The Road Less Traveled

Alabama is a long state north to south. I jumped off the superslab around Greenville and drove county roads the rest of the way. Woods and hills in the north give way to empty fields where cotton once grew, then further south to lumber plantations thinly dotted with corrugated shacks and decaying automobiles, the side ditches empty save the carcasses of sharp-boned roadkill dried and blackened on the rough pavement, eyes wide open, but seeing nothing.

Had to stop for a band of grim-faced men in rusted pickups probing the underbrush with sharpened sticks, and bloodlust. Their truck beds bore packs of caged hounds, red-eyed and ravenous, their slatted ribs showing through thin and scarred hides, eager for the hunt. I drove on.

Around dusk we pulled off into a nondescript hobo jungle. I entered a building marked “Campground Office” ringing one of those little bells on a coiled spring that hung over the doorframe. A man was seated behind the counter watching a fishing show on an old-school television. He was an older man, big-bellied with a mottled complexion, and greasy hair the color of tossed bathwater. He wore thick-lensed glasses with frames made from antelope bones.

 He barely glanced as I entered, but continued to watch his fishing show. A small poodle at his feet, with a coat of dirty lamb’s wool, stared at me with pink and runny eyes. I cleared my throat and asked if he had a site available for the night. He peered out over his glasses at me with a look of vile contempt and turned back to the TV. After a long, awkward pause he finally said, “Twenty-fi’ dollah’s cash.”

I pulled out my wallet and laid my money on the counter like Doc Holliday and waited for him to raise or call. After another pause, and with great effort, he lifted himself from his chair and approached the counter. He quickly folded the cash into his dirty shirt pocket and pulled out a crude printed map of the campground and said, “Site eighteen, checkout at eleven.”

 I quietly thanked him, and as I turned to leave, looked down at the dog who was sniffing my pant leg. He looked up and growled a soft disapproval, but allowed me to pass.

Pullin' South

Sputnik knows long before I do that a journey is imminent with that unearthly canine intuition we mere mortals can never comprehend. Days before our departure she’d leap into the truck’s open door and stubbornly refuse to exit. She must be coerced and cajoled with veiled threats of violence and promises of dog biscuits and cheddar cheese. Hooked up and loaded the Gypsy Pod and was ready for takeoff Saturday morning. The weather was moderate, unlike the poor conditions during last year’s southern migration.
Trailing the Pod on my tiny pickup and traveling at interstate speed is similar to towing an obstinate, tethered parachute like the one used to stop the space shuttle during landing. Doesn’t do well up hills or into a headwind. Maybe a truck cap would help streamline its overall aerodynamic properties, but right now ten mpg is as good as I can get.
The landscape in Kentucky was frosted with a fresh coat of benign snow, but the roads were fine, and we made our way to a cold little campground of I-65 just north of Nashville. They placed me in the back row with the rear of the camper about one-hundred feet from the interstate. I fell asleep to the sound of the nightime highway, which is among the loneliest sounds on earth, and also a favorite of mine.
The siren song of the highway is the sound of restless movement, commerce and flight. Bleary-eyed, high-ballin’ truckers with doctored logbooks trying to avoid the twenty second nap that will end their run, or worse. Desperate families, their meager possessions piled high in the back seat of ancient Chevys, hoping the next town will bring them employment. Undocumented migrants and drug runners crowded into mini-vans and non-descript Buicks flying under the radar and hoping their secrets go unjudged before they make their destination.
After a decent night’s sleep I batten down the hatches, pull up the landing gear and power up the on-ramp as I join the others on Amërïkä’s endless, infrastructural, asphalt bloodstream as I move ever Southward.

Can't a Brother get a Break?

Painted the frame "Dark Machine Gray" 'cause I liked the name, fully aware that a black frame would have been the safe bet, 'cause black is beautiful. Mudflap and Sputnik have no complaints, but I think it looks like shit with a black tank. However, with the motor mounted and lock-tighted it ain't coming back out of the frame 'til at least next winter. I'll try painting the tins the same color, and hope for the best. Coming so close to completion and riding season is coming soon........I think.

Hump Day Honey

Everyone needs a little happy, gratuitous rump to get through the week.



Well, almost everyone.

Hauling Ass

By mid-Monday morning all the locals had left, leaving me with the place to myself and a few park rangers who wave to me like I’m an inhabitant of the neighborhood.
The area I now inhabit is not the flat, sandy tropical place one might expect of Florida. The terrain is hilly with a mix of tall pines and hardwoods, more like The Smoky Mountains. The park’s only redeeming features are its hiking trails and an old plantation house the CCC dismantled and moved across the Apalachicola River back in the thirties, (as one who’s worked in the construction trade a long time, I find that incredible). With only one radio station, no TV reception and little else to do, I started hiking small sections of the trails at a time walking through the flat bottom land with its palmettos, swamps and standing water, then climbing the steep switchbacks, crawling uphill using tree roots for steps.
Sputnik, with terrier blood coursing through her veins, is a bundle of pent-up energy. She not only requires, but demands she get vigorous exercise every day. I could walk thirty miles with her and it would do her no good, she needs more than that or she drives me nuts. At my last stop I started to let her run beside my bicycle on lead. No matter how fast I rode, she always wanted to go faster, tongue lolling to the side, straining against her collar like a sled dog. I would finally quit pedaling and let her tow me along. She pulls way harder than should be physically possible for her twenty-four pounds. Fearing her neck would become bruised I bought her a harness to fulfill her insatiable need for strenuous activity. Since there are few places to ride the bike at this park, I decided to hook her to my belt with a d-ring and adopt her talent as a beast of burden to the hiking trails.
Yesterday, we walked about seven miles including the western loop of the Torreya trail, up and down steep hills, through longleaf pines and thick wooded jungle, (this place must be hell in the summer with heat and mosquitoes). I ran out of my two quarts of water and the hills kicked my old, flatlander ass. Today my legs and back are sore despite the fact that Sputnik towed me up the steepest hills, fulfilling her role, much like the Sherpa guide who short-ropes rich women up Everest. All in the name of vanity, so they can go home and tell all their rich friends they’ve summited.
Today I pack up once again, and move westward.

Cold and Soggy in Torreya State Park

It was with some sadness I left the riverbank along the coast, but the hounds of discontent were nipping at my heels telling me it's time to move on. So move on I did, in a complete deluge, the little camper hydroplaning its way behind me like a drunken water-skier. Arrived at my desolate campsite near the Georgia / Alabama border. Thirty- eight degrees and in a steady rain, I set up my rig on a pathetic, soggy campsite, crawled inside, soaked and dispirited. Turned the heater up to 11 and shook off the shivers. Times like these I figure this beats the hell out of two wheels and a tent.
My smartphone screen has developed a noticeable wiggle and my toenails have become as the talons of a winged creature from Greek mythology. Sputnik affects a Pavlovian response when she senses the proximity to a state park entrance, sitting up tall in the saddle, ears erect and expectant.

I'm in the absolute center of nowhere. Fifty miles to the nearest Wal-Mart, I'm out of supplies and Central Standard Time is kicking my ass.

Watch Dog

Sputnik is a hater of all things small and furry. Squirrels on the picnic table are not to be tolerated.

Sputnik is My Co-pilot

Sputnik rarely complains and performs her duties as Navigator and Chief Security Officer with aplomb. She does however, look at me during the endless hours spent driving, as if to say, “What the f@#k are we doing, and why?” But hers is not to question why, hers is to take up space and bark at the gas station dogs as we leave The Natchez Trace to cut across the seedy underbelly of rural Alabama.
Pulp plants and paper mills, rundown shacks, satellite dishes and a bass boat in front of every trailer. Far-flung small towns and flooded, kiddie pool catfish farms.

Little sleep the night prior, and exhausted as I pressed on, ever-southward. Was propositioned by a big-boned, freckle-faced mulatto hooker in a Dothan, Alabama MacDonald's parking lot. I politely declined, but later wondered if I should have negotiated a loving embrace for a happy meal and a vanilla shake.


Memo to Garmin:

You produce a fine product, but for the love of God, please install a “Keep me the Hell out of the Hood” mode on your GPS device. “Fastest time” mode is ok, but a nigga’ could get killed in the places it takes you.

Yours Truly,

Hermit

The Misadventures of Sputnik

Sputnik in her natural habitat

Lakia, the intrepid pioneer of the Soviet Space Program

The contents of Sputnik's stomach
(she vomited at least this much prior)

I've gutted deer with smaller incisions

Sputnik is a twenty-four pound Whippet / Jack Russell hybrid, (mongrel) I obtained from the Jerkwater County Humane Society and Livestock Auction about a month ago. She was summarily stripped of her reproductive organs and implanted with tiny microchips so she could be tracked and monitored, via satellite, by The NSA and various other Government agencies. I believe she is a direct descendant of Lakia the little dog the commies launched into space in the sixties, becoming the first Earthling to ever slip the surly bonds of the green planet to briefly float among the heavens. The little, unwitting space dog orbited the planet several times before plummeting back to earth in a fiery semi-controlled crash landing, into some Godforsaken Russian swamp.

When I’m away collecting aluminum cans and scrap copper, the dogs are housed in the garage. Sputnik and Mudflap spend their days licking themselves and discussing the merits of various brands of dog foods, current events and international politics. In the interest of her comfort, I supplied Sputnik with an old sleeping bag to lie on which, unbeknownst to me, she promptly ate.

Last week while I sat reading the latest edition of Ladies Home Journal, Sputnik stood, arched her back, and vomited a large pile of polyester and nylon on the living room floor. I thought, ‘this can’t be good,’ and continued my reading. The next morning she puked once again, this time along with the polyester and nylon, a small offensive glob of semi-digested dog food was also deposited. That evening Sputnik followed up with a puddle of vile liquid with traces of synthetic fabric and a Belgian waffle. As I cleaned up this latest nauseating mess, contemplating a hefty vet bill, I wondered why the hell I ever acquired this little pain in the ass mutt. Mudflap and I were doing just fine without her. Nevertheless, I made an appointment and took her to the vet.

Housed in a dilapidated block building on the outskirts of town, the Jerkwater Animal Clinic looks like a bombed-out Afghani school house, and once inside smells of cat piss, Lysol and death. I related Sputnik’s symptoms to the kindly horse doctor and he took her back for X-rays. When he returned he put the results of her stomach X-ray on the screen. It seems Sputnik was especially fond of fasteners, because about eighteen inches of zipper and a several snaps were clearly visible, along with a large wad of undigested sleeping bag stuffing.

After all said and done, many stitches and six-hundred dollars later, the little shit is recovering nicely. Seems that despite her suspected ties to the Soviet Space Industry, Sputnik is no rocket scientist. Her outlook for a full recovery is promising and she should do fine if I can just keep her from ingesting camping equipment.

Monday Badass

Random Dobie in a random snowy yard where lawn furniture and yard tools never come up missing.