Notes

Tomorrow, I’m headed over to Ruth’s to finally pull the trigger on an ARE cap, and I’m still sitting here chewing on the same old bone: flat roof or mid-rise? My old truck had the MX mid-rise, and it served its purpose, but this new Ford SuperDuty has a bed deep enough to camp in comfort even sitting up. I’m leaning toward the flat roof this time. It’ll grab less wind on the highway, keep the gas mileage from plummeting further into the basement, and making the kayak less of a wrestling match to unload. It just feels more stable for the long haul—whenever that haul actually happens. I had visions of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan this year, but at the rate the world moves lately, that might just be a “next year” dream.

I’ll admit, I had a bit of a moment last night. I started spiraling about the lead times. Ever since the pandemic turned everyone into a “rugged outdoorsman,” the demand for recreational gear has been a circus. Pair that with labor shortages, and suddenly a “ten-week estimate” feels like wishful thinking. I’m bracing myself to not see this thing until late June, though I’m just guessing based on internet hearsay. Maybe Ruth will have a dose of reality for me tomorrow.

The annoyance sets in when I look at the alternatives. I checked out Leer, but since American Auto Glass folded, the nearest dealers are out in Glenville or Bennington. I’m not exactly thrilled at the prospect of driving an hour each way twice and then have to figure out what to do while new cap is being installed. Besides, Leer doesn’t offer the bells and whistles ARE does. I thought about those prefab steel caps—indestructible, sure—but I want windows with screens. I want to be able to reach in from the side with the sliding windows that open like the Outdoorman Windows on ARE Caps. I also need a front window that opens so I can run cables or with boot to the cab letting a little A/C or heat circulate while I’m camping back there.

Some folks suggest a full slide-in camper, but I can’t stand the thought of all that bulk. All that fabric and particle board just waiting to get soggy? No thanks. I’d much rather cook my meals under the open sky and poop in a bucket outside. Keeps the smells out of my sleeping quarters, and frankly, the bears don’t need the invitation.

I suppose I could just wait for ARE Cap. I plan on keeping this SuperDuty for fifteen years, so what’s a few months? I’m not some kid I once was looking to ruin a perfectly good truck with a lift kit and “ginamormous” tires that prematurely wear out everything. The 33 mud tires it came with are plenty, and that Minizilla engine with the one-ton axles should make it hopefully to my retirement without replacement. So waiting seems worth it.

But a summer without a shell feels a bit hollow. I’ve already resigned myself to a “shell-less” through June. I might do some hammock camping at Cole Hill State Forest—just a night or two at that hillside spot I like. I could brave the Adirondacks, but that’s black fly territory. Honestly, camping in a cloud of biting flies is a special kind of misery I’m not sure I’m ready to volunteer for.

I’ll miss the easy nights in the woods, the fires, and the glow of the camp electric lights, but staying closer to home isn’t the worst fate with gas prices climbing toward the moon as look up from my campsite. I don’t think my SuperDuty is that hungry, compared t some, but it is a HD truck. I can manage my trash and recycling without fires in wilderness the legal and proper way at the transfer station or sneak a bag into a bin along the way. I’ve made it ten weeks without a truck; I can survive another ten without a cap. It will save money to not be doing many trips in near futrue, which is more I can invest in my camping future.

The real goal is autumn. That’s when the shell becomes a necessity. Even if Michigan trip falls through for this summer, I want to spend my Fridays through Mondays working remote from camp come the autumn. With the truck’s free one year of unlimited Wi-Fi, a second solar panel, and my old battery setup, I’ll have a proper mobile office. Labor Day is twenty weeks away. Surely, even in this sluggish world, I can get that big fancy piece of fiberglass delivered by then.

It is what it is. I could kick myself for waiting until March to get the truck, but I didn’t want the thing marinating in road salt all winter anyway. It saved me on insurance and fuel while I wasn’t going anywhere. This summer isn’t the end of the world. Michigan will still be there next year, and the truck will be in better shape for it.