The first 80-degree day of the year arrived today like a long-awaited exhale. The air, thick with a newfound humidity, carries the heavy, sweet scent of a season in transition. In the heart of the city, the winter-worn landscape is finally yielding to life, with vibrant patches of green beginning to reclaim the sidewalk cracks and park lawns.
While the morning sun feels like a gift, the thickening atmosphere hints at the volatility of spring; dark clouds are already gathering, and the distant rumble of predicted thunderstorms lingers on the horizon. Yet, there is a quiet comfort in this shifts. As the rain prepares to wash away the last of the cold, it’s a vivid reminder that the vibrant renewal of spring is no longer a distant hope, but right around the corner.
That’s the size of the Pine Bush parcel that developers want to turn into sixteen or so large suburban houses in the Pine Bush as shown on the mapper that I wrote for Save the Pine Bush.
That number sticks in my mind because that’s around the acreage of land I eventually want to own for my off-grid cabin and homestead. You know enough land to buffer from neighbors so not to smell their burn barrel or hear their noise, be raise livestock and other food, be able to have big fires without bothering others, and have an ample wood supply for heating.
Like any planning board meeting, the Guilderland Planning Board went through the initial proposed site plan, and took an initial hard look, a skeptical one in preparation of most likely approving it, as Save the Pine Bush fights back. Yet, it all seems so erily similar to the books I’ve been reading about building a house, developing a homestead, transforming raw land. Because essentially that’s my vision, assuming that when I do eventually own land, there are no structures and infrastructure on it.
Yet at the same time, it seems to pull my cogonative dissodence, thinking that I’m dreaming of developing a similar parcel, transforming a piece of so-called raw land aka woods or maybe farm field into a homestead. I know it’s different to build a small off-grid cabin, compared to a million dollar plus suburban road to 15 plastic-covered McMansions and lawns, but it’s still consuming land, domesticating and controlling it with livestock and farm equipment. It’s no longer open woods once you put a house and barn on it, no matter if it’s a few hundred square feet compared to dozens of large suburban houses as disconnected from the surrounding land as can be.
Foggy morning but the new tire is on the bike, after I found out I did get the right tire from the bike store after all. First time I mounted the new tire, the tube apparently had a pinch flat against the rim, and using the electric pump plugged into the SuperDuty 12-volt plug (which only works when the engine is running), it made a very big bang, and sprayed fix-a-flat all over me. So yeah, and then I had issue with getting the other spare tube patched and holding air, as I didn’t want to dip into my new spare that I keep on the bike lest I get another flat from you know, all the glass beer and whiskey bottles people throw out their car windows along the roads and bike paths.
I guess driving to work wasn’t as bad I feared, 🚨 I didn’t get raped by some cop with his penis sticking up in the air, nor was traffic particularly heavy or drivers aggressive. 🚗 I think my fear of driving is a bit unwarranted but it’s been 3 months since I last drove – in December – and with the big new truck with less insurance (high deductible) then my old rig, I was a bit nervous. I changed my policy to focus more on asset protection, rather then protecting the truck, as while I would be sad if I lost my truck, I would be much sadder if I smashed some little child’s brains out with my SuperDuty and the little child 🍼 got all my money that someday will pay for that off-grid cabin with the burn barrels and grunting hogs out back. 🐽 🛢️ But don’t you want one of those plastic houses in suburbs that everybody says are so wonderful? And drive to work every day until you retire? Fuck, I did that yesterday and di not enjoy it.
Installed the EZ-Pass to my windshield and the Drive Safe discount beacon, saves a fair bit on insurance by tatle-tailing on my driving but also keeps me accountable. 🚲 Ended up going back to the bike shop, and they ensured me that the tire would fit – it works with either tubeless or tube tires – which proved true and then down to the Henry Hudson Park to sit by the river for a few minutes 🏞️ before the rain came rolling in. Stocked up on groceries at Walmart and headed home. It was a good day, the automobile 🚗 stress wasn’t that bad. 📰 I read the news too much about all the rapists and murderers out there, lurking under every corner to get you. Tire is now re-inflated and mounted on the bike, riding in today.
As much as I continue to cringe over the unplanned spray-in bedliner expense for Old Smokey 🛻 I really do need to do that before I install the truck cap. I briefly looked at alternatives – a bigger rubber mat – that actually fits the SuperDuty, a plastic bedliner, a bed rug, but all those alternatives suck. It’s worth the extra money, especially if eventually the truck gets retired from camping for homesteading, and hauling hogs and equipment. Some point, but I still want to travel for a few more years. 🐐 Another $1,000, hopefully less, but it is worth it over the next decade or so of camping and traveling. It will make the bed much more durable, safer for camping in bed weather, and keep things warmer. I’ll email asking for some quotes and get a time line – needs to be done before May is done – and then pay for it. Money still keeps coming in from work and other sources. 💰 I am this deep in the hole at this point, what’s a bit more money. Also need to order the CB antenna mount and PA speaker, so I can move the radio 📻 over. The other crap I can work on once the bedliner is in and cap is on the roof. I am not worried about the cellphone booster, diesel heater, or lamolin spray until closer to autumn. I can live without, though I do want the underbody coated with oil before winter after what happened with Silverado.
Still can’t believe I blew up the bike tube mounting the new tire, 🚲 but those tubes aren’t expensive but the new tires certainly are with the tarrifs these days. I mean expensive is a relative thing compared to the SuperDuty. But you get my point. The 12 volt outlet puts out so much power when the SuperDuty is running, that air pump was roaring faster then ever it did in Silverado. Not much voltage drop in those wires. But usually, I would inflate tires using the power from batteries on my old rig, often in the morning when the voltage had already snagged a bit. But at least I should be able to ride in after patching another tube up and it’s holding air. I didn’t want to touch my other “new” spare tube. I’ll have to make sure to keep a second tube at home the next time I rn to Wally World. I’ll probably do that on Saturday after I go to Mom and Dad’s anniversary party 🎈 with my neice and nephew. 🐦 Also plan to go for a hike at Coeymans WMA to see the birdies and see how many more Lyme-disease infected ticks I can get to bite me.
“I am a frugal, intentional spender.” I repeat the mantra like a prayer, a necessary counterweight to the reality of a thousand-dollar invoice for a spray-in bed liner. It is a jarring addition to a budget already stretched by a $60,000 Super Duty and a $5,500 truck cap. In the cold light of financial planning, a truck is a fleeting asset—a depreciating hunk of steel that will likely be a memory in fifteen years. Yet, as I prepare this rig for the backcountry, I find myself caught in the classic tension between the disciplined saver I have always been and the adventurer I am becoming.
The bed liner was originally a line item I intended to cut, but the practicalities of the wild forced my hand. Beyond protecting the metal, it serves as a literal layer of insulation against the elements—a barrier between me and the conductive steel during a high-altitude thunderstorm, and a buffer against the biting cold of winter camping. It is the grit that keeps gear from sliding and the foundation for a mobile home. Logic dictated the purchase, even if my frugal nature recoiled at the “front-loaded” sticker shock.
This truck is not a sensible commuter; at 15 miles per gallon, it is a specialized tool for a specific lifestyle. When I tally the upcoming “small” additions—the Fluid Film rust protection, the CB antenna with its PA speaker for the sheer whimsy of it, the diesel heater, and the cell booster—the numbers begin to hum with a persistent, low-grade anxiety.
However, perspective is found in the ledger of my broader life. I work two jobs, manage a blog, and watch my dividends and assets grow through the very intentionality I claim to value. This investment isn’t a threat to my emergency fund or my retirement; it is a calculated allocation of the fruits of my labor.
Ultimately, the cringe of the cost is the price of admission for the years leading to retirement. I am buying more than a vehicle; I am purchasing the ability to work remotely from a trailhead, to camp by a high-mountain fire, and to haul gear for hunting and fishing trips yet to come. The rig is fleeting, yes, but the access it provides to the backcountry and the memories forged in those remote spaces are the only assets that won’t depreciate. I may be spending heavily now, but I am doing so to ensure that when I look back in fifteen years, I won’t just see a retired truck—I’ll see a life well-traveled.
