The slumber was adequate. Most are. It’s still April around here, and it’s been a hit-or-miss month. It’s been mostly rain and washouts— six weekends in a row, to be specific.
Moving into the new place and the subsequent chores—curtain hanging, shelving installation, and griping about the mud in the yard—have kept me anchored like a medium-sized Danforth dragging on a rocky bottom. Still, the camp in the woods needs attention, and the water line bringing water to the camp from the lake doesn’t install itself.
The promise held before me in the forecast of a sixty-degree sunny afternoon allowed only fitful sleep, finally causing me to give in at four am—again.
After loading a couple of toolboxes, one chainsaw just in case, and a couple of buckets for carrying priming water up the hill to fill the fifty feet of black pipe, I set off for the land of milk and honey—Washington County.
I mistakenly tried a new coffee place, ordering an iced black dark roast. It wasn’t good, but I’ll still try it at least once more. I should have known better than to throw in the wildcard. I am a creature of habits, many of which are not so great. But this is how you learn, improve, and expand your horizons.
The Blacks Woods road didn’t disappoint; the frost exiting the earth—spring heaving—made me regret, again, getting the extra helper springs on the 3/4 ton. You see, I believed I’d get a truck camper to peruse the western United States at retirement. I haven’t, but not because I didn’t want to. Covid changed the way they price campers. Suddenly, the world had the same idea. I finally realized that I was already in a spot where everyone wanted to be, so why leave? I concluded that I sat on a cold gray boulder overlooking God’s wonderous idea called Maine. Clearly, I need to pinch myself some days.
With the errantly ordered and upgraded heavy-duty snowplow/camper package, my truck can leap like Superman over most road-borne asphalt intrusions and maladies. It can beat up a man, and it does on the regular.
The best thing about Rt 182 (a designated scenic byway) is that there is no cell service for excessive chatting with non-riders, so my total attention can be directed at driving this blue beast actively, steering like I don’t feel like dying. During each bump encounter, the ten-ply tires renew their hope that it’s not only Jeff Bezos who can create astronauts.
I digress.
However, satellite radio only fades to the point that I have to play fill-in-the-missing-lyrics karaoke for fifteen seconds at a time when the signal is interrupted by the high rock faces that shroud the curvy pathway to somewhere better.
It’s a good thing it was the Allman Brothers on the 70s channel, and I ruined the song, naturally.
“Don’t fly, mister blue bird, I’m just walkin’ down the road.
Early morning sunshine, tell me all I need to know.”
I’m sure no one heard me over the tools careening around the back seat. A mixture of Craftsmen and Kobalt created a crescendo of wrenches, sockets, and a flying hacksaw tossed in the air for good measure. The saw is always on top, and I rarely use it, thus the reason I always have one with me. You only need them when you don’t have them—my dad said that a lot.
At the camp, most things were in good order. After a long winter empty, I always unlock the door cautiously, creeping in as if I am searching the building for an escapee from Attica.
Thirty years into doing this, a spring ritual, I only need a Philips and flathead screwdriver, duct tape, two pails, a funnel, one or two new clamps, and a dry shirt in my knapsack for the ride home. Yesterday, I didn’t need the shirt as I’d hung it on a branch while I collected some of the sun’s rays on my milky epidermis.
It took me most of an hour. It’s a process.
Fill the black water pipe with the funnel until it burps and gurgles argumentatively, walk to the water, stick a screwdriver into the foot valve to release indigestion, grab another pail of water, walk back up the hill, and repeat until the pipe can hold no more. Attach the pipe to the pump without spilling too much water, prime the pump with the second bucket, apply electricity, and cross your fingers.
It worked again; the shower squirts, the sink trickles, and the toilet flushes. Of course, I must replace the hand sprayer attached to the faucet for the thirtieth time. I’d likely learn to remove it before the ice cracks the internal water holder backer or, in layperson’s terms, the doohicky. But I don’t. They sell them at the True Value.
I found my neighbor, Bill, at his place, tightening a faucet that now leaks but never did before. Winter is hard on empty houses and camps. With wrenches in his hand and me wearing a remarkably dry shirt, we caught up on road repair talk and chatted about when the other folks might arrive at our rocky, unnamed berg on the Jagged Edge of America.
I drove home tired but delighted, skipping coffee in favor of a cold Coca-Cola while squinting directly into the sunset, pleased with myself for beating the black flies to the punch yet again.
“You’re my blue sky, you’re my sunny day
Lord, you know it makes me high
When you turn your love my way
You turn your love my way, yeah, yeah,” (Shout out to Dicky Betts—RIP)
From the Jagged Edge of America, I remain,
TC
Thank you for the continued support for my writing, here and on the socials. The BuyMeACoffee app is how we pay the bills to make it happen. Thank you for reading the stuff. tc