The problem with reality shows is that I look at them and say, “I could do that.” I’ve been watching Mountain Men lately, and the one common ingredient is that these guys are old. I’ve got that covered. The other requirement is that they live in places accessible only by parachute.
I’m not likely to be jumping out of a perfectly good plane anytime soon, but I still wonder how I would fare living off the land with the grizzlies, cougars, wolves, and the occasional rabid beaver.
These guys build their own hydroelectric plants, and juggle chainsaws just for fun. I lack the basic coordination to walk the dog without injuring myself. I’m currently nursing a rope burn from the leash when my dog decided to lunge at an imaginary squirrel, and my wrist got in the way. The burn is bad enough that it had all the staff members at the doctor’s office gagging, and they see some nasty shit.
If I injure myself in the wilderness, I can’t run to the corner drugstore for industrial strength narcotics. This is a problem as I don’t want to be able to pass a sobriety test if I’m in pain. Conversely, when your life depends on bagging a 12 point buck for dinner, you want to be able to recite the alphabet while aiming your high powered rifle.
I picture myself enjoying the beauties of nature, like waist-deep snow in the winter, and mosquitos that can carry away fully ripened watermelons in the summer. As it is, I get frostbite just from opening the freezer door.
I’m not keen on the idea of taking a bath in a washtub. My showerhead might get lonely. I’ve had lots of practice stacking firewood, which is why I know that the woodpile is primo real estate for spiders. I think I’ll give that one a pass.
My imaginary wilderness adventure involves hard labor, blisters, bitter cold, and thirty channels of infomercials on TV. No internet, no libraries, and no UPS deliveries from Amazon combine for a colorless existence. I haven’t forgotten the fluffy woodland creatures that look at your cabin as an all-you-can-eat buffet.
You may think that this is a pointless flight of fancy, but don’t forget the end of the Mayan Calendar (blah, blah, blah) or the collapse of the US dollar (blah, blah, blah). Soon we may all be growing turnips in our front yard and hunting wild boar, or the neighbor’s Chihuahua for you suburbanites. Hey, it was either him or me.