I urged you a couple of months ago to handle certain business by Wednesday, July 15th:
“Be ready to either stay where you are or go to a more secure location. Be ready to deal with resources and services that are severely limited. Be ready to defend Life, Liberty and Property.”
I said that because I believe that this summer has the potential to be ugly, rivaling 1968. A miserable debate performance (among other demonstrations of unfitness) by the current occupant of the Oval Office shifted the public drama but didn’t change my prediction.
That said, Deb and I missed my July 15th deadline.
Oh, we were ready enough, probably more prepared than the vast majority of Americans. We just weren’t as ready as we wanted to be — there was one last thing to do before the unease I predicted sweeps the land.
It’d require leaving The Mountain and undertaking an extended road trip. It also would mean navigating (or at least skirting) three major urban areas, all of which saw significant unrest four years ago.
We might’ve done it a week or two sooner, but it slipped for a couple of reasons — Deb arranging time off from work, and Nature’s timing in bringing a grandchild into the world. Neither could be helped.
As I gathered our gear and packed the truck on Friday the 12th, I caught myself consciously basking in my surroundings, the sights and sounds and smells of a summer day on The Mountain. Dammit, I didn’t want to leave. I hated the very thought of abandoning, even temporarily, the one place where I belong.
I told myself that the change and the challenge might do me good. There were lots of solid reasons to go and get it over with. And, of course, it played conveniently into my need for a break from Ubi Libertas Blog. So I decided to throw myself into the excursion with vigor, if not necessarily unbridled enthusiasm.
Early the next morning, we scooped up the dogs, rolled off The Mountain and began picking our way north and east. We put just 120 miles behind us over those first three hours, owing to our base in “flyover country.” Deserving particular mention for its entertaining twisties is Missouri Route 142, which challenged us for 43 miles.
The way didn’t open up for us ’til we reached US Route 60 and I-57. Only then did we begin to cover ground at a productive clip.
We were somewhere in Indiana, I think, or maybe it was Kentucky, when we got word of the assassination attempt on Trump. That had us scrambling for credible news on the incident and consumed our attention for the rest of the day.
The attempted murder of POTUS #45 was no accident, by the way, nor was the shooter’s advantage the product of error or oversight. This was a hit.
I may say more about that later. For the moment, my like-minded friends, know that this represents the lengths to which our desperate enemies will go to stop us.
Any further analysis right now, though interesting, would be pointless.
Deb had made lodging reservations for two nights on the east side of Cincinnati. By the time we arrived there Saturday evening, we’d traveled 608 miles. We unloaded our gear, ordered pizza, tuned the room TV to Fox News and collapsed.
Sunday we devoted to spending time with our boys and their wives. Shortly before noon, we drove over to the elder’s apartment and met their new baby, our first grandchild.
I’m sure you can imagine how that played out — proud parents, anxious to snap pictures of grandma and grandpa holding their three-week-old infant girl. Coos and cuddles and all that.
But that’s not what happened.
Deb and I never touched our granddaughter. We didn’t exchange handshakes or hugs with dad and mom, either, until just before we left. We weren’t even permitted inside the apartment — the entire visit took place outdoors, and at a distance.
We aren’t properly vaccinated, you see.
And that’s all I have to say about that.
I’m glad to report that dinner with our younger boy and his spouse that evening was enjoyable and decidedly less awkward.
We slept in Monday morning. After a satisfying “continental breakfast,” we aimed the truck northeast and made the two-hour drive to our old stompin’ grounds in Pickerington.
This was strictly a business trip. We rolled in under the radar, intent on doing what needed to be done and then quietly slipping away. We told virtually no one about our plans or our presence. With so many friends in the area, that was difficult, but we hoped they’d understand.
I can’t exaggerate how much just driving around that locale validated our decision to move to rural Ozarkansas. The suburban vibe, the grit and grime, the death-by-retail culture and the noise — oh, the inescapable noise was torture.
At various points during our stay, Deb would blurt out, “I hate it here!” And she meant it.
We spent all day Tuesday and Wednesday rooting through our storage units. Though we can’t afford to move everything to Ozarkansas, we wanted to bring back whatever the bed of the Silverado would accommodate.
Kitchen stuff. Preparedness supplies. Tools. We were choosy, leaving behind much more than we’d take away, but this was the mission we wanted to complete by the 15th of July. And yes, we knew we were running late — in light of the assassination attempt, two days later than we even thought we’d be — but by the end of Wednesday we had a respectable pile staged to haul Home.
Each evening we were there, we slumped at our all-time favorite haunt, Squeek’s Bar & Grill. We had a chance to dine and drink and connect with a handful of friends. Those were the warmest and brightest moments of the entire trip.
As we were leaving the bar Wednesday night, we saw a car go by with four people inside. All four were wearing face diapers. That set Deb off.
“Get me the fuck outta here!” she screamed.
We returned to our crummy hotel — noisy, dirty, inoperative elevators, squatters sleeping in cars in the parking lot, vomit on the sidewalk in front of the main entrance — and got a good night’s sleep.
Because we’d organized our takeaways efficiently at the storage units, packing the truck early Thursday morning was an undramatic affair. That’s not to say that the result was pretty — the Silverado looked a bit like Jed Clampett’s jalopy. I secured the ungainly load with six ratchet straps.
I checked for shifting every time we stopped, cinching things down when necessary and adding two more straps along the way.
We drove straight through, on purpose. With all that cargo in the open bed, there was no secure way for us to pause and rest overnight. Fortunately, we enjoyed perfect weather and (once we were clear of Louisville) agreeable traffic.
Keeping to our plan, we succeeded in avoiding all three major urban centers on our route, both on Saturday and again on Thursday. The closest we came were hazy, distant glimpses of the Columbus and Cincinnati skylines.
Streaming the Republican convention was our entertainment throughout the long day. We high-fived on re-entering Free America at the Mississippi River. Shortly after we passed the Arkansas line, a dual wheel flew off of an oncoming tractor-trailer, crossed our lane less than a hundred yards in front of us and threw up an enormous cloud of spray when it landed in an irrigation ditch to our right.
Had it hit us, we’d be dead.
Deb took the wheel for the final 114 miles. (I’m no longer able to drive safely after dark.) She shut off the truck on The Mountain at 10:30pm. We’d covered 760 miles.
All of us — Scout and Smudge included — were happy and relieved that the six-day odyssey was over. We paused awhile to absorb the blessed silence and breathe the clean air, then took in Trump’s convention speech before falling into sleep.
The only thing we had to do on Friday was unload the truck. And that we did, stowing what we’d brought back in the cabin and the shed. Other than that, we embraced exhaustion and quietly celebrated a successful mission.
We also took stock of how our homestead and the surrounding area weathered 11 inches of rain that fell here on Wednesday. (That’s not a typo — 11 inches in one day.) Our driveway, as well as the area around the cabin and the camper, definitely were scarred by runoff, though not seriously.
Our road, however, was all but washed out. We’d noticed that when we came up the night before. The light of day revealed a genuine mess requiring repair.
On the bright side, and away from The Mountain, Crooked Creek is full to its banks and flowing strong. The aquifers have been replenished. The drought is, for now, over.
I took time Friday to go through a couple of the 27-gallon plastic totes I’d brought back. They held knives, axes, saws and other edged tools I’ve accumulated over six decades. I hadn’t laid eyes or hands on them in over two years.
Clearly, this is a weakness of mine. I make no apologies. I’ll be selling many of those knives soon, though. Others I’ll tuck away for sentimental reasons. The rest will be put to use on The Mountain.
Naturally, I suppose, come Saturday morning Deb and I were still pretty gassed. We hadn’t yet reclaimed enough energy to do much of anything around Home, nor did we feel up to recreating in any way. So we stayed true to ourselves and our fatigue.
She finished putting up reflective film on the cabin windows. I addressed a few items we’d brought back from Ohio.
Regular readers will remember that we acquired a Harbor Freight Predator 3500 Inverter Generator last summer to power our Life on The Mountain. When it ultimately failed, we replaced it (under warranty) with a Predator 5000. Last winter, we added a Predator 2000 to serve as a backup.
Thing is, we also had two other inverter generators in storage — a 3000W (2300W) Generac and a 3300W (3000W) Firman. The Generac had very few hours on it, and the Firman never had been prepped or run — it essentially was brand-new. Though we certainly don’t need four generators, we retrieved the two older ones anyway.
I spent a couple of hours yesterday getting both of them up and hummin’.
The Generac is a wonderful unit, smooth and whisper-quiet. It started on the second pull, even with old gas. I ran it dry, filled it with fresh fuel and ran it some more. It’s a keeper.
The Firman is more powerful, certainly, as well as fancier and louder. I added oil to the crankcase and gas to the tank, started it and ran it under a 1500W load. It performed flawlessly.
Its neglected 12V/5Ah battery, however, is beyond resurrecting. I may or may not spend 20 bucks to replace it — I wouldn’t get into the habit of using the electric-start feature on this generator, since the battery has to be charged separately. (No alternator on the engine.) And if we were to sell one of our four generators, it’d be this Firman.
We also returned with another duplicate tool — a Husqvarna 440 chainsaw that we subjected only to light and occasional use around Second Chance Ranch. I didn’t bother messing with it yesterday, but when I do, I’ll dump the gas and freshen the filters before I even try to fire it up.
The Husky will be a good companion to our Stihl, I think.
Finally, before calling it a day, I gathered the long-shelf-life food we pulled out of storage. There wasn’t a ton of it, but what there is extends our supply on The Mountain by about five weeks.
Our preps always had accounted for (and counted on) having those provisions here with us. Now we do. That’s a great feeling.
Today, we did what we almost always do on a Sunday — laundry. We’d amassed two weeks’ worth, of course, so it was a larger-than-usual undertaking. But we managed to knock it out.
While our clothes were tumbling in the dryer, we learned that the current occupant of the Oval Office, the presumptive nominee of the Democrat party, had abandoned his bid for re-installation. That changes the playing field, if not necessarily the whole ball game.
I immediately wondered if he’d subject his anti-American party to a wide-open convention or endorse Chuckles. I soon learned that it’s the latter, which (for Democrats) is equivalent to waving the white flag.
That move also may foreshadow his resignation because, let’s face it — unable to run, unfit to serve.
I can only speculate about how this will unfold. We’ll see.
It should be obvious, I guess, that my hiatus is over. I’m blogging again. Whether or not that means daily (or near-daily) posts is something that time will reveal.
What I can say is that the break did me good. Or at least I hope it did. It feels like it did.
I can’t deny that America became a different place the instant a bullet struck Trump. It changed him, too, obviously, just not the way such a brush with death affects most survivors.
He’s more reflective, but he’s also more defiant and, I believe, even fiercer than before. He’ll be interesting to watch between now and Election Day.
I saw that defiance and ferocity reflected in last week’s RNC. To be candid, I feel it myself. That may be a promising trend as we inch toward November.
Again, we’ll see how it goes.
Anyhow — and in more ways than one — it’s good to be back.
Take care of yourselves, Patriots. Stay calm. Stay sharp. Stay free.
#WiseUp #LibertyOrDeath #Ungovernable
#LetsGoBrandon #FJB