OMG accidentally ordered tacos with very hot Indian spices. Ended up crying and wheezing from the heat lol. Geez wonder how people can handle it.
Altitude 189.98 ft
Belton, TX
55°F (feels 53°F) Clear (wind 6.6 mph)
Feeling a bit worn from constant travel… This camp will provide a nice few days of rest.
Altitude 63.396 ft
Burton, TX
49°F (feels 47°F) Clear (wind 5.3 mph)
Blazing my way to the warm soul of deserts in the west… Campgrounds are sparse so far across Texas this time of year.
Altitude 25.089 ft
Jasper, TX
57°F (feels 56°F) Mostly Cloudy (wind 7 mph)
Big and mostly empty, snagged beautiful spot right on water. Bliss.
Altitude 108.884 ft
Prentiss, MS
64°F (feels 62°F) Mostly Sunny (wind 8.9 mph)
Back on the road! This sleepy campground is on a beautiful stocked lake. Love the fall foliage…
Land Between the Lakes, Kentucky
I’m sitting in the morning sun.
The soft warmth of its rays on my skin and reassuring warmth of my black coffee makes me sleepy.
I close my eyes and soak in all in.
In one or two days it’ll be time to move on from this wondrous Land Between the Lakes. I don’t want to leave but alas the Forest Service has 14 day limits on camping here. It’s for good reason — to make room for others to enjoy its beauty.
Here is the nirvana of camping. Vast lands, bodies of water aplenty, infinite trails to explore and lots of dispersed camping in solitude away from people.
These kind of places are the reason for my wandering and existing. It is where I can fully unfurl my soul in peace and tranquility.
And so I must move on — the quest resumes.
I should explain some of the camping jargon I tend to throw around here and there, yeh?
Primitive and dispersed camping generally means camping in the wild. No electricity and such. Primitive sites may have picnic tables and/or vault toilets.
Dispersed camping is the best kind where there’s nuttin’ — just wilderness to camp in.
Boondocking means camping without hookups of any kind — no electric or water.
The rest, i.e. state, county, city, Corp of Engineers, National Parks, etc. for the most part are referred to as developed campgrounds with facilities. Some of these are akin to “camping” in a parking lot crammed next to each other (yuk).
Dispersed and primitive camping is the holy grail of ’em all; they’re harder to find and is mostly free.
Many folks seem to prefer developed campgrounds to hook their campers up to electricity and water so there’s more of these sort of campgrounds.
Most national & state forests and wildlife refuges have dispersed camping; these are my preferred spots. BLM — the federal Bureau of Land Management agency — has the most available land for truly dispersed camping but the vast majority of it is out west. That’s why most nomads go thataway, esp. in the winter.
The purest form of camping? Backcountry camping where you throw on a backpack and hike somewhere remote and pristine.
My preference is dispersed camping in the wild but I go wherever the wind takes me on a journey of constant discovery. So I take what is given wherever I end up, be it developed, primitive, or dispersed camping.
These days the majority of developed campgrounds require reservations which put a crimp in going with the wind wanderings. This is where I have to begrudgingly plan ahead a bit unlike in the past.
And it’s more difficult to stay longer at these places because there are usually only a few days gap of available sites to reserve.
With most dispersed and primitive campgrounds it’s first come, first served and stay as long as permitted (usually 14 days). Just the way I like it!
When I know I’ll be in areas where camping is in demand (usually those near larger cities), I try to plan ahead and reserve available sites on weekends since those are the first to be booked up.
Weekdays are less likely to be booked so that’s where I find flexibility in to go with the wind.
That’s why you’ll see me hopscotching from camp to camp as I make my way to the promised lands of dispersed and primitive camping.
Interestingly it is in the dispersed and primitive camping areas that I make those rare long lasting connections with others.
In these wilder places there is an esprit de corps amongst fellow campers and nomads.
Maybe it’s where I’ll stumble into my next great love? That door is always open to meeting another solitary free spirit to love and embrace.
Most of the year I’ll wander all over. It is in the winter I head west for several months where it’s generally warmer and camping space aplenty (thanks to those vast BLM land holdings).
In the past I’d camp throughout Florida but what with all their state parks switched over to reservation systems without first-come-first-served sites it’s about impossible to snag a site in winter thanks to flocks of snowbirds grabbing them up a year in advance.
Driving in from erranding in town, I let out a long exhale when I’m back at camp. It’s home in nature.
My little cabin way out on the Suwannee river in Florida was like that — I’d exhale deeply when I pulled in the driveway and saw my beloved river.
Do I miss it? Now and then I do.
I’ll get it back one day when I’m ready unless the universe has different plans.
Down near the boat ramp I see a Dad playfully chasing his little boy around on the beach (while masterfully balancing beer in hand). Oh to be a kid again.
And oh to chase my little red-haired bambino around again to hear the sweet elixir of her joyful laugh.
I love you my sweet sweet Alyssa.
pennedLand Between the Lakes, Kentucky
I feel writer’s block creeping in… Thought I’d try what I do when meditating — step out of my body of thoughts and look at it with an uncritical eye.
So I see these thoughts — these doubts about writing (and being able to keep writing) — and I decide to write about it here and expose ’em to the light of my pen.
It works, relieving internal pressure to break that logjam, allowing my mind to relax and uncork the writing mojo.
Really when I do this stepping back and looking at these thoughts I’m seeing my inner critic. And always it’s the inner critic that kills creativity.
I see these inner critics kill many a good personal blog. Part of the cause is thinking in “writing for an audience” mode.
Write for yourself instead.
Treat your blog like a personal journal that happens to be open to all on the web.
We are always thinking. Writing transfers these thoughts to paper and helps process ’em. Sometimes it susses out the meaning of what you’re really thinking.
Thoughts are also fleeting. I carry a pocket notebook wherever I go to jot down things I want to write about. Otherwise I’m pretty much guaranteed to forget what I wanted to write about when I sit down with my notebook.
FINALLY after several days of furious battles, I snagged that pesky little sucker. I hold the Big Fly Swatter aloft and do a sweet victory dance.
Deep in meditation, I abruptly find myself somewhere in the Colorado mountains at the edge of a rocky creek in a clearing. The air is pristine and sky crystal clear.
There I am crouched, repeatedly stretching and soaking a large, roughly circular patch of animal skin in the water.
Just as abruptly, I snap back and emerge from meditation.
Later after researching, I learn I was preparing the animal skin to be used as the surface of a ceremonial drum.
Was what I saw a glimpse of a past life?
I do wonder if I ought to wear a shirt that says “I CAN’T HEAR SHIT” on the back (sounds better than I’M DEAF, right?) on those multi-use trails that have bikers on ’em.
I’m sure many bikers have tried alerting me from behind on a trail to pass by and were wondering why the arrogant dork wouldn’t budge or move over.
This afternoon a tiny, feisty spider hopped on the side of my mug of freshly brewed chai tea and bolted right off, likely uttering HOT! HOT! Hee hee.
On the way back from my nightly sunset viewing at the overlook, I nearly step on a skunk in the trail of darkness.
The skunk was startled too, tail shooting straight up. I truly thought I was about to get sprayed.
Instead it scurried off under a fallen log.
Thank goodness it’s phew, not pew (oh yes another bad pun).
Those skunks pass through camp to say hi. They have a distinctive odor that precedes their presence — a faint musk of burnt rubber tires. So whenever I smell it I know they’re nearby rootin’ around fer dinner.
penned
Ray
An alien from a different plane wandering the universe in a tiny camper
Along the Ray
Somewhere on a river...
North American continent usually
