rain had fallen. I watched a hummingbird flitting about. I saw vultures coasting high in the sky. One bird weighing almost nothing and the others very high in the atmosphere (which indicated it wasn’t particularly turbulent where they soared). What did the birds know that the radar didn’t?

I got another text from Mrs. Curmudgeon: “are you still standing”?

I texted back “I declare a WTF paradox! The weather report is just another Fauchi press conference, a lot of ‘potential this’ and ‘beware of that’. Dead bodies aren’t falling from the sky. It’s all crap!”

More texting: “You have a weird way of being reassuring.”

I keyed in my explanation: “It’s sunny and nice. I’m confused. If I didn’t have the radio I’d not give it a second thought. There are some clouds… another 50 miles travel and they might amount to something but they’re just… ” I paused, trying to describe “woodsman” weather knowledge. It didn’t translate.

I deleted my text and tried again: “It’s bullshit. Maybe somewhere is going to get hit but not here. Be careful driving home through not-here! Delay your trip if you can. But right here is fine. Ignore the fuckin’ eggheads!”

Being the ornery cuss I am, I popped out a lawn chair and sat there in my driveway; almost daring the storm to come and get me. Everyone was watching radar and listening to warnings. I was looking at the sky. I watched big clouds drift on the southern horizon, doing nothing in a very impressive manner; just as I expected them too. It did this for a long time. I ate dinner and still nothing had happened.

Eventually, the radio and Mrs. Curmudgeon’s phone quit sending us warnings of imminent doom. Not a drop of rain had fallen. Nobody apologized for their spastic false positive. (Nobody ever does.)

It feels like everything I hear from every source is hyperventilating all the time. I theorize the goal is to have us spastic and panicked. It’s bad for us to hear that crap.

I’m checking off the ‘net for a while. If I get all inspired I might pop in. Or maybe I’ll just go radio silent. Figure about a week or so. Carry on y’all.

We never got to the end of pavement. We had a great time but driving many miles requires a consumption of vacation time I couldn’t spare. Also it was getting expensive for hotels and gas. We probably would have gotten further if I didn’t insist of stopping to “take the dog for a walk” at every pretty view, neat tree, rock outcrop, and pine cone that piqued my interest. Lucky for me, Mrs. Curmudgeon is all sorts of patient. The dog loved the walks just like I did.

Like I said, I’ve been in (some of) this area before, but long ago and I was mostly canoeing. Part of this vacation’s scouting was assessing costs of a new approach. Staying on pavement saves labor but increases expenses. A decade ago I budgeted $50 a day if I was very super careful. That’s for a fishing license, fuel to get there, bourbon, pipe tobacco, and a hotel at the end and start of at least a week’s camping (with a modest meal at both ends too). Food for the week was dehydrated backpacking meals I’d already purchased and brought from home; reconstituted with filtered lake water… or fish. My budget ignores money pissed away on fishing lures and such. My camping gear (which I used hard) wasn’t free but I’m not uptight enough to figure depreciation. Politicians teach us that things like that are “off budget” and therefore didn’t actually happen.

Incidentally, even if you sit on a rock and eat mud you’ll burn a few bucks. I recall paying a fee for camping on Crown Land. It wasn’t much. It was like $7 or $10 a night. Who knows what it is now? (This is different than campground fees which are much higher but you get a lot more service.) I paid the fee even if all I did was sleep in the dirt under a pine tree. I consider myself a guest and obey the rules of whatever country I’m in.

I’m 99% sure nobody would give me shit if I just camped without paperwork. Nobody in Canada ever asked for “my papers”; unlike Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness in Minnesota(!). BWCAW is run by the Forest Service and I personally experienced douchebags in the middle of buttfuck nowhere asking for my paperwork. (Which I had, but resented presenting.)

America’s various agencies like the Forest Service, the Bureau of Land Management, and some State Forests offer free dispersed camping (which is amazing and I can’t imagine how much that pisses off dickheads in DC). I don’t know if you can camp for free on National Park land but your car sure as hell isn’t getting into the Park without them taking a cut.

Another note on budgets; Timmys for the win! We faced “frontier pricing” at various locations and I’m not complaining but one Tim Hortons seemingly broke the pattern. It was about the same price as anywhere. Timmys isn’t my favorite but it won’t kill ‘ya either. Good to know.

We took a different route home, which was just as interesting. There was no sign warning me of “no services” but holy crap was there nothing! You know how college professors (and the kids they’ve indoctrinated) spent the last 50 years bitching about overpopulation? Well drop their ass where it’s 80 km in all directions to find so much as a fencepost and they’ll calm down right quick.

The route was paved and easily driven but super empty. There were stretches of well over 100 kilometers without so much as an outhouse. We’d found ample viewspots with picnic tables (or campgrounds which also have picnic tables and such) on other roads but not this road. Grudgingly we pulled over to make sandwiches on random unnamed muddy logging routes.

Since I was scouting for future adventures, I might as well cover a TMI discovery; call it the “dump index”.

On one of the routes that had absolutely Jack squat in terms of services (specifically there were no outhouses) I stopped to take a dump. No worries, I have a trowel and all that. I hiked a mighty 100 yards off the main route and had the most peaceful of dumps. It was a glorious moment in tune with nature.

I pass without a trace and when I was done a team of trackers would never know I’d been there but that’s me and not everyone. As I was walking back, I spied a little bit of TP just off the logging trail and much closer to pavement. This sparked my interest and I looked for telltale signs whenever we stopped. Here’s my determination:

If you’re on a paved road with no outhouses whatsoever, someone has crapped on every spot where you can park a vehicle.

Now you know.

Nor did fellow travelers do the “pass without trace” method a wilderness weirdo like me employs. I could charitably assume there was three feet of snow over frozen ground when they left their mark, but just as likely they were merely lazy. I’m guessing they took three strides out of their vehicle, dropped trou, and crapped like fuckin’ animals. I’m not making it up. I base my assumption on observation. People suck.

The reason I mention this is they crapped all over places that could be future “not hotels”. I could (if I were so inclined) roll a motorcycle (even a street bike) a bit off the pavement and spend the night without anyone caring. It’s probably even legal if I paid the Crown Land fee. However, if it’s dark and late and one were tired, they might camp too close to the pavement. If so, they’re going to discover the next morning that someone else has been there before and they weren’t so careful to dig a cathole as me. Just at thing to know.

None of this applies if you’re far from the road. Walk 50 yards and it might as well be primordial untrammeled wilderness. I don’t know if dirt roads have less traffic and thus less TP sprinkled about; it seems likely.

I didn’t take any pictures but we saw lots of critters. A porcupine waddled in front of our car and absolutely refused to give way. I swerved and came to a full stop because the little bastard was right in my tire-line. I doubt a porcupine will invariably cause a flat but it’s certainly possible they might.

There were little turtles, must be the right season. Herons and other water related birds too. It makes sense because there were many little pockets of water that probably haven’t been fished in years. Some might freeze down and therefore hold few fish. Others might be plenty deep enough and have a lunker just begging to be caught and cooked.

The dog and I wandered down a snowmobile trail and poked around one area looking for fish (I didn’t have my fishing pole though). All I “caught” were a few ticks. Tick-proof pants wont help if one gets in your beard! They didn’t bite me though.

Even though the ticks were out, the mosquitoes weren’t. It’s still early. I spied a few lingering patches of snow under some shady fir trees.

We saw a nice sleek bear right off the road. I was delighted. Every time I see a bear it makes me happy. The bear wasn’t happy to see us… it hauled ass out of there. Just a black bear. This wasn’t grizzly territory and far too south for polar bears (which seem riskier than grizzlies). I wasn’t armed. I’ve no idea what the rules for that are in Canada but the paperwork probably makes death by bear seem the easier choice. I’ve personally never worried about grizzlies anywhere east of Manitoba. YMMV.

We crossed the American border with no hassle at all. When the guy asked us if we’d bought anything I held up a Tim Hortons cup. I suppose nobody’s making much off my tourist expenditures. Once again, the dog was pissed off that the border patrol didn’t have a dog treat like Starbucks.

All in all it was a nice uneventful trip. I needed the chill and salute our northern neighbor for being (relatively) mellow.

We rolled on, and on, and on. Then we took a turn. Then we drove more. The weather looked threatening but never cut loose.

A few times I spied a Provincial campground. I briefly “explored” each one. These are my planned future alternative to hotels. After a few I declared that Canadian Provincial Parks were more primitive than American State Parks (not to mention National Parks which are so uptight I avoid them). I don’t mind “primitive”. (I camp in a tent not an RV so “full hookups” don’t impress me.) It’s just a thing to know. Do they sell firewood? Do they lock the outhouse out of season? Is there a water supply? Etc…

As soon as I’d formulated my theory, we stopped at another Provincial campground that was every bit as fancy as anything south of the border. Who knew?

Every “Checkpoint Charlie” entrance to campgrounds (primitive or not) was manned! In my limited experience (often off season) many American campgrounds have elaborate elaborate toll booths like it’s the border to Lichtenstein but (at least since Covid and possibly earlier) they’re unmanned. I assume it’s the modern weird American economy where staffing any enterprise is nearly impossible and too expensive even if you could find a person to do the job. It’s a lot like Walmart having 30 cash registers and three cashiers.

Not that I care, to me the dude in the booth does little more than an on-line reservation web page. But it’s nice to know details in case I come in too late or whatever. Painting with a broad brush, in Canada there was a guy to open the gate and in America the gate is unmanned but chained open. Either is fine. An exception is the US Park Service which seems to exist as a jobs program for people who piss me off.

We got to a town that was partway to one of my favorite canoe access points. We weren’t “at the end of pavement” but we were getting there. This was not quite the last “town” that is a “town” on the route but it was close. I remembered the town as clean and prosperous but that was years ago. This visit it looked rundown and shabby. The main hotel was large but undergoing construction. Half of it was shut down. The other half had 283,372,278 trucks from the CN train crews. Not a lot of tourists in this hotel. By “not a lot” I mean ” none”.

I cooled my jets in the car while Mrs. Curmudgeon checked in. It took forever. When she came back she explained that the power was down. She’d checked in using a laptop running on battery power. Making the magnetic key would have to wait until the power comes back up for that alternate computer. Also the person doing the check in had said “this is a First Nations town, why the heck would you visit here?”

We set out to find food. The other half of town had power. Sweet! Everything was closed. Yikes! I looked at a few likely restaurants. One had taped up a sign on the door; “Power went down and staff bailed instantly, good luck sucker.” OK, that’s not exactly what it said but you get it.

We found a place with an open door and power! The joint was hopping. Mrs. Curmudgeon ordered a salad and I ordered a small one-person pizza. Then, I looked at the prices on the menu and the numbers hurt me. I wonder how much we’d paid for a night’s lodging? Unlike the train service guys, my expenses are not reimbursed.

It’s time to discuss what I call “frontier pricing”. Shit on a frontier costs a fortune. This is a fact of life. If you explore fringes you need to accept it. Everyone has a story of how they went to Alaska and bought some thing and were surprised by the price. I did it too. I once bought a glass of milk for my kid near Denali National Park and it was mind blowing. But it was in the middle of fuckin’ nowhere and my kid wanted milk. It doesn’t take a genius to see that it was a place that has many moose but no cows. A guy needs to make allowances.

It’s easy to think 4 hours out of Anchorage is “remote” and I was “just in Canada” but that’s not fair. I was a billion miles from anywhere. If a pizza cost twice what I’m used to, who am I to complain?

I was looking forward to my double priced pizza. Then the power went down. Damn! Everyone in the building groaned.

I glanced at the owner, who was working his ass off. I hoped the pizza oven was gas powered. He shook his head. Damn! Several orders got canceled and some locals wandered home to cook in their house… assuming they had gas stoves. The owner offered to double our salad order and throw in some cold chicken. I was delighted. Who needs pizza anyway?

The other problem was that the power down meant no debit/credit cards. I had some Canadian bills but it was only $13, which would probably buy little more than a couple bottles of coke. I explained this to the owner, who was crestfallen to see a customer walk out.

Oh well, this is why I brought the chuckbox. I’d whip up something in no time! Mrs. Curmudgeon vetoed that idea. She was in no mood for “camping food”. She handed me a wad of US greenbacks. The owner lit up! He was more than happy to have foreign currency.

His staff of three were nice but utterly clueless. Without electricity they’d gone to zombie mode. I’ve never seen anything more closely approximating a human screen saver.

I went to the counter looking at the menu. People treat math like they treat a proctology exam but I had it handled. I was just going to do the math and tell the kid how much I owed:

“Let’s see, Mrs. Curmudgeon’s Caesar salad was $17. Multiply that by two because I’ll take a salad as well. Now you’ve got $34. What’s your tax here? Oh heck, I’ll just call it 10%. So now we’re up to $37.40. Throw in a bottle of water and a bottle of Coke and tax on that. Plus what do you charge for chicken?”

The kid at the counter was in physical pain. If he was put on earth with some particular purpose, it never did and never will include math.

I was trying to calm him down. “Don’t worry, I’ll figure it out and throw in a tip.”

The owner saw his teller-kid about to have organ failure. He shouted a random number. “Call it $50 even.”

That seemed fair enough. “I’ve got $10 Canadian and $40 American. I think the exchange rate is plenty for that to include a tip.”

The teller-kid started going pale. Two kinds of currency with two values? It was the end times!

The owner beamed: “Yes, that’ll be fine. American is worth a bit more.”

“It won’t be for long, we’re trying to ruin the greenback.”

“I’ve seen the news, you’re shooting your economy in the foot. We wonder about America sometimes.”

I handed the teller-kid $50 in mixed currency. “Spend it fast, it’ll be worthless sooner or later.”

The teller-kid held the money like it was going to bite him. He’d experienced arithmetic, ratios, the idea of fiat currency, and a hint at the dark voodoo that is arbitrage. I’d physically injured his mind. He’d need a week of eating CBD gummies to make the pain go away.

The owner pushed the kid aside, manually opened the till, and stuffed the money in it. He was a nice guy. I wasn’t necessarily getting screwed, I was paying frontier prices in the only building with food during the middle of a power outage. I could live with that.

Mrs. Curmudgeon wasn’t about to eat anything emerging from my chuckbox and desperately wanted vegetables so she agreed. At the same time she was mystified to see me handing over money without complaining. I always complain! However, I get frontier pricing and don’t mind it. As a contrast, paying for parking in Kenora pissed me off for a week. Mrs. Curmudgeon asked for the leftover cash (which was only a handful of ones). Sadly, I’d already put it in my wallet. Such a shame.

The salad was OK. Not great but not bad either.

Back at the hotel the power had come on again. It was not a pretty hotel but it it was clean and roomy.

Our giant, fluffy, photogenic dog was swarmed by happy fellas with accents from Bangalore. The workmen at the hotel were more likely to speak Hindi and eat vindaloo than talk about hockey and eat poutine. There were a couple Sikhs too.

Modern workforce or not, among the welders and truck drivers, I didn’t see a single female. The dudes were probably making bank and racking up overtime but also working with heavy equipment in the middle of a mud bog at the ass end of nowhere. Funny how you’ll hear endless bitching about 70% pay rates but complaints are uttered exclusively in air conditioned University settings. I’m pretty sure any skilled welder or heavy equipment operator would make bank in the hinterland. I know that virtually not a person alive would give a shit about genitalia.

The guys politely asked to take a picture with our dog and the dog basked in the attention. Our dog is probably on Pinterest or TikToc right now.

Last post coming up…

After a delightful breakfast, which I don’t know how much we paid for (but even Mrs. Curmudgeon was shocked), we left town. Eager to save money I bought some lunch meat. Everything in my chuckbox is “dry goods” but now I was messing around with ice in a cooler. What a PITA.

I also stopped at Canada Tire, because of course I did. I didn’t buy much. Canada Tire was a zoo, just like WalMart in the US (and there was also a WalMart across the street). I like Canada Tire. They used to have weird Canada Tire currency and I loved that! I think that’s over now. I miss it.

The novelty of Canadian crowds was more refreshing than mundane exposure to American “people of WalMart”. I should point out that everyone was quite civil and there were no thuggish shitheads causing drama; chalk one up to Canada’s more civilized bent. People were people and I’m not a people guy but it wasn’t awash in beings that looked like they’d teleported in from Jupiter. On the other hand I had to step around dogshit in one of the aisles. Since we were in civilized Canada, I assume the shit was from a dog.

I wanted to buy a collapsible fishing pole. None appealed to me. I was going to get a t-shirt but was overwhelmed by the crowd and forgot. I looked for paper maps but couldn’t find anything better than what I’d already bought on Amazon.

I did get bug spray. The season arrives soon. I noticed there was no permethrin? Oh lord, I hope my fellow rednecks in Canada have access to that miracle concoction! Permethrin is good stuff! (Don’t give me shit about herbal quack bug stuff… bugs up north are the big leagues. In particular citronella is bullshit. It does about as much good against Canadian bog mosquitoes as an orange peel will protect you against a rhino.) They did have the biggest selection of Thermacell I’d ever seen. I already have plenty of Thermacell refills.

Incidentally, I wear tick resistant permethrin treated jeans all the time. I think it helps. I take ticks seriously.

We headed out on what I perceived to be the main commercial highway that connects Kenora to… earth. All that plastic shit at Canada Tire had to come on a truck right?

As we rolled out on a highway I’d never seen before, I told Mrs. Curmudgeon “this is the main commercial shipping route, there ought to be gas stations and restaurants and stuff”.

Wrong!

Just outside of town was a sign. I didn’t take a picture but it said:

“Mr. Curmudgeon, make sure you have a full tank of gas because you won’t see fuck all for so many miles it’ll make your eyes bleed.”

I’m paraphrasing, but the sign wasn’t wrong. We didn’t see jack squat for hours. It was gorgeous though. Smooth pavement and nice views. I had a fine time. Somewhere out in the middle of that emptiness, we stopped at a pretty spot and made sandwiches.

I wonder if their main shipping is rail and not trucks? It really is empty out there. The US invested heavily in Interstate Highways and leaned into fleets of semis; or at least it did until it started throttling its own economy. Maybe this part of Canada leaned into trains; which are more efficient on long hauls?

We stopped at a blip on the map that interested me. This was one of many “turn here to plunge into the unknown” spots. A paved road split off straight into the forest. According to my map, the pavement goes X miles and terminates at town Y, which is so small that who knows what’s up there. The terminus is a lake and I think a vast ice road system builds from there, as in across the frozen lake and totally impassible in summer. Though I’ve never been there in winter so what do I know?

As for dirt roads there are a few offshoots of the pavement spur that look like log truck main haul routes, some of which skip from this paved dead-end to other paved dead-ends. There’s probably a spiderweb of smaller “feeder” dirt roads that snake out from the main dirt trunk through bogs and swamps and into various areas good for growing trees. On this mellow road trip, we were definitely not equipped to explore anything like that.

At the blip on the map there was one convenience store. One! People were buying shit like the world was on fire. There was literally nothing else available. The restrooms were in constant use. The pumps never stopped selling fuel. It was chaos. Somehow I expected a Tim Hortons at least.

I don’t know how many people live up on that paved spur and the associated hinterlands but I was at the bottleneck that led to it. Unless they’re getting into and out of there by plane (which is a possibility) or just never leave (another possibility) all of human civilization absolutely must pass this single overworked convenience store. Every gallon of gas, candy bar, spark plug, snowmobile, outboard motor, can of beer, and tampon in all of that big area has to come past this spot and meander up that road. Yet, there was almost no infrastructure.

I have spent many wilderness camping trips in Canada, but I never really thought about infrastructure. I paddled from nowhere to nowhere eating pike and sleeping in a tent. I wasn’t there to meet people. I scarcely thought about humans at all. This time I was people watching and it was a different vibe.

We decided to continue on. Still I ponder the mystery, “how do the people in that town up there get chicken nuggets”?

Approximately eleven million miles later we came to the first “big town” since Kenora. By big town I mean it had Canada Tire, restaurants, and hotels. This town I’d seen once before. Maybe a decade and a half ago I rolled through with a canoe on my truck’s roof. I remembered nothing of the town except it was a mill town and it had fuel. (I try hard to remember fuel stop locations.)

Mrs. Curmudgeon said “what do you mean ‘mill town’?” Then the wind shifted and the dog gave a snort and we all got a strong whiff of the paper making process. The chemical voodoo used to turn trees into paper stinks. I remember a mill town in Maine called Lincoln. We called it “Stinkin’ Lincoln”.

Now this isn’t all bad! It’s a renewable resource being made into a product people want and that’s a big deal. It’s literally the smell of commerce in a place where every dollar (or loonie) is needed and presumably appreciated.

We topped off fuel and kept rolling. Stay tuned…