I left you yesterday at the city park in Flippin, aka “Hickey Park.” (I’ll pause here to let the chortling subside.) After publishing to my blog, I started the Silverado and headed west toward Yellville, where I intended to keep a promise.
That five-mile stretch of US 62 is familiar now, of course. On my left, about two miles to the south, are the rises and ridges among which I make my home. Hall Mountain dominates the territory.
A very different sight drew my attention yesterday afternoon, however. Massive plumes of thick smoke obscured the landscape, billowing from low creases to steep slopes.
Fire.
Best I could reckon, it was very close to The Mountain. When I got to Yellville, I doubled back and sped toward home. I’d never driven the county road so fast.
The closer I got, the thicker the smoke became. My heart sank. I drove faster.
When I made the turn onto my road, the air around me was clear. To my right, I could see thick smoke packing the valley. I drove past my place and continued on to Jeff’s (he wasn’t home) for a better look.
He’s cleared trees in front of his cabin to give himself a spectacular view to the south and west. Yesterday, that perch let me survey the area where the fire appeared to be burning. It looked like less of a threat from that vantage point — if it posed a risk, danger wasn’t imminent.
The wind direction was favorable. I smelled no smoke.
Satisfied and relieved, I returned (at a much slower pace) to Yellville to keep my promise.
The proprietors of Crooked Creek Pub, on learning of my circumstances, encouraged me to stop in soon for a beer and a hug. These are good people. I told them I would.
Yesterday, I made good on that. So did they.
It was the first remotely social thing I’d done in months. LouAnn and Paul and Debbie gave me a warm, kind, and welcoming place to be. It was wonderful.
Beyond simply acknowledging that I might be going through a rough patch, not a word was spoken about my situation.
There was one other patron at the rail with me, a chatty local with an unmistakable Cajun accent. Nice fella.
I finished my beer and decided I’d better get back to The Mountain and keep an eye on things. As I handed my debit card to Paul, the local sitting at the bar spoke up.
“I believe I just paid for this man’s beer.”
He grinned. I shook his hand, thanked him, and walked out the door to my truck.
Back on The Mountain, I could tell that the air had cleared a bit, though smoke still hung in the valley.
Smudge wanted out at 3am this morning. Grudgingly, I answered her call — I’m all she has, after all, and hauling my ass awake then beat cleaning up a mess later.
The wind had picked up considerably by that hour, gusting over 30mph. And the air smelled of woodsmoke.
A haze-ringed crescent moon hung in the western sky. Scanning the dark, wooded slopes for glow, I saw none.
Later, around 6:30am, first light revealed that the threat, such as it may have been, had passed. The wind blew stronger, still carrying the smell of a burn close by.
I have no information, as I write this, about the precise location or cause of the fire. I know it wasn’t a prescribed burn. I’d heard no sirens and observed no aerial response.
I believe this is the closest that fire has ever come to my home in the woods. ‘Round here, we pay attention to such things.
Heavy weather will commence around midday. The latest forecast puts The Mountain at “enhanced” risk, the third level below “moderate” and “high,” and pushes the worst farther east.
I believe I have everything in order. I’m as ready as I can be.
Readiness on The Mountain, by the way, is no different for me now than it was a few months ago. Being alone changes nothing.
From planning to building, buying to stockpiling, routine maintenance and management to executing in an emergency, I’ve been solely responsible for virtually every aspect of household preps for almost 20 years. Though a considerable amount of once-shared materiel rolled off The Mountain on Saturday with the beneficiary of my efforts, what remains is adequate for my (potential) needs.
But this isn’t a separation-and-divorce or disposition-of-property discussion — it’s about the business of prepping. And that brings me to my point: Stuff is worth little without skills.
I worked tools and kept them functioning. Breathed life into generators that shit the bed. Repaired hopelessly dead water pumps. Restored power to equally dead high- and low-voltage circuits. Conceived and created systems for storing fresh water. Built shelters from found materials and made fire in the rain with a pocketknife and a ferro rod. Maintained stocks of supplies to be ready when needed.
And on and on.
No procrastinating. Now. No delegating. Me. Because I’ve been actively involved, I’ve developed skills.
It’s the difference between having stuff and knowing how.
If you’re sitting atop a grand stockpile of preps and expect it to get you through a crisis, whether large or small, you’re fooling yourself. Get off your ass, make the commitment, and do the work.
Only then will all that stuff be worth a damn. Prepping is a participation sport, not a spectator sport.
I’m actually looking forward to a few days of being cooped up listening to rain pound on the roof.
Right now I’m in the best place I can be, under the circumstances and no matter how I look at it, but frankly, I’m exhausted. This passage, this transition, is hard work.
I’m up to the challenge.
I didn’t choose the reason why I’m in this spot. I do get to choose what follows. And I want you to know that I wouldn’t trade this moment for anything.
It’s great to be here.
Take care of yourselves, Patriots. Stay calm. Stay sharp. Stay free.
#WiseUp #LibertyOrDeath #Ungovernable