There goes the neighborhood

It's over there somewhere.

This is going to get convoluted before it becomes clear. It begins in Missouri early in the 1800s. Daniel Boone lived there then close to the end of his days. He had moved west as he said every time he could see the smoke from his neighbor's chimney.
Growing up, Daniel Boone was one of my heroes, along with Davy Crockett (the real one, not the Disney version). When others played Cowboys and Indians, I played Daniel Boone and Davy Crockett. I even had an argument with an eighth grade teacher who said the cowboys were the most romantic figures in American history.

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Fast forward, now, to the 1980s, the decade I finally lived out my childhood fantasies and built a small cabin in the wilderness. I couldn't see any neighbor's smoke but I could hear them now and then. I'm pretty sure Davy and Daniel never had to deal wkith chainsaws. While I was building, a fellow who had lived in the area for 12 years came by now and then. We had some pleasant talks and remain friends, but in one of those talks I realized at least to him I was on the wrong end of Daniel Boone's curve. I was telling this fellow how since I was a kid I had wanted to do this but I noticed he was very quiet and then it hit me. Tentatively I said I am part of your problem, aren't I? He was too polite to do anything but nod and look away. Still in those years the woods generally left us our solitude unless we wanted out of it for a while.
Fast forward again, about 30 years to the day I came out here a couple of years ago and looked across the arroyo at a new cabin under construction. Worse than smoke, I could see the cabin. I felt violated, now like my friend somebody was part of my problem, but of course whoever was buidling over there had a dream too so I made my peace with it and ignored it as much as I could. I decided the neighborhood was probably still all right especially considering I and probably they only come out on weekends and chances were good we woudn't come out on the same weekends.

A feeder brought a more welcome neighbor.

Now, to get into the next part you have to understand I don't like bicycles. It goes back to teenage years after I had outgrown Daniel and Davy and had to ride one of those two miles into town, and hide it in an alley so I could hang out with my buddies, many of whom had cars. It carried through to Anchorage where people riding fat-tired bikes challenge pickup trucks the size of tanks for the right of way on slushy winter streets. And then they whine about it in letters to the edior. I just don't like bicycles. I wanted to shoot the first fat-tire bicycle rider I saw on our trail.
So now here goes the part about the neighborhood going to hell. The new cabin kind of blocks the trail I usually cut up to the small lake west of the cabin. So I set out to find a trail some friends of mine use that in the past cut across the far end of the lake. I thought I had found it and headed along it but ended up in somebody's back yard. No one home. I used their trail to go back down to the main one and in time came across the trail to the new neighbor's place. I hadn't heard anything and couldn't discern any tracks so I assumed no one was there. I went up it planning to go right on by and check out the lake.
But as I passed the house I saw something on the porch that sent a chill through me. BICYCLES! Fat-tired bicycles. OMG, someone was there and, gasp, they came in on bicycles. How am I supposed to brag about living in the Bush when you can get here on a bicycle. And I was stuck. At this point the polite thing to do was stop, say hello and intruduce myself rather than ride rudely with my loud machine through their yard. I couldn't see into the house and I didn't want to shout, so I shut off the machine, waved and waited to see if anyone came out.
A young couple came out shortly. dressed from head to toe in LL Bean and REI fashions. We exchanged introductions and pleasantries and I explained what I was doing in their yard and apologized, and that was that.
I headed off and made a tour of the lake, then bushwacked a trail back to my house only to sit on the porch in the sun contemplating the intrusions of bicyclists into my wilderness.Of course they are sitting over there shaking their heads at a crazy old fart who rides a noisy, stinky snowmachine.
In the long run I guess Bob Dylan had it right: "You can be in my dream if I can be in yours," if a bit grudgingly.