The surprise on Rock Candy Mountain

Lessons from an unexpected guest as we remember how to overland

We should have checked the weather before driving Walter, our big yellow truck, into the labyrinth of steep and winding dirt roads. And we generally try to decide on a campsite before dark, but sunset just comes so dang early these days. Looking back, we realize it was risky all around, but we were out of practice. Because of our ongoing battery troubles, it’s been ages¹ since we last boondocked in the wilderness. So, with our nifty new light bars to illuminate our path, we pushed ahead without thinking.

Discovering a remote site like this one is an adventure in itself. First, we check the iOverlander app for reviews of places other people have camped in the region. Then we compare that information with the satellite images on Google Maps and OnX Offroad to get an aerial view and confirm it looks like a good possibility. Fortunately, we have Starlink on the roof (not that we’re big Musk fans), so we can continue switching back and forth between the three apps to check our GPS-pinpointed progress, even far outside cell range. It’s a complicated process, but as long as Walter is in view of Starlink’s train of satellites in the sky, we can geo-locate ourselves and make sense of the unmarked trails. It works for us.

Finding this particular site, in the blackness of the wilderness on a starless night, was particularly challenging. But after a few wrong turns and a couple of spooky solo scouting walks with a walkie-talkie and a flashlight, we did it.

We turned off Forest Service Road B-5000 and onto a narrow two-track in the woods, then drove until we came to a round clearing, complete with a fire pit. Unfortunately, the ground was badly rutted and on a significant slant. After many attempts at leveling the rig in the mud, under a cold drizzling rain, we abandoned the designated campsite and found a level spot on the road itself. We were confident no one else would attempt join us at that point, as most reasonable people wouldn’t try to find a campsite that hidden, that long after sunset.

We had the place to ourselves. However, it wasn’t entirely peaceful.

After we’d made dinner and settled in for the night, we finally thought to check the weather for the region. Whoopsie. The forecast called for high winds and half to three-quarters of an inch of rain between midnight and morning. That was a rookie mistake. Some nomads we are, heading up into an isolated place on rough dirt roads, some of them already muddy, only to camp under a dense canopy of enormous trees, just as a storm blows in. We considered packing back out onto the dark trails again, just to get off the mountain, but ultimately decided against it. We were feeling stubborn and perhaps a little stupid.

The good news is we survived just fine. The wind howled in the treetops and the rain splattered in rapid-fire bursts on Walter’s roof throughout the entire night, less than three feet above our heads as we tried to sleep. But no trees or branches fell on us, and the mud, although a little slick in some places, was not too deep to get safely back down. Lesson learned. Check the forecast first. We will remember our best-practices and get better at this.

The real surprise of that particular boondocking excursion on Rock Candy Mountain was the guest that showed up at our door for breakfast the next morning, just before we wound our way back down the hill. He is the star of this week’s story.

My husband was the one to discover him. We had just finished our breakfast, washed the dishes, and secured the contents of the Snuggery for the bumpy ride back out. Andy opened the door of the habitation box to step outside but then stopped short and gasped.

“There’s a chicken out here!”

I pressed my body into the narrow doorway with him and looked to where he was pointing and laughing. Sure enough, a handsome white rooster with a red comb and wattles and bare gray legs stood at the bottom of our steps.

“What is a chicken doing up here on the mountain? Are you lost, little friend?”

We cocked our heads and eyed one other for a moment, each one of us attempting to discern the others’ intentions, all hoping for peace on earth and goodwill toward men. And women. And poultry. I took a few steps down toward him. He did not retreat. Without a shared language, we somehow all passed the initial round of testing and decided to trust one another.

“The poor thing is soaking wet. And it’s cold out here! Do you suppose he’s hungry and is hoping we’ll feed him?”

“Why else would he be standing outside our camper—waiting for us? He must know humans are good for a meal.”

“What do we even have that could work as poultry feed?”

I climbed back up the steps into the Snuggery to find something—anything—and returned a moment later, rattling the red cardboard cannister of old-fashioned oats.

Our new feathered friend approached the steps and looked up at me with what Andy and I would both swear was hope in his beady little eyes. He didn’t back away when I reached the ground.

With one hand I scattered some oats on the fallen leaves. With the other, I reached forward to stroke his wet back. He flinched, but was mostly concerned with breakfast, pecking at the meal with vigor. I petted his silky but soggy feathers lightly, then let him eat in peace.

Nearly finished with the first fistful of oats, our crested crony looked up at me with quiet but clear expectation. I reached into the container of oats and dumped some more on the ground. The rooster, who by then I’d named Mr. Snowman, got right to work, pecking and scratching and gobbling as fast as he could.

We watched in amazement. How did this bird get so far from home? How has he escaped predators and survived in the wild? How much longer could he last out here?

Eventually, we had to just drive away and leave him there, still eating. We were ill-equipped to care for poultry—even temporarily—and where would we take him, anyway? We weren’t exactly in a residential area, and we hadn’t passed any rooster rescue signs on the way in.

But one thing was certain: Whatever circumstances had led that bird to his current situation, he knew enough to ask for help.

I’ve seen videos online where people claim, “this mama dog came and asked me to help with her puppies.” I’ve never really bought it. I always figured the person wanted to help and sought out the animal.

But now I’m a believer. Domesticated animals have learned that humans are helpful. Mr. Snowman the rooster stood outside our camper that morning and waited for us to come out. He made his needs abundantly clear and gratefully accepted our offer of a hearty meal.

As we drove off Rock Candy Mountain and made our way west toward the coast, I pondered. Do I know enough to ask for help when I need it? Am I willing to trust a stranger? Do I readily accept offers of assistance and hospitality?

Roosters are known as strong, independent animals—up for facing any challenge, even if it’s unwise. I’ve been known to possess a similar mindset from time to time—often to an unhealthy extent.

But now Andy and I are nomads. We have a small and simple life and are frequently at the mercy of unforeseen circumstances. Since mid-October when our batteries went wonky, we’ve been limping along, relying on the kindness of others. They’ve housed us and fed us and not turned us in when we were living in a cramped storage unit. It’s been a humbling time, filled with learning and personal growth, and decidedly lacking in adventure and excitement.

But learning to graciously accept help is generally a blessing for both parties involved. Even simple things, like offering to take a photo for strangers, could easily lead to a lovely conversation and occasionally, new friends. We know this one well as we have found it an easy way to meet locals and fellow travelers alike. We have found ourselves frequently on both the giving and the receiving end of photo-taking-with-strangers.

Just yesterday, in fact, our photo-help friendship-pick-up line paid off again. While walking a trail through a grove of towering Redwood trees in Northern California, the willingness to ask for and accept help led us to meet a lovely couple visiting from Australia. We proceeded to spend the next half hour walking and chatting together about all manner of topics—stopping frequently to gawk together at the ancient giants all around us and take more pictures.

By the end of our time together, we were exchanging email addresses and photos. We now have a standing invitation to stay at their 100-acre alpaca ranch in the hill country north of Melbourne.

With our new Aussie friends, Helen and David

But back to our breakfast guest. Mr. Snowman needed more than someone to press the shutter on his camera. He appeared to be desperate, in need of help for his very survival. Even as a proud and strong rooster, he had the sense to admit his need, find a promising source of assistance, and make his request known. We were not his humans, and we did not even share his fowl language, but he decided to trust us anyway. His request was not an imposition upon us—it was a blessing for us, a lovely surprise that made us smile for hours.

Hopefully, my simple offering of oats was enough to strengthen him for his journey home, rather than just fattening him up for the local coyote family’s Christmas dinner. We’ll never know. But his presence on a cold and wet morning in the wilds of Rock Candy Mountain helps me remember two things:

1. Setting aside our rugged individualism and independence is healthy. When we have a need—large or small—it’s perfectly valid and appropriate to ask for help. Interdependence is a better way to live for all of us.

2. Recognizing a need, realizing we have the ability to meet it, and offering help does not inconvenience us—it blesses us and adds interest and meaning to our lives.

You know what they say this season: ‘Tis more blessed to give than receive. It is, you know. It really is.

Until next week,

Sherry

P.S. If you need creative (and potentially heroic) gift-giving ideas that won’t create more clutter in people’s already overcrowded lives, be sure to check out last week’s post. Because the little graphic I included looked like a sales advertisement, I think the post erroneously went to spam or promotion folders for a lot of email subscribers. Here’s the link:

Sherry's Gigantic CLUTTER-FREE Gift-Giving Guide

1. Ages? Ok, it’s been since the middle of October since we last boondocked in the wilderness. I suppose that’s not ages. Although our power and heating issues are still not completely resolved, we are so glad to be back on the road again. (Ooh, I feel a song coming on. On the road again . . .)