Because some people need it spelled out for them

It’s all a matter of timing

All during my summer travels I’ve been telling myself, “There’s no schedule. You don’t need to move on. You can stay here another day or two. Just adjust a little to avoid weekend camper congestion.” Even though I didn’t listen a few times, I’ve been slow traveling. Slow for me, anyway.

I arrived in the Black Hills this morning, where the idea is to spend a day, then turn north to Theodore Roosevelt National Park in North Dakota, then return. It’s a good thing I didn’t arrive a week ago.

As I drove up beautiful Spearfish Canyon I started seeing downed trees, most of them snapped off. When I reached Savoy, there were crews with chainsaws, Bobcats, cranes, front-end loaders, flatbeds and dump trucks cleaning up debris. Wow, there must have been a hell of a storm. There was. Three tornadoes and tennis ball sized hail swept through the area last Friday. Man, I’m glad I missed that!

When I turned to go to Roughlock Falls, two fallen trees completely blocked the road. So I parked at the trailhead and walked. I was in a hiking mood. I was soon in a tree climbing mood because trees also blocked the trail in about a dozen places. But I found ways over, under, around and through them. 

It was a good thing I had set off without any gear. No hat, walking stick, water bottle, pack or DSLR camera. That stuff would’ve been snagging on things and making it harder to get past the tree falls.

I was sad so many trees had been destroyed, but I was also having fun. Woo-hoo, the old man is scrambling and climbing like his primate ancestors! Well, not quite that strong and graceful, but at least the old man didn’t give up at the first obstacle. Bad ass!

What would ordinarily be a casual stroll along a well defined path became a small adventure—enough fun to make it worthwhile in case the falls should be a disappointment. But they weren’t.

Polite flies

Cattle graze in this neck of the woods, so there are flies. Big, well-fed ones. They buzz around in the Rolling Steel Tent but leave me completely alone. Maybe it’s because they have determined I’m not a cow pie. Or maybe they know I won’t start swatting or spraying them if they just stay out of my face. Oh wait, maybe they’re social distancing.

Rock collection

Silent Storm II

I had been in bed a while but hadn’t fallen asleep. There was a flash of bright light in my peripheral vision. Then a flicker and another flash. I thought it might bright off-road lights. Or visitors from another planet (what with Devil’s Tower nearby).

But, no, it was lightning. Now overhead, all around me, nonstop. With no sound. How is that possible?

The silent lightning went on for about a half hour and then k-k-r-a-a-BAM!! Very close. What am I in for?

Hail. I was in for hail. First some pitter, then patter, then bapita-bonkita-donk-bonk-dak-donkita… Hey, don’t get too big up there! None of that baseball stuff!

But it lasted only a few seconds, then it rained. Not the biblical storm it could’ve been, but still a good I-mean-business rain for about twenty minutes.

And then… All over. No direct lightning strikes, no hail damage, no falling trees, no fires. This time.

Niceness worked

Between the time I posted that I was going to stay another day at the campground on Casper Mountain, and the time I woke up this morning, I realized that would have me looking for a new location along with all the weekenders. Or I could stay where I was through the weekend, but that would cost me forty bucks more. Hmmmmm…

So this morning I took off.

Rolling Steel Tent (circled on the right) and Devil’s Tower (circled on the left)

Two hundred miles later I was in the northeast corner of Wyoming, up in the Bear Lodge Mountains, overlooking Devil’s Tower. After exploring several well-maintained (and two unmaintained) Forest Service roads, I found a site that would work.

As you can see in the photos, it’s a large site. Several big RVs could fit. And I have it all to myself.

As I was cooking dinner, a pickup pulling a quad on a trailer slowed, stopped, and looked longingly at the campsite. He got out and approached. I spoke before he could say anything.

“I’m fine with sharing this spot.” I had to repeat myself because his mind was already set on pleading his case.

“Oh. Um, okay.”

He returned to his truck, had a short discussion with the passenger and… drove off. Huh?

Then I saw he was followed by a truck hauling a large travel trailer and another pickup with a quad. Ah. It would’ve been cozier than I had envisioned with all that tucked in here, but it would’ve worked out.

I had driven about six miles down that road during my explorations, so I knew there wasn’t a large enough campsite for them nearby. Good luck, guys.

They returned while I was doing dishes. (Where the hell had they found room to turn around?) But they kept going, leaving me in my solitude. Alright!

Maybe it wasn’t a matter of whether I wanted them. Maybe they didn’t want me. I’ll take it either way.

Trade-offs

Perfect camping spots are rare. Because, as Roseanne Rosannadanna used to say, “It’s always something.”

Right now I’m at a Natrona County campground up on Casper Mountain. It’s a pay site, so that’s one minus point. But it’s only $10 a night, which is a bargain compared to campgrounds in prime tourist spots. So that gives back about a half point.

It’s a campground rather than a secluded patch of public land (a minus) but it’s pretty, there’s water, the restroom is clean, the sites are well separated, it’s not full, and the neighbors have been quiet (all pluses). The weather (fingers crossed) has been great. And I can post this right now because the cell towers are just up the hill.

The one thing that has me giddy, though, is the total lack of buzzing and biting insects. Considering all the swatting and itching I did the past couple of weeks, buglessness more than compensates for any negatives. If my math is right, that means an approval rating greater than 100 percent. Better than perfect.

I paid for just one night, to see how things were. I’ll get a second night in the morning, then split before the weekend crowd arrives.

Just keep going

The trail beckoned. A short walk from the trailhead to a nice waterfall. Then, more trails leading up the side of the canyon and into mountains. Sure. That’ll be fun.

Well, the first hundred yards or so of steps and switchbacks were very steep. Hell, the first ten feet had me rethinking this whole mountain hiking thing. Whoa, (huff-puff) did I leave my strength (wheeze) and stamina (moan) back in the Rolling (gasp) Steel (stop, rest) Tent? Or is Post-Cancer Man just not ready yet? Give up or continue? 

Um……………. Continue. At least to the end of this switchback.

……………. Okay, I didn’t die. Do one more switchback.

……………. Oh, there’s an observation deck after the next section. I can make that. I think.

……………. Looks like it levels out—a little—after this.

……………. Ah, there’s a nice boulder to sit on.

A moment later, a family with small kids came down the trail from the opposite direction. Skipping and jumping, as happy kids do. Then a group of twenty-somethings. One of the fit, energetic guys asked, “Hi. Are you okay?”

“Just being an old man.”

“Need any help?” He seemed genuinely concerned.

“Just winded.”

Assured I was okay, he continued on. And, assured I was okay, I continued on.

The trail did flatten, mostly. Tricky footing here and there, a water crossing, a couple of moments where I wished I’d brought my pole. There were forks I had to figure out. Which one for the long loop and which for the shorter? When in doubt, take the lower one.

I took my bearings. “I should be near the top of the waterfall. This is the creek and… Yeah, over there.” I could see where others had scrambled off-trail, and where the forest opened into sky. “I’m going to try to get right to the edge.”

And I did.

As I watched the falls I realized I felt good—physically and mentally. I wasn’t the old man I had been a half hour before. Because the part of me that said to keep going won the argument with the part of me that whined it was too hard.

Greetings from the mud and snow belt

I’ve started noticing boot scrapers outside businesses. This one is in Casper WY.

Cul-de-sac life

For almost a century, new housing developments have been designed with a minimum of through streets and a maximum of cul-de-sacs. It’s what the market wants. A little quiet corner of the world. A retreat from the grind. A bit of Heaven—if your idea of Heaven is summed up in this Talking Heads lyric:

Heaven
Heaven is a place
where nothing
nothing ever happens

To me, cul-de-sacs are about reducing the size of your life by reducing your exposure to it. After all, cul-de-sac is French for dead end. Or, more literally, ass of the bag.

Even though my house was on a through street, I had unintentionally created my own ass of the bag by shrinking my life down to a world small enough to fit in my numb, barely functioning mind. My little routine, in my little world, with very little satisfaction. (I can’t get no… no no no.)

But as retirement and the end of my career loomed, I was forced to evaluate my life. Retirement meant change, right? So what did I want to change? How many things did I want to change? And change it how much?

“I… I… I don’t want to be here,” my inner soul said. “Here” being in a house, stuck in one place.

“And I want more than… than… this.” (Gesturing vaguely at myself and the pathetic energy field I emitted.) “I want to be more.”

So here I am, seven years on the road, running from the literal and metaphorical ass of the bag. My world and life are bigger, and I hope they keep growing until I reach that final dead end.

In a van, down by the river

The North Platte River again, this time near Casper WY

At least it’s not the transmission

If I were to try to make the most comprehensive list possible of things in the Rolling Steel Tent that could fall apart, I’m pretty sure I would never think of the brake pedal pad coming off. Yet there it was, on the floor, when I went to climb into the driver’s seat this morning. When and how did that happen? Nothing tragic. Some glue and wiggling will fix it. It’s just a very weird occurrence.

Seven years with my gear: Cobra DC to AC Inverter

The solar panels, charge controller, and batteries all deal with DC electricity. If we want to use anything that runs on AC, we need an inverter—a glorified transformer. Since I would just be charging my electronics, not trying to run power sucking things like microwaves, air conditioners or Bridgeport milling machines, I figured this 400 Watt Cobra inverter would be more than adequate. And it has been. Zero problems. There’s really nothing more to say.

Like clockwork

The past few days, strong winds have arrived as evening begins. It’s as if Mother Nature opens a valve and air rushes in to fill the void created by the retreating sunlight.

Do it yourself

The other day, I offered up photos of a beautiful sunset and sarcastically asked how I could tolerate living in such meager conditions. Then, by coincidence, a friend presented an essay that articulated part of the answer.

What if enjoyment is a skill that you can improve? 

Not a personality trait, but a skill. 

I don’t mean to confuse enjoyment with happiness — I think happiness is too big to be a skill — and something that is largely our of our control — but what about enjoyment — what if enjoyment is simply the skill of putting joy into an experience? 

That would be a skill worth learning, wouldn’t it?

The skill of putting joy into an experience. Not just finding joy, but actively creating it. Wow, we can do that? I can do that? Maybe I have been. Maybe it’s what keeps me sane.

The friend is Patrick E. McLean. That’s him over on my book list. We used to work together. He’s much more dedicated to his writing than I am to mine, and therefore much more successful. Here’s the link to his essay.