Adaptive Curmudgeon

[Because I’m prone to go non-linear, my travelogue veers into story. Rest assured, I do have a point. I might even get to it… eventually.]

One chilly morning, many years ago, I stepped out of my tent and was dismayed by the strong wind. I looked at my canoe. I looked at the whitecaps on the lake. There was nothing I could do.

It wasn’t like I’d tried. I’d bailed out of the backcountry early. Well ahead of schedule. I’d spent a few days earnestly trying to get within striking distance of the trailhead well in advance of the need. I’d done just what I’d intended. I wasn’t merely within striking distance but very close! On a normal day, I’d have the canoe on the truck rack in under two hours. Hardly break a sweat to do it too. Today, that wouldn’t work.

In the distance I could see the blinking red light on a cell tower. My topo map reported it was less than ¾ miles away. My truck wasn’t far from that tower. With this wind it might as well be on Mars. A half mile of water in these conditions was impossible. I could hike the quarter mile from the water landing to the truck a dozen times over but the lake was as much a deal breaker as a mountain range or canyon. I was camped on a 5-acre island. The entire universe beyond the island was unreachable.

By sunset, I was a day behind schedule. I had appointments in civilization; obligations and duties. Flights had been missed.

None of that mattered. Nature doesn’t give a wet fart in a hurricane about human desires.

It’s just the nature of canoes. Wind on any decent sized body of water can jack up a canoe like a dog shrugging off a flea. No amount of arm power will overcome basic physics.

I couldn’t even go fishing. Casting into the wind was a joke and the lee side of the island was a jungle.

For a few days I was stuck. I made coffee and waited. I congratulated myself for carrying “extra” food and ate every morsel. Enduring what is merely a first world problem, I simply sat there.

Frustrated with the waves and prisoner to them I started to scheme. There had to be another way. Later, events pushed me to take action on my vague notions.

Two bottles of Starbucks vanilla Frappuccino is not how I’d choose to start my day but it did the job. I mellowed and all was well. Placated, I cooked a second breakfast (I had the inclination to actually eat this one). I sat in the sunlight watching the pelicans drift about and idly pondered why the hell these particular pelicans were weird ass outliers that aren’t on the ocean like any decent pelican ought to be. Are they Curmudgeons of the bird world?

Then, because I’m on vacation and was already strung out from the road, I deferred my plans. Rather than heading into the lake to “play”, I went back to my Taj Mahal Tent and took a nap.

Awesome! Can there be anything more pleasant and decadent than a mid-day nap?

I’m not sure how long I was snoozing but I was awoken by a hellish sound. It was a helicopter’s rotor wash mixed with the low frequency growl of a Caterpillar engine that was out of oil and the random chattering of Yoko Ono being attacked by badgers… all this was just a chorus to the main song; which was my tent flapping and shuddering like plastic tarp tied at one end to a brick and tossed out of the Concorde. Yep, it was exactly like that!

Awake but groggy it took a second to suss out the situation. The morning had been dead calm but it had given way to the roaring angry brutal merciless wind that makes high plains home to the strong and graveyard to the weak. Shit!

I knew this area was “windy”. I’ve hung out in the region before and even traversed in several times on wind sensitive motorcycles. I know what it can do and was prepared for “normal” winds. This event was just unreasonably windy. An unholy maelstrom that makes you think of Toto and get ready to land in Oz.

Blinking, I stepped out of my vibrating tent and was nearly blown off my feet. Thank goodness I habitually keep my camping gear well stowed. If I hadn’t, my shit would’ve been blown clear to Mexico. Every other camper in the Park had vamoosed. I was utterly alone. From horizon to horizon, there was nothing but windblown dust, tumbleweed, a few weirdo pelicans, and me.

I should get another weather radio. (I had one but it broke. I also suppose I could’ve tuned my HAM to NOAA but I was lazy. Whoops.)

My precious new tent was bending under the onslaught and I feared it would give way. My backpacking tent is low slung and aerodynamic. It’s a bitch to setup but will hold steady in a hurricane. Not so for my new tall, squarish, tent. In my desire for “Overlanding” had I gone too soft? Would it be under warranty if I shredded it in a single use? (More on my tent in a Curmudgeonly gear review in the future.) The killer wind deformed the tent like a child with Play Doh; transforming it into various shaky unequal polyhedrons, none of which looked sustainable. What were its design specs? It would bend ominously and then spring back to its normal shape. I’d breathe a sigh of relief but then the next gust would bend it harder. Jesus on a pogo stick, I had to take action!

I checked my stakes. They were holding. I untied a few guylines from the lee side and doubled up on the windward side. I grabbed all the heavy shit from my truck and made a toolbox and generator topped wall on the windward side. If I weren’t at a Park, I’d have moved my truck to the windward side too. I figured that would get me in trouble in a park though.

Having done all I could do, I retired to my soft inviting cot.

It was no use. Lying there wondering just how many foot pounds it would take to tear my tent to bits was not relaxing. After some swearing and a few sips of… LEMONADE… I finally, grudgingly, broke camp.

I’d planned to spend all day here and maybe even stay a few days. But the wind won.

I packed up everything in record time. Only when everything was inside the truck (or chained down in the bed) could I relax. The wind was far less visceral when viewed through a windshield.

I drove to a nearby boat ramp. Was I really going to wuss out on fun just because of a little wind? I don’t easily admit defeat. I stepped into the maelstrom and paced about, glaring at the waves. Then I spied a big painted sign. It said “Don’t Fuck With The Wind Curmudgeon”. OK, so maybe I’m paraphrasing, but the sign was there specifically to warn people like me against doing exactly what I was considering. Well played sign!

Back in the truck, I set out for Pumpjack and immediately got lost. The signage to get to the campsite was excellent. There were no signs to leave. Very Hotel California. Eventually I gave up looking for signs and navigated off compass bearings. I knew there were no canyons between me and the town so I’d find it sooner or later.

In town I was a mess. I just couldn’t focus. A weird morning and interrupted nap meant I had the IQ of a cement block. I found a Walmart, wandered aimlessly, put stuff in my cart, tossed stuff out, put more stuff in, and then…

A goddamn 8’ walking furry rabbit?!?

It was Easter. I was dimly aware of that. What I’m not aware of is that people now take their children to get their picture taken with a dude in a giant creepy 8’ tall rabbit costume. Not cool man!

Fleeing the freaky rabbit (I refuse to call anything that encapsulates a grown man a “bunny”) I cleared out pronto. I still had the option of my original planned destination; it was available and unexplored and far enough away it might be in a different weather system. It was a good long drive but the wind sucked and it was starting to rain so driving seemed more fun than camping anyway.

Sipping shitty coffee from an Arbys I made my way toward the boring Interstate upon which would take me half the day or more to get to my landing point… then, as I’d been doing all week, I went off script. It’s the plains, I had a full tank of fuel, and there are sufficient roads. I had rough idea where nearby canyons and mountain ridges lie. None would block my general path. I’m not averse to small blacktop or dirt. Why not explore?

Leaving the Interstate for semis and soccer moms I set out on a random road that went roughly the right compass bearing…

[This is where I have to leave you for a while. I had my bitshovel (and laptop) on my trip but didn’t take notes every day. If everything was “edited” I could text dump right now and post it, but the rest is still in my pointy head. I’m sorry but you’ll have to wait a while for the next installation. Happy extremely belated Easter y’all.]

The world is filled with morning people, or as I like to call them “freaks of nature”. I am not a morning person. Never have been, never will be. This particular morning was worse than most.

That said, it started well enough. I got up and got dressed inside my tent. (This was the first time I’ve been able to stand up and get dressed inside a tent in years! It sure beats standing outside in the cold pulling on jeans… especially in a non-private camping situation.)

After that I was a bustle of efficiency. In no time, I had a propane stove lit, water in my percolator, and it was already simmering. Hurriedly, I prepared the filter basket and…

Full stop! Red alert.

I. Had. No. Coffee!

Holy shit!

I almost always have coffee in my truck, but I remember packing for this trip thinking “I’ll pick up some coffee grounds on the way”. The truth hurts! Regardless, I tore the truck apart looking for any hint of caffeine.

Nothing.

I was at least a 40-mile round-trip to the nearest coffee, assuming I could figure out my way back (which was unlikely). I can MacGyver my way out of most problems but not this. No amount of cleverness is going to create coffee grounds where none exist.

Shit was getting real. This was not a drill. No coffee for the Curmudgeon is a very bad thing.

Bargaining for time against my world-class coffee addiction, I whipped up breakfast and tried to choke it down. It was pointless, without coffee I don’t want to eat. Who am I kidding? Without coffee I don’t want to live!

There were perhaps a half dozen RVs nearby. Most of them were packing up and readying to depart. I’d planned on spending all day hanging around the lake but, once again, I was an outlier. Folks were speedily clearing out; more like businessmen at a hotel than campers at a park.

The park ranger, who diligently patrolled the place (probably better than the prison in town), swung by. I flagged him down.

“Excuse me, is there a place to buy coffee? Grounds, brewed, anything?”

“Sorry, nothing here at all. Even in my office I don’t have a coffee maker or I’d give you some from that.”

“You have an office without coffee?” The mind boggles.

“I bring a cup from town. It’s only 20 miles to town. You take route 23, then 14, turn at the Federsen ranch, turn again at the rail crossing, then take 28 south…” He was rattling off directions so complicated there was no way in hell I was going to retain them. After six or eight more ‘you can’t miss it’ turns, he wrapped up. “…there’s a Wal-Mart on the right, and a Dairy Queen too!” He ended proudly.

He was trying to be nice but all I got out of that was “it’s 20 miles, you’re going to get lost, and the coffee in town sucks.”

I thanked him and he drove away. Then I returned to my picnic table and sat with my head hanging. I pondered the many mistakes in life I’d made that led to this catastrophic moment. It loomed large and I decided everything is awful all the time, there is no hope, and freewill is an illusion.

In desperation, I checked my first aid kit. Years ago, after a similar mistake during an antelope hunting excursion, I stashed a bottle of caffeine tablets in my first aid kit. That was a long time ago. Predictably the tablets were long gone. (Note to self: fix that error pronto!)

Two behemoth fifth wheel trailers rolled out in convoy. Soon I was going to be entirely alone. It was time to act. I had to quit being antisocial, admit my failures, and seek charity from fellow campers. I absolutely loathe asking for help. In general I’d die before seeking assistance. If I had, say, a broken leg, I’d probably hobble around for hours before I admitted defeat. But… COFFEE.

I reluctantly trudged to the campsite next to me. Two fellows were packing up. They had a gorgeous fifth wheel hooked to one truck and a new and outlandishly overpowered motorboat hooked to a second truck. Classic American recreation; a hundred grand worth of gear for two dudes to go fishing. I love my culture.

“I hate to be that guy,” I said “but do you have any coffee grounds?”  was hoping against hope they had a can of stale Folgers in a cabinet in that fifth wheel.

This is when one of them said the most American statement I’ve ever heard:

“Gosh, I’m really sorry, but I don’t have any coffee grounds. Can you get by with these two bottles of Starbucks vanilla Frappuccino?”

It took all my self-control to keep from snatching them like Smeagol reaching for the ring. I thanked him profusely and offered to pay (which he refused). Then I scampered back to my camp clutching two bottles filled with “elixir of close enough”.

Back at my camp I chugged the sugary concoction. Urge to kill fading…

At the beginning of my trip I made a command decision; I tossed my truck’s GPS under the seat. I’m a free man. Unfortunately, it also meant I was ill-informed about the distance between Pumpjack and the nearby State Park. It wasn’t “just a few miles”.

There was a sign leading out of town, so I followed it. A few miles later there was a sign at a turn, so I turned. Lather, rinse, repeat. The game went on for a while. Eventually I was 25+ miles out, completely lost, and aimlessly chasing signage through the prairie.

There was one stretch of road that basically went through some rancher’s backyard. This isn’t weird. It happens all the time. It was an official road, probably maintained by the county, but you had the feeling you were intruding on a private area. Probably not a lot of traffic on this road. Almost none heading for the State Park? (Was this a seasonal thing or just an unused park?)

A big white dog sauntered off the ranch house’s tiny lawn (ironically but wisely, ranchers with a zillion acres tend to mow/water only small lawns around their house). The dog walked to the middle of the road and stood there waiting for my approach. It was deliberately blocking the road.

It was a huge and beautiful dog; a Great Pyrenees. My favorite breed. The thing I like about a Great Pyrenees is the way they look at you; as equals. They view you with respect but not deference. As a guardian dog, it’s their job to communicate that they could, if necessary, fight. I suspect they would do so with considerable effectiveness but Great Pyrenees comport themselves in a manner that implies they don’t want to fight. In general, they won’t create an issue where one doesn’t already exist. Every Great Pyrenees I’ve met has been like this. The gentle yet powerful soul of a warrior monk. They exude a feeling of control. Not control over you, but over themselves. The greatest control is self-control.

This dog was on duty, but calm. It had a look I associate with the best and most perfect chivalrous knights of a long-ago time. In my experience, a Great Pyrenees has no interest in starting a fight, in fact they’re quite friendly. Yet if there is to be a fight they will win because that’s what they are there to do. It’s all very polite and straightforward. I can’t imagine anyone dumb enough to get crossways with one of these noble beasts.

This is the exact opposite of many other dogs. A Labrador Retriever will turn itself inside out trying to please you. A Dachshund or Chihuahua might “guard” an area with the unhinged frenzy of a psycho crackhead. A well-trained Pit Bull might come off like a pleasantly athletic musclehead and a poorly trained one as a thug. A German Shepherd might be a happy mutt or so well trained as to seem like an organ of the State. But only a Great Pyrenees, in my biased opinion, protects an area while sizing you up like an equal and possible friend. It does this while clearly and calmly communicating that it has certain responsibilities and thus has certain expectations of you. Unseemly behavior won’t be tolerated. If you start causing trouble it will end you; but it would be a regrettable shame you made the fuss happen. A Great Pyrenees is civilization with fur. Would that we could act so reasonably amongst ourselves; society would bloom.

I love Great Pyrenees!

The dog stood placidly in the road. I rolled up, gradually slowing to a halt. Once I stopped, the dog sniffed around my front bumper and the driver side (my window was down and it made eye contact for several seconds). Apparently satisfied, it turned and walked back to its lawn; as if to say “I approve, you are free to go”.

Good dog!

I rolled on, looking for the next sign.

Another sign, another turn. It was windy; some tumbleweed blew in front of the truck and I ran over them. I started thinking of my dog. It’s a Great Pyrenees and the best dog I’ve ever had. It’s too old to travel. Regardless, it prefers to be on post at the homestead.

It has been 11 ½ months, almost to the day. That’s how long ago it was. On one very ill and sorrowful morning I thought my dog was going to die and I almost broke. It was old then. I was in the throes of a serious illness. Things were closing in on me. I couldn’t fathom the additional loss of my dog… not on that day. And so, in what I consider a miracle, I was granted a reprieve. The dog just plain stood up and carried on. It’s nearly a year older now. I’m thankful for every minute. I dote on it. I treat it like the treasured companion that it is. I try to give it the golden years it has earned from a full lifetime of guarding the family with an unfailingly noble and generous disposition. Any man would be lucky to have such a dog.

Eleven and a half months. The time will come. It will come soon. I will have to face it. I cannot expect grace a second time. It’s going to hurt.

I’m in a sad mood when I finally find the campground. I’m cheered when I discover it’s mostly empty. Plus, the air is that fresh scent of sage and recent rain that I love so much. Tomorrow’s sorrow can wait for tomorrow. In the meantime, it’s time to setup camp.

Everyone else has fifth wheels, huge motorboats, and various gleaming RVs. I have a tent. Silly me!

The gate is open. It’s unmanned (of course). I already have reservations so the gate is a formality. I notice a very cool, high tech, kiosk for taking reservations. It’s strategically positioned at the gate. Ah ha! My earlier complaint that everything is all cell phone mumbo jumbo has been heard and heeded. The kiosk’s gleaming structure has a credit card reader, a keypad, a touch screen, and even a solar panel (we’re pretty far out). Very impressive.

Also, it’s broken. Not mildly broken but completely inoperative and likely to be so for a long time. It doesn’t look like the elements or vandalism took it off line.  It looks like maybe it hasn’t been fully installed? It might have been half installed and then never finished, possibly last summer?

“Fall of Rome.” I mutter to myself. From time to time I get the sinking feeling I’m witnessing an modern echo of the “decline of Rome”. This gleaming, high tech kiosk is an artifact from a society that can maintain and operate technologies that America right now can invent but not deploy. It is the antithesis of resilient. Everything about it is from a superior world; from its clever solar power system to its cellular based communication to a cloud-based reservation system to the banking system that supports a debit card reader in the hinterland… everything about it is impressive and it has utterly failed. Maybe it never worked at all.

A minimum wage flunky in the booth, taking checks and handing out receipts would be crude but more resilient. The job would get done. But I see nobody.

Later, when I’ve setup my tent, I see a dude in a truck patrol the campground. He’s diligent. About once an hour he makes the rounds by the half dozen RVs and single oddity tent. He’s a good employee, but he can’t fix the kiosk.

The wind dies down and I make dinner. The lake looks beautiful.

I forgot to bring firewood (which would have to come from an approved vendor I’m sure) but I’ve got a propane burner and make a simple Mountain House meal. It’s filling. For desert I pour myself a big cup of…

…in some Parks you’re not allowed to have alcohol, because the world is filled with people who are terrified other folks might have fun…

…lemonade.

It’s good lemonade. I drink a lot of it. Lacking a campfire, I kick back and read a backlit Kindle in the dark. C.S. Lewis, The Screwtape Letters. It’s very good writing.

I briefly consider running the power cable to my tent but my extension cord is woefully too short. It’s not cold anyway.

I meant to write down notes reviewing my new cot/pad/bag. Instead I’m stretched out and asleep in 5 minutes. Which is, now that I think about it, a pretty good review.

Late that night the wind picks up again. This pisses off the pelicans on the lake and they make a racket. Yes, there are pelicans in the rangeland. Go figure. Other than that, I sleep like a brick.

I fear my travelogue veered into a gear review. It’s an occupational hazard of someone who does activities that requires equipment to obsess about the materials rather than the act. Oh well, it’s my vacation and I can do whatever the hell I want. There are couple other pieces of equipment I want to mention but I’ll discuss them later.

Time to talk about the dusty boring generic town of Pumpjack.

Pumpjack is not the name of the actual town but the name is unimportant. What’s important is that I set my sights on the horizon and didn’t stop until the city of Guam (which isn’t called Guam) was well out of sight of my rearview mirror. I literally feel a weight lift from my shoulders whenever I leave the city. Whew!

I had a destination in mind but it’s not really about the destination is it? The weather was shitty and I didn’t feel like spending forever in the cab of my truck so, like I’m wont to do, I changed plans. My planned destination was a lake that’s reputed to be beautiful and (unfortunately) popular for recreation. I’d never been there. I picked it because it looked just far enough south that I could use it to get out of my cabin fever funk. But what the hell, I was way out on the prairie and Pumpjack supposedly had a State Park with a lake on it.

More importantly I was roaring into town by mid-afternoon. I swung off the highway into Pumpjack and the first thing I saw was concertina wire. There was a sign that said “prison nearby, do not pick up hitchhikers”. Now I don’t mind the idea of being warned that there’s a prison nearby and I also think picking up hitchhikers outside of the prison is a bad idea, but I found the sign disconcerting. It’s as if they’re not entirely sure the prisoners are inside the prison so they just said “fuck it, lock your doors and hope for the best”. Perhaps a sign that reads “we haven’t entirely got things under control” is a good symbol of our current age?

Ignoring the prison, and immediately getting lost in the maze of streets in the rather small town, I wandered until I found the town’s “Miracle Mile”. There, I pulled into a McDonald’s and jacked into Wi-Fi.

I may be slow but I can learn. I’d learned that there was no point in driving to a State Park without reservations. At McDonald’s I discovered that this particular State Park, unlike the handful near Guam, had plenty of available spaces. Maybe escaped prisoners should try camping instead of hitchhiking?

Mindful of the chilly weather I selected a campsite with electricity. Buried somewhere in my truck was a small electric heater and an extension cord. I’ve never had a tent with electric heat, but I was hoping to try. I’m currently too cheap to pony up for all the gear to do a “hot tent”. (A “hot tent” is when you heat your tent, usually with a tiny woodstove. This is common with elk hunters and other old school mountaineers but it’s uncommon for the rest of us.) I have a brand-new tent for this trip (I’ll discuss it later) but I was too cheap to buy the kind of tent that has a “stove jack” to accommodate a tiny woodstove. (Not to mention the expense of the stove.) Also, there are pros and cons to anything and I think a hot tent’s cons outweigh the pros for non-winter overlanding purposes. The “extension cord method” was a new experiment; I’ve never heard of anyone else doing such a thing.

I also have a mind to do some “lake-based recreation”. (I’ll get into that some other time but suffice to say my truck was bristling with oars and paddles and fishing poles and all sorts of stupid shit.) There were many campsites to choose from but I paid a bit more have a campsite right exactly on the lake.

Reservation accomplished!

Just as I was about to feel smug about things, I realized I’d paid a usurious $35 to reserve a 50’ pull through RV site that had everything but water and sewer hookups. Damn, that’s not cheap. Meh, shit happens. I thought about canceling a reservation and creating a more reasonable, cheaper one, but the thought of logging on and going through all that bullshit just to save a few bucks turned me off.

Also, it was getting near to sunset. The park was only a few miles out of town so I decided to zip out there, set up my tent, that I would come back and figure out where the hell Walmart was so I could buy some necessities. In particular, I had packed my coffee percolator but no coffee!

I blew out of town with the steering wheel in one hand and a Big Mac in the other…

I had high hopes for the evening but I had a hell of a long drive to get there. The thing about driving is, it gives you time to think.

My tried-and-true sleeping bag is a Big Agnes. (The model I bought is probably discontinued, link just goes to the brand.) It is, by far, the most comfortable backcountry sleeping bag I’ve ever had. But it’s a mummy bag, and mummy bags are usually something this side of strangulation as far as I’m concerned. The Big Agnes is MUCH roomier than most but it’s still not like a blanket on your bed. It has a unique (at least when I bought it) feature in that you inflate an air mattress (about 1 ½ inches thick) and insert it into a pocket in the bottom of the sleeping bag itself. It’s very cool and definitely better than a Thermarest pad. No air mattress is as nice as a real mattress but my Big Agnes is as nice as you can get for small size and moderate weight. I’ve had mine for several years and it has served me well.

However, now that I’ve already gone for the giant cot why not get myself a nicer sleeping bag/pad? And for that matter if I’ve got a cot big enough to almost be a full-size bed why not eschew mummy bags and get nice big square-shaped sleeping bag? Also, my Big Agnes is rated for 40° and the last time I slept in it the temperature was about 15°. I was miserably cold. The fact that I camped well beyond the specifications of my gear is not the fault of the sleeping bag, but it’s an experience I’d rather not repeat.

You can see where this is going can’t you?

Rather than my usual cheapskate method of trying to repurpose the gear I have; I changed plans and made a beeline for an outdoor supply shop. Part of the reason I chose to do this is that where I live it’s damn near impossible to buy a decent sleeping bag and I was near the city where I could browse a large selection.

In less time than it takes to say “burning cash” I’d bought a new sleeping pad and a new sleeping bag. In keeping with my “overland equipment” plan I bought big, heavy, and luxurious!

Check out the size of this ridiculous, monstrous, almost insanely comfortable pad:

It’s a TETON Sports Outfitter XXL Camp Pad. Don’t let the marketing drivel fool you. This is not lightweight. It is not small. It is way too big to be sitting on a pretty snowdrift with artistically arranged plaid pillows. (Who puts little pillows on snow?)

This thing is huge. It’s going to be in the trunk of your car and if you own a small car it’ll take up most of it. It’s HUGE. I have a huge truck so I have plenty of space. And besides that, why the hell should I suffer?

Did I mention that it’s 2 1/2″ thick and real padding? No shit! It’s 2 1/2 inches of “fuck backpacking I’m here to snore” comfort. Not some “inflate it and pretend that’s comfy” version of 2 1/2″. Damn it’s nice. Not all bed/mattress combos in houses are this comfy!

(Oddly, I felt guilty buying this luxury. Isn’t that weird? In a world full of snowflakes who get triggered if they hear a scary word, I was in the sporting goods store feeling decadent for buying a pad that’s more than “minimally adequate”. Go figure.)

Now came the question of the sleeping bag. Compared to expensive backcountry mummy bags an indulgent fluffy giant old-school square bag is actually pretty cheap. No kidding, like half the price or less of a good backpacking bag.) I was half a mind to get a bag rated for summertime (like 40° or something) but then I remembered the lesson of my last campout. Even though I intend to use it mostly for summer, I know how my luck plays out!

Check out this ridiculous, gorgeous, fluffy, indulgent, luxurious, sleeping bag:

Yeah, I know! I’m livin’ the dream! It’s a TETON Sports Celsius XL Sleeping Bag and (since the Dodge is doing the hauling instead of me) I went the extra mile (and only a few bucks more) to get the one with rated for ZERO degrees. (I have a backcountry bag rated for -40 and yes, I’ve used it in very cold nights, but the last several years I’ve gambled on my 40 degree Big Agnes because any -40 bag is going to be bulky. I figure zero is plenty for anything this side of ice fishing. It’s super conservative, and overkill, for canoeing.)

After years of sleeping on the ground, feeling every rock, rolling over pinecones, and worrying about every ounce that I carry, it was amazingly liberating just to buy whatever the hell I wanted. Worry about nothing but comfort and your whole world changes.

Oh yeah, it comes with a nice compression bag too. Bonus. Lot’s of nice little details indicating good quality. My only complaint was the color. It’s shit brown. My Big Agnes is “flaming gay pink”. Who picks out these colors? Regardless, color is irrelevant. I’m all about comfort on this trip.

Also, it was pretty cool that I can buy the same brand of all three things. I wanted them to fit together as a system. (At the time it was just an experiment, but I can report now that all three things really are perfectly matched; cot, bag, pad. They all fit together perfectly.)

It was like Christmastime!

[Despite my misgivings, the midnight Stonerocalypse never happened. Or maybe I slept through it? Regardless, I had an excellent night’s sleep and hit the road. While on the road, I decided to type up a post about my, as yet untested, overland gear.]

People say they make decisions rationally. People are liars! It takes considerable self-control to make rational decisions and that’s rarer than hen’s teeth. Most folks take a good look at that low bar, and dive into the dirt beneath it.

Choosing my overland gear, despite my best intentions, was a semi-emotional purchase of sight unseen stuff that came via Amazon. Lacking perfect knowledge (who has perfect knowledge?) I pondered specifications and whatnot but had to lean heavily on the emotional side. I surfed up an array of likely candidate choices, then bought the shit that looked cool.

In February I had the kind of cabin fever that makes The Shining seem realistic. I couldn’t get further than 100’ from my door so I kicked back and watched videos on The Emporium Outdoors. I don’t know how many hours I spent watching Michael, a well-spoken Canadian outdoorsman, and Esme, his charming dog that steals the show, but it kept my dreams of overlanding alive when nature was trying to freeze my ass to death. The videos aren’t rocket science but they’re soothing: they drive an Argo through the snow and sit around campfires and try various camping gear. This is interspersed with pleasant drone footage and a nice soundtrack. They were a light at the end of the cabin fever tunnel. It was enough to sell me on some of the equipment he demonstrated.

First of all, I decided I would die if I didn’t buy a 6 x 6 Argo immediately. Lucky for me, I came to my senses before I financed a ten-grand mini-sized personal semi-aquatic tank. Sigh… Maybe someday I’ll go nuts and Argo up, but for now I’m staying fiscally sane.

I lust for one of these!

However, I did buy a TETON Sports Outfitter XXL Camp Cot.

Remember I said that my back has taken to complaining about sleeping on the ground? Well, you can bitch about cruel fate or you can gear up differently. In my case, I bought a cot.

The TETON Sports Outfitter XXL Camp Cot is huge. A backpacker would cry just thinking about carrying it. Michael in the videos carries it on an ATV or his cool new Argo. It’s big enough for him and his dog. I tossed mine in the back of the truck. Don’t even try to pretend that this monster is going much beyond arm’s reach of whatever internal combustion engine is hauling it.

However, beyond the “no backpacking” caveat, it’s excellent. I hate flimsy cots. I sleep poorly in them; spending all night wondering when (not if) the thing is going to bend or collapse or (because most cots are narrow) I’ll roll off. The TETON XXL locks together exceptionally well; like you could drive a truck over it. (Not that I’m recommending you do something that dumb!) It’s also huge… damn near double the size of many cots.

I decided it was ideal for my new overlanding world and ordered one on Amazon. It arrived just before my departure. I’d assembled it once, in my basement, as a test. Then, I folded it down and wrapped it in a tarp (because it was snowing) and started my walkabout. This night I was finally going deploy it!

The hotel looks empty. While checking in I strike up a conversation with the two ladies running the counter. Perhaps this was unwise because I was feeling loopy? I did it anyway:

“I tried to stay at the nearby campground. It was sold out. But you’ve got lots of rooms. I shoulda’ called you first eh?”

“Oh, we’re almost sold out too. It’s the day.” The lobby manager says.

“Huh?”

“Four twenty.” She says.

“I’m not getting you.”

“The twentieth, of April.”

“So… this has something to do with good Friday? Lotta’ people traveling for Easter?”

She rolled her eyes. Her colleague laughed. “Ha! Easter. That’s awesome!”

I should get used to everything I say making people laugh.

I persist. “Seriously, what’s with the 20^th day of the 4^th month? I get PI day on March 14^th but 420 isn’t even prime…”

Now both women are looking at me like I’m a space alien. At the very least, I suspect they don’t know what “prime” means.

“Four twenty… for weed.” They explain.

Dimly I think maybe I saw that on a T-shirt once. I’d forgotten all about it. I continue. “OK, fine. 420 means dope. Whatever the kids call it these days. I don’t get out much.” I could have stopped there but didn’t. “I know you legalized pot a few years ago. So, everyone gets stoned and hangs out at a State Park on ‘weed day’? Looks like I dodged a bullet.”

“They’re coming here too. After the concert.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s STONERFEST. Around midnight, when the concert’s over, they’ll all show up. This hotel is almost booked up. You’re lucky you got a room.”

Here’s my policy statement on pot: I’m a libertarian through and through and have no issue with people smoking weed. I’m all for the freedom to be stupid, kill brain cells, and, if you really go overboard, fuck up your life. ‘Aint my problem what you do with freewill. I’d love to legalize everything. I would happily allow selling machine guns to naked heroin addicts on rollerskates. I don’t give a shit because stupid people will sort themselves out. However, everyone keep your damn hands off my money or I’ll get medieval on your ass.

Then again, celebrating getting stoned seems odd to me. Is it not… superfluous? It’s like celebrating getting laid. You got laid, isn’t that fun enough in itself?

I don’t think like a joiner. I’m not the type to want to go to a concert and rent a $150 a night room to collectively experience the fact that I’ve temporarily got the mental facilities of a goldfish. I’m the opposite. I drink alone. When I’m perfectly happy being buzzed on bourbon with nobody else in the room they say it’s anti-social, a sign of addiction, and uncommon. They’re wrong! (OK, I might grant the anti-social part.)

Selfishly, I wanted to be somewhere else. I hate stupid people and stoned people are stupid. I dreaded their arrival. They’ll probably make a racket and demand donuts. Crap! How loud would they be?

I’m lost in thought. I realize they’re both starting at me.

“What?”

“You’re not celebrating 4:20?” One asks.

“Not if he doesn’t even know the term.” The other comments, still sizing me up.

It takes a moment for me to catch up. I’m not well versed in slang and I’m not good at reading people. Also, I read more than I speak and that makes my language sound weird. In my defense, you can read a fuckton of books and travel widely and do lots of cool things without picking up 4:20 slang. How does one say such things in polite company? Meanwhile, these two are trying to put my square peg in the round hole of ‘stoner’.

“So,” I say, “you’re talking with a dude who sports a huge beard and looks like he lives in a barn. Thus, you ASSUME I’m a pothead?”

“Yes.” The first one nods.

“Who uses the word ‘pothead’?” The other questions; she’s sagely picking up on the fact that I’m galactically unhip. She correctly deduces I’m too unplugged to be a stoner… or pothead… or whatever the term happens to be this generation.

I’m on a tear now. “OK, fine, if not ‘pothead’ then ‘aficionado of mental masturbation’; that’s your theory isn’t it?” I think ‘aficionado of mental masturbation’ took them back a bit but I was on a roll and kept going. “Let’s unpack things, I look like Willie Nelson’s retarded hillbilly cousin and that means I must be here to toke? What if I play bluegrass banjo? Maybe I’m a cosplay version of Gandalf? Are there no other explanations?”

“You checked in with points… a freebie.” At this, they both nod sagely.

Potheads have hotel loyalty points? Who knew?

“I got points from a friggin’ gold club loyalty account.” I argue. “For all you know I’m a wayward college professor.”

This got their attention. “Are you?”

Inward, I shiver at the idea. Hell no! Imagining toadying to make tenure makes me break out in hives…. Or flee. Which I did. “No, I’m not a professor. Kissing ass for tenure sounds like hell on earth.”

They’re waiting for more. Like that didn’t explain it. I thought I’d been clear? Oh well. Time to have some fun.

I make a little pirouette and ham it up: “Check it out ladies, a genuine example of Gone Galt.”

“Who is Galt?”

OMG! They said it! My life is complete!

“Ha ha ha!” I burst out laughing. This is the best thing to happen in the history of ever. I want this moment recorded form remembrance in annual celebrations; possibly by stoners and hotel lobby managers. I made them say it!

“Seriously. What are you talking about? Where’s Galt?” One asks.

I’m delighted! These two probably haven’t read a book since sixth grade and I’m making them ask about John Galt. For the moment, the world is a puppet and I pull the strings. I’m enormously pleased with myself. Ayn Rand, that heartless beast, wouldn’t appreciate the joke… but I do!

“Galt lives in a Gulch. But you’re not invited. Neither am I. He stopped the motor of the world and all I did was fuck up my tractor. Read a book!” I’m making no sense (to them) but I’m massively enjoying the moment, I grab my keys. One hands me a cookie; hoping for a better explanation. I thank her and make to scamper off like a lunatic.

“You gotta’ tell us what that meant. We told you 4:20.” The second lady complains. The first is already tapping into their hive mind; a smartphone. She pulls up a Wikipedia entry. They forget me and start skimming the page. I see Ayn Rand’s dour puss and lots of text. That’ll keep ‘em busy for a while.

Smiling, I saunter off to my free room in the land of communalist potheads who have smartphones with which to reserve a whole State Park AND money to rent most of the rooms in the hotel.

Rich. Potheads. Who make reservations in advance? What an interesting world in which to live.

Also, the two ladies at the counter will be wondering half the night if I was baked or just read too much. Good luck sorting out that one.

It was a good cookie.

I rolled into Guam, which isn’t Guam, around noon. I was going to meet some friends, chat for a few hours, and then split for a campsite. I wanted to camp solo for the night in one of three or four nearby State Parks. My truck bed was full of new, untested, “overlanding” gear and I was looking forward to playing with my new toys.

Did you know that Parks do reservations now? Go ahead and laugh! I totally forgot “camping” and “reservations” can happen in the same sentence. This leads to the second fact; “camping” and “sold out” can happen too.

Shit!

Frustrated, I bumbled into the third fact; there are no people at the Park gate. There are possibly no humans manning any State facility in this season…. Or, for all I know, any season ever. The whole thing is done online; which suits the current generation of campers which have had a smart phone in their hand since they were born. I do not have a smart phone; or at least one suitable to handle the situation.

This whole thing was ruining my laid back “go where the wind blows me” attitude. Does it have to be this way? Reservations are for business dweebs flying on airplanes, not me on vacation with a truck and a tent. I regretted being in the metro area of Guam instead of the unpopulated areas I usually frequent.

What now? I glare at the front gate of “Snickerdoodle Campground” but all the spots are reserved… or maybe not. How can one know? I wind up driving AWAY from the campsite TOWARD Wi-Fi to log on with my apparently cro-magnon obsolete laptop to investigate the same situation that would unfold like a flower for the smartphone set.

A few miles away I sip an overpriced latte and discover that all three campsites in Guam; “Snickerdoodle”, “Snowflakes”, and “Triggerdom” are reserved. Booked solid. Since they’re all reserved, people will notice an interloper. I can’t sneak in and stealth camp with a giant Dodge and my brand new (i.e. huge) tent.

This is my fault for being so locked into the backcounty mindset that I didn’t imagine the problem. I generally camp wherever I wish. (I often go a week at a time without seeing anyone. Do that a few years and you’ll forget about reservations too.)

Campout denied!

Adaptive… that’s me. I start burning up Wi-Fi searching alternatives. Hotels are easily in the $150 range (and up!). My inner cheapskate can’t have that. I begin to explore other options.

I travel a lot and have loyalty cards for every hotel chain known to man. I’m loyal to none but have points in various accounts. I never monitor this. Several re-established passwords and multiple re-logins ensue. This is followed by a tedious conversation with someone who doesn’t speak English and is connected by a phone VOI system that sounds like Smeagol chain smoking at the bottom of a well.

The phone service person fucks up everything I request. I mean like an incredibly thorough 100% fuck up rate. Every detail, no matter how small, is mishandled. I almost respect that level of incompetence. It takes forever to explain that I’m not trying to check into a timeshare in Baltimore. Nor am I reserving a wedding suite in Vegas. Nor do I want anything to do with anything in Europe, no matter how close it is to the train station. After all this crap, the shameless bastard tries (or is forced to try) to upsell me, in order, with a car rental, a trip to Cancun, and a credit card. I shout “NO” so many times that I’m getting hoarse.

Eventually it works out. I literally step the yoyo on the phone though the process of data entry in his own software (which I can’t see). Despite being routed through hell and back, the great database in the sky does what the phone service drone can’t; get the job done. I’ve grown to prefer robots to humans.

That night I’ll stay at a fabulous high-end hotel for free. A win for team Curmudgeon!

[Whew, I got a little hot under the collar about Yellowstone in that last post didn’t I?  What can I say? I’m on my fifth espresso and I and I bristle that Yellowstone treats American citizens like pets. I often avoid that otherwise gorgeous place because of the hassles. Lucky for me, this walkabout was about thawing out, not tangling with the Federales over a bottle of beer on a picnic table. I stayed out of Yellowstone this trip.]

There is (or was) an activity called “car camping”. I dropped out of the scene and went hard core backcountry for decades. Then came a tragic period of being “too busy” to get out there. Last year I tried to regain past glories but it didn’t work out.

On one particular outing, for a variety of reasons, I didn’t make it to the “wilderness”. Adaptably (see what I did there?) I went to “Plan B”. I “day tripped” around the edges of wilderness and set up my lightweight canoe camping gear in a nearby State Park for the night.

It’s probably for the best because everything went wrong. I expected low key “next to the truck” camp to be much easier than “backcountry” endeavors but it was a fiasco. To start with, I froze my balls off. (In backcountry I can adapt to unexpected cold with a big fire and tarp, in a park I didn’t have extra fuel to burn.) More importantly, sleeping on the ground gave me aches and pains that went straight to the core of my body. Ouch! I have a superlative sleeping bag. A “Big Agnes”. (I may review it sometime.) It has built in padding and I’ve always been comfortable in it (or at least “comfortable” in terms of tradeoffs with backcountry camping) but not this time. I suspect I’ve changed (not the forest and not my gear).

Sleeping on the ground sucked. It’s a fact I won’t dance around. I’m getting’ old and denial isn’t how I roll. It was time to re-evaluate, re-equip, and adapt! For a while, hopefully temporarily, I felt it would be wise to become a “car camper”.

Except I’m obsolete. “Car camping” is a term that seems long gone and folks who camp on a State Park pad are pandered to with mixed message marketing. First, it’s as if they’re summiting Everest. “Buy the new ‘Bear Grills Super Tactical X-Mod 37 Sleeping Pad System’.” Really? What fresh hell is this? Words like “tactical” and “extreme” for hanging out at super-tame State Parks? Then they shift to pushing cheap-ass chickenshit gear that’ll barely hold up for a single weekend. The kind of useless crap that will dissolve if it gets wet or dirty or exposed to any rough conditions.

Eventually I deduced that, for my new desire for heavier gear (as opposed to lightweight backpacking stuff), there’s a “new” term: “Overlanding”.

As far as I can tell “Overlanding” is when you outfit your $40,000(!) lifted super-Jeep with enough stuff to cross the Australian outback. Then you drive around enjoying yourself. God bless the internal combustion engine!

Overlanding shit is heavy so you never camp far from the vehicle. Allowing for gear heavy enough to kill a backpacker earns you the benefit of more creature comforts. Theoretically, “overlanding” means you’re capable of camping “primitively”; meaning you’re self-supporting for anywhere your vehicle goes. Heavy gear is fine for a State Park with flush toilets but “overlanding” you can happily overnight just along a dirt road somewhere.

I’m not making light of this. I think I’ve found an acceptable niche. If I’ve got to dial back (temporarily!) on backcounty trips, it’s more my style to “Overland” along some random dirt track than “Car Camp” in a Park.

“Overlanding” opened new opportunities. All winter long, my visions filled with the amazing luxuries I cannot take backpacking but fit easily in any vehicle. Bigger tents, coolers, chairs, BEER! The mind boggles! I decided to “Overland”. At least for now, I will camp within sight of my Dodge.

Unfortunately, all my tried and true gear is optimized for backcounty use. Also, most of it is 20 years old and every bit has seen hard wear. I’d trust my life to my battle-scarred gear, but it’s ill-suited to new ideas and tamer outings.

Where all this digression is leading is that I’ve geared up in entirely novel ways (for me). This particular Walkabout is a “test run” of future “overlanding” adventures. It’s hard letting go of my old approach of “disappear for weeks using only what you can carry” but I’ve earned a chance to bask in luxuries.

The city of Guam is where I started testing my new theories. Predictably, it’s where I met my first obstacle. As is always the case for me, things got weird. Stay tuned.