Let me be clear about one thing. I hate camping. It is dirty. The picnic tables have splinters. And I always leave the right spices for burgers at home. Playing cards by lantern seems romantic in theory but there are large beetles that bounce off you and the steady hum of mosquitos which carry dozens of diseases. Last time I went, our camping space was close to the campground bathroom which emitted a burbling belch of the most hideous smell every hour or two.
But the reality is this. I am desperate to go to agility trials. I discussed agility addictions previously, when all of the trials had been cancelled. I spoke from personal experience. Now trials are springing up within driving distance, but they are a bit too far to go up and back safely in one day. Sunflower seeds, Cheetos, and canned coffee go only so far to prevent dozing.
As I wrote in my last blog, my virus vigilance has started to flag despite data to the contrary in our area (Northern California). I understand that we have a strong drive to normalize things, and it leads us to make flawed risk assessments. And still I fight becoming blasé about the ongoing threat.
Regarding agility, I have convinced myself that outdoor trials are fairly safe.
The problem is that motels scream danger. This is not based on any data. The idea of a motel stay simply worries me after getting used to so much isolation.
The solution? I have begun a journey which is only one notch up from camping. Since none of you responded to my plea for a small RV (see last blog), I have bought a used truck. It has a huge shiny bar on the front end called a brush bar that makes me want to find a pair of boots and a baseball cap with some butch trucker logo. The fact that it is a Toyota probably ruins this image a bit, but the image still resonates for me.
Tomorrow I have an appointment to see a lightweight camper that travels like a pancake and then pops up to create a tiny house–a very diminutive house but a house, nonetheless. In essence, this is a very expensive tent on wheels. It is basically designed for crusty fishermen out for a weekend of fly fishing. No frills. It bears no relationship to the gigantic, shiny RVs that populate our campgrounds with their picture windows, generators, and washing machines. If those RVs were boats, this would be its dingy.
My dog is, of course, a key player here. I am already planning a space for his crate in the truck cab. I have been worried how he would get into a truck camper, but I have located some portable stairs that should work for both of us. Once we are in at night, we will be staying in.
We will have a tiny kitchen, a bed for both of us, lights and a screen door. No bugs. No splinters. There are cabinets for condiments. I cannot be sure that there will be no belching bathrooms when we set up house. But we will be at the trial.
I feel fortunate to be able to consider this option. No one ever said addiction would be cheap.