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.
But first a brilliantly sunny morning to start the day, as I ride my bike to work. I’ll pack a rain coat. Things are starting to green up, slowly but surely, but I suspect things will really start to pop into bloom come next week.
I slept much better come morning, 🛏️ once I opened my windows. I dream of nights in wilderness, but it’s not going to happen for a while until I get my truck cap, though I might hammock camp with the screen in the mean-time. Thinking about how long it will be before I have my truck cap has me down, 🐜 but black fly season camping sucks, and with gas prices likely to be elevated all summer, ⛽ maybe it’s best to minimize miles on the new SuperDuty.
Last night was another Save the Pine Bush meeting via Zoom, which I did from Five Rivers. It was a nice evening, breezy and a lot of people at Five Rivers until around dark, but I enjoyed the fresh air and it wasn’t too cool. I tried to not be too much of an argumentative, contentious fellow, but yeah I’m kind of a blow-hard at those kinds of meetins.
Apple 🍏 cinnamon carrot 🥕 pancakes this morning, 🥞 like usual, it helps buffer and fill my stomach so I’m not hungry all days. I grated up a massive fat carrot and then half of a smaller one, I try to include one to two cups of carrots in my mix, so I can use much less whole wheat flour, and that fiber not only helps with passing the stool but also keeping my stomach full as I hate to be hungry. 😋
Tomorrow it’s off to Ruth’s to order the truck cap, 🚚 and get the bad news about how long I have to wait. ☹️ Then off to Goodwill and Salvation Army to look for some more work clothes. Then maybe a hike in Albany Pine Bush until dark, and then maybe I’ll swing by Wally World Albany Edition for groceries and supplies. I don’t want to get too much stuff, but just basics. And then head home. ⛽ It will be interesting to see what the fuel economy of the SuperDuty is when I’m driving through traffic with that big block.
Well folks, I need to get in the shower and then head off to work on this most beautiful of spring days, as the birds chirp and the grass starts to green up. Of course, I’m riding my bike in this morning, but I’ll also bring a rain coat to ensure no rain this evening. Probably have meetings downtown, so if it pours by evening I can take the bus home, assuming the iRide app works on my phone as my Navigator card is now disabled.
Life is often defined by a restless anticipation, a tendency to look past the present moment toward a seasonal ideal that remains perpetually out of reach.
In early April, we find ourselves captivated by the rapid expansion of evening light. We watch the sun linger longer against the horizon each day, yet the air remains stubbornly chilled. We wait for the warmth to catch up to the brightness, imagining a perfect equilibrium that has yet to arrive. However, by the time the evenings turn consistently mild, the momentum of the sun has already peaked. The very gains we celebrated begin to ebb, and almost before the season has settled in, the shadow of late August looms, bringing with it the inevitable contraction of the days.
This cycle of seasonal lag serves as a poignant metaphor for the broader rhythm of our lives. It often feels as though the milestones we reach are over before they have truly begun. We spend our time negotiating with the present, wishing away the discomforts of the current moment to reach a perceived “sweet spot” that is fleeting by nature.
Nowhere is this more evident than in our relationship with the summer months. In the early weeks, we endure the nuisance of black fly season, counting the days until we can enjoy the outdoors in peace. Yet, by the time the pests recede, the calendar reveals a jarring truth: a third of the season has already vanished. We reach for the height of summer, longing for the heat of the sun and the refreshing shock of a cold pool to last indefinitely. But time moves with a cruel velocity. In what feels like a few blinks of the eye, the vibrant green of the canopy begins to tire, and the specter of Labor Day signals the end of our reprieve.
Autumn offers no different a bargain. We spend weeks watching the lush greens of late August, hungrily awaiting the dramatic burst of color that defines the fall. When the transformation finally arrives, it is a spectacular, fiery display, yet its brilliance is the very thing that signals its end. The peak is a momentary flash; almost as soon as the hillsides are set ablaze, the leaves drift to the ground, and the landscape fades into a somber, dormant brown.
Ultimately, we are often caught in a cycle of wanting. We want the light without the cold, the summer without the bugs, and the autumn color without the decay. In focusing so intently on the “perfect” version of a season, we often miss the transition itself. Life, much like the changing light of an April evening, does not wait for us to be comfortable before it moves on. It is a series of brief peaks and long anticipations, reminding us that the beauty lies not in the permanence of the season, but in our ability to witness it before it slips away.
So the weatherman warns us on this soon to be beautiful spring day, as mercury pushes into the sixties, the air dries out, and wind picks up later in day. Probably with the breeze this afternoon, it won’t be a real warm evening. But at least I can wear my vest riding to work.
Going to be a nice day, ☀️ at least for riding to work, but probably not a good day for lighting off a smudge pot of burning garbage and heading off to town, even if you do live out in the country in a free state. 🔥 Fire danger is real on the homestead. There have been times when I’ve had a campfire in red flag weather, but never until after dark, and I’ve always kept the fire relatively small, and drowned it before bed. Unfortunately others aren’t so careful, and as I think more about buying my own land, I do think more about fire risk – and freedom to burn shit. 🐐
I was thinking how nice it will be once I get the camper shell on Old Smokey, 🛻 and can get back up to the woods and have fires in wilderness. I won’t have to be watching everything plastic or packaged thing, 📦 and not have to think about how to get rid of it it when I have fires to recycle the carbon. ♻️ I haven’t had any Greek yogurt or maple syrup since December, in an effort to reduce packaging. In my view, the best thing you can do with No. 5 plastic is toss it in a fire. But maybe it’s good to save money too. Plus nights looking at the flames with a stoned gaze sounds like a lot of fun. 😍 Listening to the barred owl 🦉 in the distance, and some good tunes. Not that I’ve found the time to look at truck caps seriously, but I’ve always been swamped at work, though things are a bit quieter with at least one of supervisors back for part of the day.
This evening I definately plan to ride out to Five Rivers 🐸 after work assuming it’s not too cold with the wind 🌬️. I think there is a Pine Bush Zoom Meeting, but I can stream it from there I guess. The crazy thing about spring time, is we gain daylight in evening quickly, 🌇 but it takes longer for the mercury to warm up and the evenings pleasant. Those days will come, but they will be much too short, as by the end of June we slowly but surely start loosing daylight at the end of day. Summer is just such a fleeting thing. ⏳ Once again, autumn will come and go, and another winter upon us.
Rehearsals for retirement, I guess, as another year ticks away. People say, why are you wasting time to death ☠️? My reaction is I could get hit by a city bus any day, but at that point it won’t matter. When I retire, in a decade and half, I’ll have plenty of time for that cabin, when I can have goats and burn barrel out back, and go to transfer station once a year. Or maybe less, if I scrap the metals, and avoid buying most of the rest of unburanble crap and dig a big hole. 🕳️ Like landfill operators do, or more like a big mound at outskirts of city.
![Untitled [Expires April 18 2026]](https://andyarthur.org//data/photo_019920_large.jpg)
![Untitled [Expires April 15 2026]](https://andyarthur.org//data/photo_010795_large.jpg)
which I did from Five Rivers. 
It was a nice evening, breezy and a lot of people at Five Rivers until around dark, but I enjoyed the fresh air and it wasn’t too cool. I tried to not be too much of an argumentative, contentious fellow, but yeah I’m kind of a blow-hard at those kinds of meetins.
and then head off to work on this most beautiful of spring days, 
as the birds chirp 
and the grass starts to green up. 
Of course, I’m riding my bike in this morning, 
but I’ll also bring a rain coat 
to ensure no rain this evening. Probably have meetings downtown, so if it pours by evening I can take the bus home, assuming the iRide app works on my phone as my Navigator card is now disabled.
