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Unburdening
Aug. 10th, 2025 06:41 pmThe other day, when I was picking up roosters, I went down one of those long, long roads that snakes through the hills and lakes and farms and forests and eventually turns to gravel. In the summer they're always washboard, and in my area they always eventually turn into forestry roads or else they used to be, which means if you turn down a side road they whisper out into smaller roads, rutted and overgrown, if you can get past the deactivation berms. Eventually they come out on clearings with various ages of trees, meadows full of young trees waist- or shoulder-high, or young forests with branches beginning to close and shade, or teenage forests packed with trunks like bodies on a dance floor. Because of our green-up rules it's usually a tapestry of all three.
I hadn't missed driving on loose gravel or washboard, especially since I run city-thickness tires these days instead of ten-ply. I still remember some of the tricks -- turning on 4H always helps, and you can usually keep one tyre on the bare line in the middle to avoid skidding -- but it's tiring. I didn't go far enough on gravel to need a radio.
I had missed seeing what was over the next hill. I had missed glimpsing a shine of lake or the drop of a valley and turning to go there. I miss putting my feet on the ground and following to somewhere no one had been in decades or longer, or where people had been briefly but were gone now with the whole left only to me, to my survey, and then to time and rewilding for the next sixty or eighty years. I miss... walking past the edges of roads, and calling out to talk to the animals so I didn't surprise them, and checking the browse and the tracks as I went.
I miss the feeling of my cruise vest, basically a better-designed high vis backpack, that over the years grew to fit my body until it was like a bison's or a camel's hump, settled into place with a short jump and than invisible to my notice until I needed the resources it held.
I miss standing looking down at a lake that no one has fished in, maybe only half a dozen people have swum in in the last century. I miss being surrounded by the real world, by the trees and grasses and berries and insects clicking and the knowledge of that wide web of life around me.
I miss grassy verges of gravel roads. I miss the smell of dust in the truck. I miss being so far out that I not only don't have cell service, but that I need to go back to the truck for its more powerful radio signal. I miss learning the names of the places around me and knowing other people know them too, had been looking at that same lake from the other hill years ago. I miss the rocky ridges that tore my lungs to climb and smelled like hot grass and juniper and that offered a view of the whole area.
I miss the feeling of settling into an even pace, not pushing, not dawdling, just engaging my legs in a comfortable gear and going.
I even miss the heaviness of caulk boots and never slipping on logs and winding my way over and under blowdown.
I miss the feeling of having my waterbottle when I was thirsty, of pulling it out and drinking, of the feeling of knowing I had provisioned myself and could care for myself and my body with forethought and with the bit of weight I was carrying. I miss the taste of my own well water when it had been warmed and sloshing in my pack.
I miss the tendrils of connection that all created, of sense memory and knowledge of the surrounding area that snaked out to anchor me in this place.
What goes on with me now is somewhat delayed-onset, and so today I've been in bed all day, barely making it to the bathroom, not cooking, as I knew I would after the absolute trainwreck of Friday. I wonder, today, if I turned off my phone and internet forever, if maybe I could venture back into the bush-- go a couple kilometers from the truck with an ultralight hammock and a couple thermoses of tea, sleep, come back the next day. If I didn't have to endure the gutting cognitive effort of handling people, could I have those experiences again? Just a little?
This is the first day I've felt trapped in my house. I've been trapped in my house lots since this all started, but today is the first day it's felt trapped instead of sheltered. The wind blew hard and steady all day and the aspens outside the open window sounded like heavy waves on the ocean. All day, from sunup till dinner, there was no peace.
Maybe it's that I hadn't expected it, hadn't had time to fortify myself against Friday's one-two-three-four punch of demands.
I need to cut my expenses by about half in the next little bit. I give real thought to internet being one of them. Musknet makes me morally uncomfortable anyhow, it's very expensive, and I could always go in to the library to post and read things. Would that get me energy back as well as money? Who knows.
Today is a hard day. Tomorrow I take Whiskerbearpantscat in to get a couple teeth pulled, which also won't be easy. Then I start to rest up for Avallu's surgery in the beginning of September.
And right now I have to find it in myself to go outside and feed the ducks, the geese, the chickens, the muscovies, and the dogs. It'll be easier, out there. My garden will call me and the muscovies will trill and the geese will follow me around -- they're starting to eat to fatten for fall now -- and I'll see what's blown over and will need fixing. If no one is in immediate peril then I won't fix any of it.
I hadn't missed driving on loose gravel or washboard, especially since I run city-thickness tires these days instead of ten-ply. I still remember some of the tricks -- turning on 4H always helps, and you can usually keep one tyre on the bare line in the middle to avoid skidding -- but it's tiring. I didn't go far enough on gravel to need a radio.
I had missed seeing what was over the next hill. I had missed glimpsing a shine of lake or the drop of a valley and turning to go there. I miss putting my feet on the ground and following to somewhere no one had been in decades or longer, or where people had been briefly but were gone now with the whole left only to me, to my survey, and then to time and rewilding for the next sixty or eighty years. I miss... walking past the edges of roads, and calling out to talk to the animals so I didn't surprise them, and checking the browse and the tracks as I went.
I miss the feeling of my cruise vest, basically a better-designed high vis backpack, that over the years grew to fit my body until it was like a bison's or a camel's hump, settled into place with a short jump and than invisible to my notice until I needed the resources it held.
I miss standing looking down at a lake that no one has fished in, maybe only half a dozen people have swum in in the last century. I miss being surrounded by the real world, by the trees and grasses and berries and insects clicking and the knowledge of that wide web of life around me.
I miss grassy verges of gravel roads. I miss the smell of dust in the truck. I miss being so far out that I not only don't have cell service, but that I need to go back to the truck for its more powerful radio signal. I miss learning the names of the places around me and knowing other people know them too, had been looking at that same lake from the other hill years ago. I miss the rocky ridges that tore my lungs to climb and smelled like hot grass and juniper and that offered a view of the whole area.
I miss the feeling of settling into an even pace, not pushing, not dawdling, just engaging my legs in a comfortable gear and going.
I even miss the heaviness of caulk boots and never slipping on logs and winding my way over and under blowdown.
I miss the feeling of having my waterbottle when I was thirsty, of pulling it out and drinking, of the feeling of knowing I had provisioned myself and could care for myself and my body with forethought and with the bit of weight I was carrying. I miss the taste of my own well water when it had been warmed and sloshing in my pack.
I miss the tendrils of connection that all created, of sense memory and knowledge of the surrounding area that snaked out to anchor me in this place.
What goes on with me now is somewhat delayed-onset, and so today I've been in bed all day, barely making it to the bathroom, not cooking, as I knew I would after the absolute trainwreck of Friday. I wonder, today, if I turned off my phone and internet forever, if maybe I could venture back into the bush-- go a couple kilometers from the truck with an ultralight hammock and a couple thermoses of tea, sleep, come back the next day. If I didn't have to endure the gutting cognitive effort of handling people, could I have those experiences again? Just a little?
This is the first day I've felt trapped in my house. I've been trapped in my house lots since this all started, but today is the first day it's felt trapped instead of sheltered. The wind blew hard and steady all day and the aspens outside the open window sounded like heavy waves on the ocean. All day, from sunup till dinner, there was no peace.
Maybe it's that I hadn't expected it, hadn't had time to fortify myself against Friday's one-two-three-four punch of demands.
I need to cut my expenses by about half in the next little bit. I give real thought to internet being one of them. Musknet makes me morally uncomfortable anyhow, it's very expensive, and I could always go in to the library to post and read things. Would that get me energy back as well as money? Who knows.
Today is a hard day. Tomorrow I take Whiskerbearpantscat in to get a couple teeth pulled, which also won't be easy. Then I start to rest up for Avallu's surgery in the beginning of September.
And right now I have to find it in myself to go outside and feed the ducks, the geese, the chickens, the muscovies, and the dogs. It'll be easier, out there. My garden will call me and the muscovies will trill and the geese will follow me around -- they're starting to eat to fatten for fall now -- and I'll see what's blown over and will need fixing. If no one is in immediate peril then I won't fix any of it.
