Hermit Crap

 

30 years of being a diesel mechanic was enough, so Charles thought. He had no wife, no kids, no friends, not much family, but a lot of dreams. And that dream was to live quietly alone in the middle of nowhere. Yes, alone in the wilderness. Far away from the noise of civilization and all its other irritations. Alaska was too cold and remote, so he chose the next best place: Wyoming. He knew the winters would be hard, but the bitterly cold weather was simply another line of defense protecting his solitude. He had no interest in recreating Walden, and that is why he bought a mobile home on the outskirts of a tiny town. To be sure, he'd hunt and fish as much as he could, but that was mainly for recreation rather than sustenance. He would be a hermit in nearly the truest sense of the word, for the word "hermit" comes from eremos, the Greek word for "desert", and by extension, someone who goes off alone to live in one. Eremite would mean someone who belongs to the desert, and that word got garbled into "hermit" by the time in wandered into the English language. 

Oh, how Charles loved languages and especially etymology. That was odd because he himself was never very talkative, unless a subject that interested him sprang up. Then, as though a light switch was flicked on, he would begin spouting trivia almost reflexively. Some found it endearing, most found it annoying, and Charles quickly learned to keep it to a minimum lest he be called a know-it-all. The last time someone called him that, his response was "I'd rather be a smart-ass than a dumb-ass." It was a good thing Charles never tried to work in sales. No, it was the cold steel engines where his hands and mind were the most useful. It always puzzled him how so many people had so little interest in technology, even the everyday sort that they depended on and had direct experience with. When such thoughts arose, Charles dismissed them with a wave of the hand and reminded himself of those wise Latin words: de gustibus, non disputandam. Indeed, there is no point in arguing about matters of taste. 

There would plenty of time for reading, and there was some of that he wanted to catch up on. In the main, however, he wanted to write, and intended to stay busy with correspondence as well as poetry. The stark beauty of the badlands would inspire him. He remembered the first time he drove through Wyoming and stopped to gawk at the unearthly majesty of Hells Half Acre. The pillars of rock looked truly alien, and indeed, it served as the location for a science fiction movie. Seeing it in person was a truly magical experience, and that was the day Charles decided that Wyoming would one day be his home. It took some research, but he eventually settled on Lusk, Wyoming, in Niobrara County. That locale is the least populated county of the least populated state, and so Charles decided it was the perfect place for him. An amusing fact about the place was it was home to the grave of Mama Featherlegs, a famous prostitute from the Old West. The local men liked her so much that when she was murdered by her no-good boyfriend, they all chipped in to give her a proper burial. Today, it is the only monument to a whore in the United States.

His savings were enough to last many years, but in the unlikely event that his money ran low, he'd simply get a job in Lusk or perhaps work for a season at the sawmill in Saratoga. That was a long drive, but that was merely an opportunity to enjoy more of the state. He had a goal of visiting a town in every county of Wyoming. Most people only pass through the part near Yellowstone and the Grand Tetons. It's beautiful there, of course, but way too crowded by hermit standards. He visited the park once when he was much younger, back when he was in the Army. His favorite thing to do when he got leave was to go on a long road trip to a state he'd never been to before. He never made reservations, which usually worked out OK, except the time he visited Yellowstone in the summer. He should have stayed at the place that only charged $200 per night, but he foolishly pressed on until the only room left cost $700 per night. Whatever, let it ride, he thought. Money is for spending, and it was fun to enjoy the lavish accommodations of the rock star suite. There was a bar just outside his room and a phone next to his toilet. He wondered how many people in the world were so busy they took phone calls on the toilet. He was glad he was not one of those people. 

He didn't have much need or desire for companionship, but he certainly wasn't going to avoid it. In fact, the first thing he did after settling into his trailer was put a large sign festooned with Christmas lights right outside it. The sign read: 

Welcome to Paradise! 

Population: 1

Visitors Welcome

He wanted to be a hermit, not a recluse. There's an important difference between the two.

In truth, he had already been to paradise, and it was in Thermopolis, Wyoming. He got lucky when he went there to dig for dinosaur bones, which was a childhood dream of his. On his first attempt, he unearthed a good size fossil which was the ankle bone of a Camarasaurus, a medium-sized sauropod. Yes, paradise was a great place to visit, but he didn't want to live there. The day he drove into town, there was a beautiful rainbow arching over the hill that towered over the hot springs. He went there to celebrate his discharge from the Army. 

He read once about a hermit who lived by the sea in South Carolina for many years. Or was it North Carolina? Meh, it didn't matter. He became known as the Fort Fisher Hermit. That hermit became a minor tourist attraction and got many visitors per day. The donations they left made his life much easier. When asked to comment on his fame, he answered that most people never get a taste of solitude, and so they are curious about what it's really like. He added that everyone would be a lot happier if they lived as a hermit for just one hour per day. 

Being truly rich is not just a matter of money, but of time. To be truly rich is to spend all your time doing exactly what you please.