2021 RAM 3500 Tradesman | AEV Prospector | FWC Grandby

[ramblinChet]

Useful information posted at another unrelated forum:

@PacificNorthwestYeti - I’m in the same position and glad I invested the time and budget into a fully customized Victron Energy power architecture for my overland rig. Years back, I seriously evaluated REDARC, whose rugged engineering is purpose-built for adventure platforms, but after direct consultations with both teams and hands-on evaluation of their product lines at Overland Expo, here’s my breakdown:

Both Victron Energy and Redarc excel in vehicle power systems for off-grid operation, yet they embody distinct engineering philosophies. Victron prioritizes modular, scalable architecture with deep ecosystem integration - enabling precise customization, multi-device synchronization via apps, and seamless expansion for complex, high-capacity builds across global markets. In contrast, REDARC engineers rugged, all-in-one solutions optimized for space-constrained, high-abuse environments, delivering integrated charging (DC-DC, solar, AC) in compact, vibration-resistant packages that minimize component count and installation complexity. Users value Victron’s advanced telemetry and upgrade flexibility for evolving systems, while REDARC's proven resilience in extreme conditions, such as deep-water fording and prolonged heat, makes it ideal for minimalist, mission-critical rigs. Both are premium-tier, but Victron’s distributed modularity often scales cost with system size, whereas REDARC’s bundled platforms optimize value through integration. Victron leads in global availability; REDARC maintains dominance in Australasia.

Here are a few screenshots from the Victron Energy application that often review - I'm a numbers guy so I love the level of detail provided:

 

[ramblinChet]

North East Backcountry Discovery Route

Part Five of Six​

Unfortunately, for several reasons, it looks like I will be the only person to complete the entire NEBDR, and the details that surround the group breaking apart don't really matter at this point. I'll simply state that a member of the group with presumably good intentions began to invite several other vehicles to join an in-progress adventure and I was the first to peer into the future and call it for what it was - a failed plan. If we meet on the trail someday and are sitting around a fire sharing stories, I'd be happy to walk you through step-by-step and identify where things began to fall apart, and more importantly, why.


So here I was, alone with 350 miles to complete, and time was no longer a consideration. I decided to slow the pace down significantly, stop more, walk around the area or hike a short trail, listen to the river and the trees, feel the cool crisp autumn air sting my face, and watch a fallen leaf carried away by the swift current. This is what I came for.


Since I frequently travel alone in areas without cellular service I carry an assortment of recovery options. I carry four Maxtrax MKII traction boards. Maxtrax are lightweight, durable traction boards (also known as recovery boards) invented in Australia in 2005, made from UV-stabilized, engineering-grade reinforced nylon. Primarily designed for off-road vehicle recovery, they feature aggressive cleats for grip, ramped ends for easy tire access, built-in handles, and shovel-like undersides. They're compact (13 inches wide and 45 inches long), stackable, and weigh around 5-6 lbs each. While their core purpose is vehicle extraction, Maxtrax are versatile tools for off-roaders, campers, and adventurers. Here are some of their uses: (1) Vehicle Recovery - Place under spinning tires to provide instant traction and allow the vehicle to "climb" out by idling forward. (2) Terrain Bridging and Obstacle Navigation - Stack or link boards to create temporary ramps, bridges, or steps over gaps, ledges, or uneven ground. (3) Camping and Leveling - Use flat or stacked to create stable platforms for uneven parking.


The Rocky Gorge thundered below as she stepped into the frame, its white water swallowing every sound. Sixty feet away across the churning mist, she looked straight at me and asked without a word: May I be in it?

I nodded, lifted my hand in a clear thumbs-up, and watched her shoulders ease with understanding. Then I opened my palm, fingers pressed together, holding it steady in the air like a silent command - stay perfectly still - and she did, her soft body poised on the jagged rocks as the shutter stretched seconds into silk. When the final frame clicked shut, I gave her another thumbs-up, and she answered with a heart-stopping smile before I slipped away down the trail, leaving behind only the echo of our wordless collaboration and a photograph that holds the moment we both decided to make something beautiful together.


Near the end of section six of the NEBDR, I tackled the forbidding ascent of Mount Washington State Park in my sturdy 4.5-ton adventure vehicle. At the base around 1,500 feet, conditions felt deceptively warm and serene, with balmy breezes and golden leaves setting a welcoming tone for the journey ahead. My 6.4L HEMI engine delivered a deep, resonant rumble, steadily powering me through the eight-mile unrelenting climb to 6,288 feet, where each twist and turn built a rush of adrenaline - equal parts fear and excitement. As I gained elevation, the scenery unfolded in surreal splendor: distant mountains veiled in hazy blue, with wispy clouds drifting by and the sky taking on a vast, otherworldly quality, as if I'd entered a different realm. Then, transitioning into the stark alpine zone above about 4,500 feet, where trees thinned into resilient shrubs amid exposed granite, the captured photo gazes up the winding road toward a sharp curve flanked by a sheer rocky cliff that plunges into seeming oblivion, heightening the sense of perilous adventure. Yet, upon reaching the summit, the calm below surrendered to biting cold and relentless gale-force winds, a raw reminder to bundle up against the mountain's unpredictable fury.


Mount Washington, the highest peak in the Northeastern United States at 6,288 feet, has a rich history dating back to its first recorded European ascent in 1642. Named after George Washington in the late 18th century, it became a tourist destination in the 19th century with the establishment of the Crawford Path in 1819 (the oldest continuously maintained hiking trail in the U.S.) and the Mount Washington Auto Road in 1861. Scientifically, the mountain is renowned for its extreme weather due to converging storm tracks, featuring an alpine tundra climate with a treeline around 4,400 feet and average snowfall of 280 inches; it also hosts the Mount Washington Observatory since 1932 for subarctic research. It holds notable records, including the Northern and Western Hemisphere's highest measured surface wind speed of 231 mph in 1934, hurricane-force gusts on over 100 days per year, a record low temperature of -50°F in 1885, and a wind chill of -108°F in 2023. Visitors should heed stark warnings about the mountain's dangers, as more than 161 fatalities have occurred since records began in 1849, with falls being the most common cause, often exacerbated by rapidly changing conditions, poor preparation, and hypothermia.


At 6,288 feet atop Mount Washington, my photo of my AEV Prospector and Four Wheel Camper stands out sharply against the stark backdrop, the lighting dramatically different due to the thinner atmosphere, about 20% less dense than at sea level, which reduces haze and scattering, resulting in deeper blues, crisper shadows, heightened contrast, and more saturated colors. With less dust, moisture, and pollutants in the air, the light feels cleaner and more intense, giving the scene a vivid, almost surreal clarity that makes the image appear strikingly luminous and hyper-real compared to shots taken at lower elevations.


As I drove north and finished section six, I rolled into Gorham, NH. First, I located a Ram dealer for an oil change, then a side-by-side (SxS) rental shop that also offered showers for $0.25 per minute. It had been weeks since I'd enjoyed a long, warm shower, so I took full advantage. Finding showers on the road can be challenging in remote areas, where your main options are campgrounds or truck stops (if you're near an interstate). In towns, check YMCAs, gyms, or other unexpected spots - I've showered at a hair salon in Arizona, a public pool in Texas, and now an SxS rental shop in New Hampshire.


Section seven of the NEBDR is 176-miles long and becomes more rugged and remote as I press on towards the Canadian border, opportunities for food and fuel are becoming even more sparse now. It begins in Gorham, New Hampshire, heads east through a notch in the mountains crossing into Maine, turns south and east for a bit, and then shoots north ending in Rangeley, Maine.


Rangeley, Maine - I had been there decades ago for military training. It was in February, and the snow in the mountains was so deep we had to wear snowshoes. The average daytime temperature was in the single digits, and every night was below zero, with one night recorded as the nation's low at -30°F. This is the first time I had thought about that location in a long time, and as I drove closer, I could feel those deeply rooted, fear-based memories slowly surfacing.

At first, I tried to distract myself with tasks, such as listening to a podcast or checking my navigation. But as darkness fell and the distance between me and that place closed, the gates in my mind opened, and a flood of memories and emotions overwhelmed me. Time spent in the Resistance Training Laboratory produced some of the highest recorded levels of cortisol ever documented in humans. We spent nearly a week in that phase alone. I’m talking about levels higher than someone undergoing major surgery or a skydiver making their first jump, but even worse. We were starved, exposed to sleep deprivation, forced into stress positions, endured torture in the form of soft-cell and hard-cell interrogations, sensory deprivation, sexual humiliation, mock executions, etc. The Officer In Charge of the school had been a POW in Vietnam for seven years and was permanently disfigured.

Some students experienced mild environmental injuries, such as frostbite, while others suffered physical injuries like sprains or broken bones. One student, years before I attended, even broke his back; a close friend, Larry had his jaw broken and was removed from training. Over the years, there were a few deaths - heart attacks and even suffocation, we were young healthy men in our prime. Psychological injuries were also common, including dissociation, sensory distortions, and severe psychological stress. I suspect we all experienced different levels of these effects.

One thing is for certain: every man is a changed man after completing that training. There's no discharge in the war!

 

[johanh13]

North East Backcountry Discovery Route

Part Five of Six​

Unfortunately, for several reasons, it looks like I will be the only person to complete the entire NEBDR, and the details that surround the group breaking apart don't really matter at this point. I'll simply state that a member of the group with presumably good intentions began to invite several other vehicles to join an in-progress adventure and I was the first to peer into the future and call it for what it was - a failed plan. If we meet on the trail someday and are sitting around a fire sharing stories, I'd be happy to walk you through step-by-step and identify where things began to fall apart, and more importantly, why.
View attachment 90852

So here I was, alone with 350 miles to complete, and time was no longer a consideration. I decided to slow the pace down significantly, stop more, walk around the area or hike a short trail, listen to the river and the trees, feel the cool crisp autumn air sting my face, and watch a fallen leaf carried away by the swift current. This is what I came for.
View attachment 90853

Since I frequently travel alone in areas without cellular service I carry an assortment of recovery options. I carry four Maxtrax MKII traction boards. Maxtrax are lightweight, durable traction boards (also known as recovery boards) invented in Australia in 2005, made from UV-stabilized, engineering-grade reinforced nylon. Primarily designed for off-road vehicle recovery, they feature aggressive cleats for grip, ramped ends for easy tire access, built-in handles, and shovel-like undersides. They're compact (13 inches wide and 45 inches long), stackable, and weigh around 5-6 lbs each. While their core purpose is vehicle extraction, Maxtrax are versatile tools for off-roaders, campers, and adventurers. Here are some of their uses: (1) Vehicle Recovery - Place under spinning tires to provide instant traction and allow the vehicle to "climb" out by idling forward. (2) Terrain Bridging and Obstacle Navigation - Stack or link boards to create temporary ramps, bridges, or steps over gaps, ledges, or uneven ground. (3) Camping and Leveling - Use flat or stacked to create stable platforms for uneven parking.
View attachment 90854

The Rocky Gorge thundered below as she stepped into the frame, its white water swallowing every sound. Sixty feet away across the churning mist, she looked straight at me and asked without a word: May I be in it?

I nodded, lifted my hand in a clear thumbs-up, and watched her shoulders ease with understanding. Then I opened my palm, fingers pressed together, holding it steady in the air like a silent command - stay perfectly still - and she did, her soft body poised on the jagged rocks as the shutter stretched seconds into silk. When the final frame clicked shut, I gave her another thumbs-up, and she answered with a heart-stopping smile before I slipped away down the trail, leaving behind only the echo of our wordless collaboration and a photograph that holds the moment we both decided to make something beautiful together.
View attachment 90855

Near the end of section six of the NEBDR, I tackled the forbidding ascent of Mount Washington State Park in my sturdy 4.5-ton adventure vehicle. At the base around 1,500 feet, conditions felt deceptively warm and serene, with balmy breezes and golden leaves setting a welcoming tone for the journey ahead. My 6.4L HEMI engine delivered a deep, resonant rumble, steadily powering me through the eight-mile unrelenting climb to 6,288 feet, where each twist and turn built a rush of adrenaline - equal parts fear and excitement. As I gained elevation, the scenery unfolded in surreal splendor: distant mountains veiled in hazy blue, with wispy clouds drifting by and the sky taking on a vast, otherworldly quality, as if I'd entered a different realm. Then, transitioning into the stark alpine zone above about 4,500 feet, where trees thinned into resilient shrubs amid exposed granite, the captured photo gazes up the winding road toward a sharp curve flanked by a sheer rocky cliff that plunges into seeming oblivion, heightening the sense of perilous adventure. Yet, upon reaching the summit, the calm below surrendered to biting cold and relentless gale-force winds, a raw reminder to bundle up against the mountain's unpredictable fury.
View attachment 90856

Mount Washington, the highest peak in the Northeastern United States at 6,288 feet, has a rich history dating back to its first recorded European ascent in 1642. Named after George Washington in the late 18th century, it became a tourist destination in the 19th century with the establishment of the Crawford Path in 1819 (the oldest continuously maintained hiking trail in the U.S.) and the Mount Washington Auto Road in 1861. Scientifically, the mountain is renowned for its extreme weather due to converging storm tracks, featuring an alpine tundra climate with a treeline around 4,400 feet and average snowfall of 280 inches; it also hosts the Mount Washington Observatory since 1932 for subarctic research. It holds notable records, including the Northern and Western Hemisphere's highest measured surface wind speed of 231 mph in 1934, hurricane-force gusts on over 100 days per year, a record low temperature of -50°F in 1885, and a wind chill of -108°F in 2023. Visitors should heed stark warnings about the mountain's dangers, as more than 161 fatalities have occurred since records began in 1849, with falls being the most common cause, often exacerbated by rapidly changing conditions, poor preparation, and hypothermia.
View attachment 90857

At 6,288 feet atop Mount Washington, my photo of my AEV Prospector and Four Wheel Camper stands out sharply against the stark backdrop, the lighting dramatically different due to the thinner atmosphere, about 20% less dense than at sea level, which reduces haze and scattering, resulting in deeper blues, crisper shadows, heightened contrast, and more saturated colors. With less dust, moisture, and pollutants in the air, the light feels cleaner and more intense, giving the scene a vivid, almost surreal clarity that makes the image appear strikingly luminous and hyper-real compared to shots taken at lower elevations.
View attachment 90858

As I drove north and finished section six, I rolled into Gorham, NH. First, I located a Ram dealer for an oil change, then a side-by-side (SxS) rental shop that also offered showers for $0.25 per minute. It had been weeks since I'd enjoyed a long, warm shower, so I took full advantage. Finding showers on the road can be challenging in remote areas, where your main options are campgrounds or truck stops (if you're near an interstate). In towns, check YMCAs, gyms, or other unexpected spots - I've showered at a hair salon in Arizona, a public pool in Texas, and now an SxS rental shop in New Hampshire.
View attachment 90859

Section seven of the NEBDR is 176-miles long and becomes more rugged and remote as I press on towards the Canadian border, opportunities for food and fuel are becoming even more sparse now. It begins in Gorham, New Hampshire, heads east through a notch in the mountains crossing into Maine, turns south and east for a bit, and then shoots north ending in Rangeley, Maine.
View attachment 90860

Rangeley, Maine - I had been there decades ago for military training. It was in February, and the snow in the mountains was so deep we had to wear snowshoes. The average daytime temperature was in the single digits, and every night was below zero, with one night recorded as the nation's low at -30°F. This is the first time I had thought about that location in a long time, and as I drove closer, I could feel those deeply rooted, fear-based memories slowly surfacing.

At first, I tried to distract myself with tasks, such as listening to a podcast or checking my navigation. But as darkness fell and the distance between me and that place closed, the gates in my mind opened, and a flood of memories and emotions overwhelmed me. Time spent in the Resistance Training Laboratory produced some of the highest recorded levels of cortisol ever documented in humans. We spent nearly a week in that phase alone. I’m talking about levels higher than someone undergoing major surgery or a skydiver making their first jump, but even worse. We were starved, exposed to sleep deprivation, forced into stress positions, endured torture in the form of soft-cell and hard-cell interrogations, sensory deprivation, sexual humiliation, mock executions, etc. The Officer In Charge of the school has been a POW in Vietnam for seven years and was permanently disfigured.

Some students experienced mild environmental injuries, such as frostbite, while others suffered physical injuries like sprains or broken bones. One student, years before I attended, even broke his back; a close friend, Larry had his jaw broken and was removed from training. Over the years, there were a few deaths - heart attacks and even suffocation, we were young healthy men in our prime. Psychological injuries were also common, including dissociation, sensory distortions, and severe psychological stress. I suspect we all experienced different levels of these effects.

One thing is for certain: every man is a changed man after completing that training. There's no discharge in the war!
View attachment 90861

Wow, what an adventure you are living!

 

[ramblinChet]

Useful information posted at another unrelated forum:

You make a good point, @FAW3. I recall one of the team members mentioning, before we parted ways, that I likely would not be permitted to drive my truck to the summit. To confirm, I reviewed the vehicle restrictions on their website and found the following:

• WEIGHT LIMITS - The weight limits below are referring to passenger and luggage weight, not the weight of your vehicle. These are approximate numbers used as guidelines.
  • Full size car or wagon: 1,000lbs
  • All minivans: 1,000lbs
  • 1/2 ton van, pickup or SUV: 1,200lbs
  • 3/4 or one-ton van or pickup: 1,800lbs
• VEHICLE SIZE RESTRICTIONS
  • Maximum wheelbase on any vehicle: 176 inches
  • Maximum width on any vehicle: 93 inches including mirrors (mirrors may be folded in to achieve this width)
  • No pickups with permanent additions that extend wider than the cab (campers, rack bodies, or very wide mirrors)

Based on these criteria, my setup fell into a gray area at best - and likely did not comply at worst. I was prepared to discuss the matter politely, noting that while the weight limit for a one-ton truck was 1,800 lbs, my total load was 2,489 lbs (using only 55% of my available payload of 4,529 lbs), and the limits were described as “approximate numbers used as guidelines.” Regarding size, my camper did extend wider than the cab, yet its 80-inch width was well under the 93-inch maximum.

As @Pacific Northwest yetti suggested, I encountered a lenient gate guard on a warm, sunny day. After a brief inspection of my rig, he allowed me to proceed up the mountain. Before I drove off, he cautioned me about brake overheating and recommended descending in first gear using engine braking to minimize brake use. Out of respect, I followed his advice precisely. The ascent was slow and steady but uneventful. The descent, however, felt interminable; I pulled over multiple times at available turnouts to let faster vehicles pass. With the windows down, I repeatedly smelled overheated brakes from other vehicles - a clear reminder that the downhill journey was no trivial matter.

Should I return someday, I will most likely take the train. The climb was manageable, but the prolonged descent demanded constant attention to avoid over-revving the engine or overheating the brakes.

Bonus photo from atop Mount Washington: Here is how one of the small structures was engineered to withstand the extreme winds.

 

[ramblinChet]

North East Backcountry Discovery Route

Part Six of Six​

Fall in New England doesn’t whisper; it roars in silence, every tree shouting for attention before the first hard frost strips them bare. My truck and camper slipped into a tunnel of molten gold - birch and maple blazing overhead, leaves drifting like slow embers onto the granite crystal metallic hood. I kept the windows cracked, let the chill nip my knuckles on the wheel, and eased along just fast enough to burn the color into memory before the forest turned the page.


My peripheral vision caught it first: a sagging Ford Bronco II, plates yellowed and expired in ’99, parked nose-first against a cabin that had surrendered to moss and rot. I killed the engine and stepped out; the forest swallowed the echo. A few tires still held air but had sunk six inches into the duff, roots already threading through the wheel wells. I circled the house - shingles curled like old fingernails, windows punched out by weather or boredom. When was it built? 1940s? A summer place once, maybe - kids chasing fireflies, a wife humming over a cast-iron stove. Then the years: children gone, marriage cracked, or worse. Did he drive out here alone, park, and never leave?

How many more seasons before the roof caves, the walls fold, the forest reclaims the clearing? One day the property will grow over, and nothing will mark that a man once called this home, or ended here. The thought settled cold and clean: everything passes, but tonight the ruin still stood, and I was the only witness.


This final alternate hard section of the NEBDR demanded commitment, and I tackled it solo. The ten-mile stretch split into two distinct halves: the first maintained, the second wild and unmaintained. Deep in the forest, I’d pause at every sign to read and absorb its message. This one looked official, yet it cited no state or federal statutes, so I pegged it as likely temporary - perhaps posted by a private crew working in the area. With no gates blocking the way, I pressed on cautiously: windows down to catch the thump of rotors, eyes sweeping the horizon across open fields. The section ended without incident.


The Diode Dynamics LED lights now stabbed into the void, a cone of light swallowed by a wall of trees that pressed in from both sides. No moon, no glow, just the low growl of the HEMI engine and the faint crackel of tires on gravel when I paused to listen. A city street at night hums with life - porches lit, TVs flickering behind curtains, the soft pulse of humanity. Even country roads parcel the dark with mailboxes and distant barn lights every few miles, quiet promises that someone’s near. Here, the forest erases all of it: no silhouette of a house, no mailbox, no backup. One mistake and the night may own you - you must be prepared to get up, dust off, reload, recalibrate, reengage, and go out on the attack.


With the NEBDR’s final few miles still looming, I turned off the main track onto a faint spur a local had sketched on a napkin back in town hours ago. My RAM 3500 growled over washboard until the trees broke open to a hidden lake pressed hard against the Canadian border. No sign, no number, just black water ringed by spruce and the faint glow of dusk. I eased onto the gravel shore, killed the engine, and let the silence flood in. This was my last night on the trail.


Morning arrived in layers of mist. I stirred to birds trading calls across the water, watched the fog lift in slow curtains as the sun edged over the ridge. Steam rose from my cast iron skillet while the lake turned from pewter to gold. In that quiet, the truth settled: after all these miles, the trail would end today. If you chase the backroads alone, push past the last signpost and trust the silence, you’ll wake to moments like these - yours, free, waiting on any shore you dare to find.


These final miles slipped by in silence - no radio chatter, just the steady thrum of the road below. The end of the trail was creeping closer than I cared to admit, so I eased off the gas and pulled over twice: once to fire up the diesel cooktop for bacon and eggs at noon, again at dusk to warm a pot of chili while the sky turned rust. No hurry, no blueprint for the day after hitting the border. I’d gone lone-wolf days ago, refusing to detour when the team bailed; they’d promised Starlink pings with lat-long texts so I could catch up. Nothing came - just empty signal and the long road ahead.

This trip’s quiet lesson: stretch a journey, savor the solitude, and trust our own compass when the rest go quiet. Push your rig to the edge, linger in the dust, and you’ll find the trail ends on your terms.


I arrived at the Canadian border late at night, pulled up to the chained gate, and stepped out of my vehicle to see if anyone else was around. After traveling 1,556 miles through seven states - completing the NEBDR alone, two weeks after starting with others - here I was, shrouded in darkness with no one to share the moment.

I sat for a while, engine idling, lost in thought. My mind snapped back to my first helicopter deployment as an Aviation Rescue Swimmer. The radio crackled “Red Lion 615, A-7 in the water, fly heading…” - and I was already moving: five-point harness unbuckled, helmet off and heading aft before the words finished. In a blink I was rigged - summer wetsuit top, UDT shorts, harness, SV-2 vest, mask, fins, dive knife, radio, strobe - ready.

The airframe rattled like it might tear apart as the pilots shoved past the 120-knot NATOPS redline. Seconds later AW1 Nelson kicked a Mk 58 flare; its bloom marked the raft while the 243.0 MHz beacon screamed in their headsets. We overflew the target, banked hard, and I sat hanging out the cargo door. The helo bled speed, shuddering from forward flight into hover - then glass-smooth, it was time to go. Nelson slapped my chest, freed the gunner’s belt, and hammered three taps on my shoulder while screaming “Jump, jump, jump!” I dropped into the black, the fall stretching forever before the slap of water disoriented me - up, down, gone. Surfacing, the rotor wash hammered like a hurricane from the 10-ton beast forty feet above. I craned up, locked eyes with Nelson leaning out, signaled okay. The helo peeled away, leaving me alone.

Time froze as I floated amid the deep ocean swells. I cleared my US Divers mask, cinched the straps on my Rocket fins, flipped over, and peered into the endless black depths below. I prayed as I began to swim towards the raft - I had work to do, and I was here to make it happen. That night at the border echoed the same truth: as men, we're built to tackle virtually any task thrown our way, relying on nothing but our own grit and resolve.

Und die Vögel singen nicht mehr...

 

[Rockcrawlindude]

Hopefully you copy/paste all of this into a book eventually

 

[ramblinChet]

Over the past two months, I have operated my Modular Energy System (MES-K470) solely on solar power, without relying on a DC-DC converter or shore power. This experience has confirmed that the system I designed, built, and installed effectively meets most of my requirements. Although my research indicated that typical solar installations on Four Wheel Campers range from 160 to 300 watts, my calculations suggested that a 500-watt system would be optimal for my application, even given my relatively low power consumption. After reviewing my research and calculations multiple times, I proceeded with the 500-watt installation as planned. I am glad I did, as reflections on discussions with other Four Wheel Camper owners over the past several years reveal a common dissatisfaction: their systems consistently deplete faster than anticipated.

The system has successfully cleared the first of three major operational hurdles - performance during extended adventures in forested and mountainous terrain under tree canopy. Two hurdles remain: operation during winter months and extended operations at a fixed campsite.

(1) Forests and mountains under tree canopy during extended trail navigation: This scenario proved challenging, as I often drove at 10–20 mph through dense tree tunnels, where the solar panels received a dynamic mix of shadows and intermittent sunlight. It served as an excellent test of the MPPT controller's ability to handle rapidly fluctuating light conditions. I gained valuable insights and continue to fine-tune the system for such environments.

(2) Operation during winter months: Short daylight hours and low sun angles pose significant challenges here. Based on my recent experiences, I am confident the system will perform well in the open deserts of the Southwest. However, areas like Florida and other southern states with dense evergreen foliage may present difficulties. The ultimate test could be along the Canadian border in January or February - perhaps a trial to schedule for 2027.

(3) Extended operations at a fixed campsite: This will be particularly intriguing, as campground stays often involve parking under tree cover. I suspect this is due to the preference during peak summer camping seasons to avoid direct sun exposure, which can make open areas uncomfortably hot.

Returning to recent lessons learned: I began noticing a gradual downward drift in the State of Charge (SoC) several weeks ago. The battery would no longer reach 100% before transitioning from bulk to absorption mode - initially stalling at 99%, then 98% - even on bright, sunny days. Reviewing the Victron Energy BMV-712 manual, one section piqued my interest.

First, a brief review of charge controller modes for context:

(1) Bulk: The MPPT controller delivers maximum available current to rapidly recharge the battery from a low SoC until it reaches the absorption voltage (typically 14.2–14.6 V for LiFePO4 batteries).

(2) Absorption: The controller maintains a constant voltage (e.g., 14.4 V) while the current tapers off, filling the final 10–20% of battery capacity.

(3) Float: The controller holds a lower voltage (e.g., 13.5 V) to keep the battery topped off without overcharging, compensating only for self-discharge and minor loads.

The following three screenshots from the Victron Energy BMV-712 battery monitor app on my phone provide further insight (Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie from left to right for reference). In Alpha and Bravo, the voltage rises quickly to 14.39 V during the transition from bulk to absorption. Notably, Alpha reaches only 96% SoC (abnormal), while Bravo achieves 100% SoC (normal). After one hour in absorption at approximately 14.4 V, the system shifts to float mode, with voltage dropping accordingly.

I attribute these variations to an adjustment shown in Charlie: increasing the Charge Detection Time from 3 minutes to 10 minutes. This requires the system to meet three criteria for 100% SoC recognition: (1) voltage above the Charged Voltage threshold of 14.2 V, (2) tail current below 5% (10 A in my setup), and (3) sustained conditions for at least 10 minutes. When I initially designed the MES-K470, I anticipated that the bulk of the effort would involve design, construction, and initial testing. As a newcomer to this field, however, I am discovering that substantial work remains in the system optimization phase. It will be fascinating to determine, over the next several years, whether diverse applications (e.g., forests, deserts, summer, winter, southern vs. northern latitudes) necessitate tailored settings or if a single general configuration suffices for all.

 

[ramblinChet]

Here's a post from an unrelated forum I wanted to add:

@Mekcanix - Feel free to use this as you wish. Although most assembly information for these components was sourced from manufacturer manuals and professional publications, download and review the originals yourself. This provides deeper insight into component expectations, limitations, and interactions. When performance deviates or behavior changes abruptly, knowing where to start troubleshooting is essential.

Below are rough rules of thumb for an average system:

• Identify your primary power source
  • Solar: wild camping in open areas
  • Shore power: campgrounds
  • DC-DC: multi-hour drives for weekend camping
• Size the system to your requirements
  • Battery bank
    • 50–100 Ah per day of camping
    • 50 Ah for light loads with alternate sources (solar, shore power, etc.)
    • 100 Ah for heavy loads with no or limited alternate sources
  • Solar system
    • If primary source: 2–4× battery bank capacity
    • Example: 200 Ah battery bank with 500 W solar (2.5×)
  • Shore power
    • Basic system: 15–20 A
    • Heavy system (AC, microwave): 30–50 A
  • DC-DC
    • Backup to solar or shore power: 30–50 A
    • Primary for weekend camping: 50–100 A
• Premium products and services yield higher performance and safety
  • Components: Victron, REDARC, etc.
  • Wire and lugs: ANCOR, Pacer, etc.
  • Accessories: Blue Sea Systems, Marinco, etc.
  • Use the correct tool for each task
  • Engage top-tier installers (rare but available)

Here is a photo of a M134 mounted to the starboard side of a UH-1 Iroquois:

 

[ramblinChet]

Trans Maine Overland Trail

Part One of Three​

After years of chasing backcountry routes across the country - from the Appalachians to the Southwest deserts, Great Plains to coastal dunes - the Trans Maine Overland Trail (TMOT) stands out as a raw traverse through Maine’s remote interior, stitched together by forgotten logging roads, mountain passes, backcountry paths, and moose-haunted forests, where cell service fades and self-reliance takes over for hundreds of miles of moderate, immersive wilderness travel. The TMOT offers two routes: a 373-mile (blue) west-to-north path from the western border to the state’s northern edge, and a 237-mile (green) eastern expansion connector that extends the journey to Maine’s eastern tip. I have chosen the 373-mile west-to-north route, which ends farther north than the entire province of Nova Scotia.


Much of the TMOT passes through the North Maine Woods, a 3.5-million-acre privately owned timberland - one of the largest undeveloped forests east of the Mississippi. These woods offer unparalleled solitude for overlanding, hiking, camping, and wildlife viewing among dense forests, pristine rivers like the Allagash, and abundant moose, bears, lynx, and loons, with access via gated checkpoints and modest daily fees. For solo travelers like me, its remoteness heightens risks: tire punctures from shale or studs can strand you without cell service; fuel runs dry on 200-plus-mile gaps, demanding jerry cans and careful planning to avoid walking in bear country; wildlife threats include defensive moose charges, bear camp raids, or winter coyote packs; add black flies, flash floods, hypothermia, and zero emergency services - making recovery gear and a filed itinerary essential for survival.


The first full day on the trail was uneventful, yet I savored the fact that easily ninety-five percent of my time was spent on logging roads and dirt two-tracks. There is a deep, quiet joy in piloting a rig all day through a fall-drenched forest at a deliberate twenty miles per hour - windows cracked, heater warming my boots, the rhythmic crunch of BFG KO3s rolling over gravel and packed dirt the only soundtrack. No traffic, no horns - just golden light filtering through turning maples and clean, resin-rich air flooding the cab. The slow pace unwinds the mind, lowers cortisol, and resets the nervous system; studies show even brief immersion in natural soundscapes and negative-ion-laden forest air slashes stress hormones, sharpens focus, and lifts mood - proof that this solitary, low-speed cruise is not merely travel, but therapy on all-terrain tires.


I spent the first night in the forest, rose early, and prepared another of my signature breakfast sandwiches on the diesel cooktop: bacon, eggs, Swiss cheese, a dab of Duke’s mayonnaise on a potato/Hawaiian roll - followed by a tall glass of vitamin D milk and another of orange juice. A fine start. Around lunchtime I rolled into Rockwood near Moosehead Lake and paused at a boat ramp to enjoy warm sunlight, fresh air, and a beautiful view. I liked it so much I stayed two days.


Just under a mile due north of where I camped stood Mount Kineo, a striking 700-foot rhyolite peninsula thrusting dramatically from the deepest heart of Moosehead Lake - Maine’s largest. For Indians, the site served as a sacred summer ground and premier flint quarry; for European settlers, it became a Gilded Age playground, home to the opulent Mount Kineo House hotel, which in the late 1800s hosted up to a thousand “rusticators” fleeing urban heat.


Studying my map, I realized this was likely my last opportunity to top off fuel tanks before pushing north to the border. With that in mind, I drove twenty minutes south to Greenville, filled up on water, gasoline, and diesel, and passed Currier’s Flying Service, which offers sightseeing flights in seaplanes. I considered booking a short flight but decided to leave it for another visit; I am certain I will return to Moosehead Lake. Another reason weighed heavier: I had somewhere far more important to be, a place that had occupied my thoughts for days.


Greenville, Maine - a classic lakeside town of 1,500 on the southern tip of 118-square-mile Moosehead Lake - serves as the gateway to the North Maine Woods and the departure point for ferries to Mount Kineo. Known for its small-town charm, vibrant fall foliage, and outdoor outfitters, it offers float-plane tours, historic Katahdin steamship cruises, and a welcoming mix of diners, craft breweries, and gear shops - making it the perfect launchpad for overlanders, paddlers, and hikers heading into the wild.


The gravel road ends at a small clearing, and I kill the engine. Silence drops like a curtain - no birds, no wind, just the low hum of memory in my ears. I step out, boots crunching on dry leaves and cold stone, and the sign reads “B-52C Crash Site, January 24, 1963.” My pulse answers before I do. Thirty-three years after my own wreck - metal folding around me at night - the air here still smells of fuel and pine, though I know the scent is not real; it is only my mind stitching old wounds to new ground.


I follow the short trail through birch and spruce. Twisted aluminum glints between the trunks - ribs of a bomber that sheared apart when the vertical stabilizer snapped in turbulence. A wing section lies half-buried, moss creeping over stenciled letters that once spelled a call sign. I kneel, run a finger along a jagged edge, and feel the same cold jolt I felt when flesh and bone met metal and the world vanished. Seven crewmen perished here; two parachuted into the January night and survived. My own survival had been quieter - no ejection seat, just leather and luck - but the arithmetic is identical: one moment you are flying, the next you are alone counting heartbeats in the dark.


At the memorial plaque I sit on a fallen log. I close my eyes and let the truth settle. This place is not a graveyard; it is a mirror. The pilots felt the airframe betray them the way fate betrayed me - sudden, absolute, unfair. Yet the forest swallowed the wreckage and kept growing, indifferent yet generous. I breathe in the cold, exhale the old, and for the first time in years the scar tissue and steel in my bones feel less like armor and more like grace. I kneel, pray for those who perished and for those who lived yet still carry the burden, and walk back lighter, though the weight of memory lingers. The mountain does not absolve; it simply reminds us of that great gig in the sky.

 

[Brutal_HO]

Dam it's dusty in here.

 

[ramblinChet]

Trans Maine Overland Trail

Part Two of Three​

Overland travel in the North Maine Woods means stopping at every staffed checkpoint - Telos, Allagash, Clayton Lake - to register, pay fees ($13–$18 day-use, $12–$15 camping), and pick up a Land Use Permit. Only high-clearance rigs under 48 ft combined length (motorhomes ≤28 ft) are allowed on the private logging roads - no ATVs, UTVs, motorcycles, bikes, or horses - and loaded trucks have absolute right-of-way. Camping is designated sites only, 14-day limit, pack everything out, and open fires need a Maine Forest Service permit. Watch for real-time closures (like Wadleigh Rd, Nov 6–7), expect sudden weather (May snow, freezing nights by mid-September, 30-inch November storms), boil all water a full minute for Giardia, and keep repellent and head nets for black fly season (late May–July). No through traffic to Canada - exit the same gate you entered.


I travel through time across these United States mostly as an observer - listening, taking notes, sometimes a photo. One truth keeps showing up: in towns with a shared blood and belief, life runs slow, easy, and smooth. I get why Maine votes the way it does - they’ve got little to fear, living in one of the most homogeneous corners of the country: 93% non-Hispanic white, deep Protestant roots in the soil. The villages I’ve rolled through are still fishing or lumber camps - families with Anglo-Saxon names, Congregationalist churches, and that old Yankee streak of doing for yourself. They run on selectmen, small schools, Calvinist lessons, and quiet New England rules: work hard, waste nothing, help your neighbor.


I rolled out of Twenty Mile Checkpoint and turned east onto the Golden Road - 96 miles of private gravel built for pulp and profit, stones popping under my tires as the forest breathed around me. Ten years ago I never pictured this: walking away from the office, the fake life, the blue-pill script - and choosing the red pill instead. Now everything is real - the dust in my nose, the bounce of the truck, the smell of pine, no filters. I kept glancing at the map, watching for Caribou Checkpoint, then the left onto Telos Road. Figured an hour north to the Telos gate, and after that - nothing but deep woods to Canada. No towns, no signal, no gas, no stores, maybe not even another rig. Just me and the trail.


The dome light in my AEV Prospector barely cut the dark as I spread the creased North Maine Woods map across the console, lines flickering under the maplight. Behind it, GAIA GPS glowed a useless green smear - no signal, just land and water, mocking me as the odometer clicked past the last known point on the Trans Maine Overland Trail. I was alone, miles from any checkpoint, and the choice to leave the route for the Ghost Trains sat heavy in my chest. The paper showed nothing but blank forest ahead. I should’ve downloaded the high-res layer back in Rockwood when I had bars. But the legend was calling. I killed the light, let the engine growl, and rolled into the unknown.


Headlights carved a shaky tunnel down the two-track, gravel pinging the skid plates as I crawled at 10 mph - every rock a threat, ready to repeat the nightmare of Five Tribes Overland in Texas, where a thumb-sized shard of limestone punched my tread at dusk, or the Flint Hills in Kansas, where chert left me stranded in a thunderstorm. Here, the road was barely a suggestion, occasional ruts deep enough to swallow a tire, shadows hiding sharp edges. The slow pace sharpened the nerves - forest pressing in, evergreen scent thick through the vents. One hand on the wheel, the other holding the map, I just kept praying the 37s would hold.


An hour of stumbling through black spruce - path gone, roots grabbing boots, branches clawing sleeves - finally spilled me into a silent clearing where the Eagle Lake tramway locomotives lay half-buried in moss and moonlight. Dozens of miles from any light or voice, the night was absolute. I set the camera on a fallen log, opened the shutter for thirty seconds, and swept the Surefire 6PX PRO across rusted boilers and broken couplers, painting the Ghost Trains in silver streaks. In the long exposure, they appeared - two iron hulks side by side, wheels and track sunk into the earth, air so still I almost heard the phantom whistle of loggers lost when the trestle collapsed in ’33. Then the light died, the shutter clicked, and the forest took it all back - leaving only the afterimage of iron ghosts and the quiet certainty that some legends wait for the lone traveler to find them.


When the team broke apart on the North East Backcountry Discovery Route, the disappointment cut deep - a small death of shared maps and campfires. But the old truth held: Deus vult. What looks like ruin is often God’s quiet preparation for a beauty we couldn’t draw ourselves. Now, driving alone under this second-growth canopy - trees thirty, forty feet high, straight and young after the last cut - I see the mercy in the scattering. He broke us so I could find Him here, in the hush of a forest rising again, every sapling whispering that nothing is wasted in His design.


I’ve been tracing the Trans Maine Overland Trail for five or six days now - time slips when some legs I run by sun, others by star, and if a lake or ridge feels right, I’ll park for a day or two just to take it in. Night driving has become my rhythm - the headlights open tunnels where the wild comes alive. Moose, bears, foxes, owls - they all move freer after dark, unbothered by human eyes. Tonight, that truth charged ahead of me: a rut-crazed bull moose, antlers wide as my outstretched arms, galloping down the dirt track, grunting, thrashing brush, searching for cows in the fall madness. I eased off the gas, kept my distance, and let the ancient dance play out in his dust - proof that the deeper you go into the North Maine Woods, the more the wild decides when you’ll meet it.

 

[dieselscout80]

Dam it's dusty in here.

But oh so dusty cool.

 

[ramblinChet]

Trans Maine Overland Trail

Part Three of Three​

There is a weight here, an ancient, muscular force that no human hand could tame - water that has carved granite since the glaciers retreated, pines that have stood through centuries of storm, and stone that will outlast every tire track I leave behind. In this wild place the earth still speaks with the same voice it had on the morning of creation, raw and magnificent, reminding me that the same Hand that flung these rapids into being also shaped the mountains and set the seasons in their turning. All of it - every crashing wave, every blood-red maple, every breath of cold air off the water - was made for us, His children, not merely to use but to meet, to stand before in silence and feel something of the immense love of our Father who spoke such power into existence and then, in His kindness, invited us to camp beside it, light a small fire, and listen.


After four years and over 100,000 hard miles on nearly four dozen expedition trails across these United States, my AEV Prospector remains mechanically sound, yet the mileage now dictates a comprehensive service: full inspection of steering, braking, and suspension components, replacement of plugs and all filters, and complete fluid changes for the transmission, transfer case, differentials, power steering, and brakes. Given the remote and extreme environments I routinely operate in, I will perform this work myself to personally verify every torque specification, fluid specification, and component condition - eliminating the elevated risk of failure thousands of miles from help. Experience has shown that dealership labor rates of $175–$195/hr, flat-rate incentive structures that prioritize speed, and the common practice of assigning fluid-and-filter jobs to junior technicians collectively increase the probability of overlooked details that can manifest as critical failures under heavy off-road loads; from a pure engineering and risk-management perspective, direct personal execution is the most reliable path to sustained operational readiness.


The modern LED headlights of my rig throw stark white light across the weathered planks of the logging bridge as I ease to a stop above the Allagash, roll down the windows, and shut off the engine. In the sudden silence the river speaks - a low, steady hiss of black water sliding beneath the timbers. I close my eyes and for a moment time collapses: Thoreau and his Penobscot guide paddled this reach in 1857, Henry David Redding poled lumber down it a generation later, and for centuries before any road penetrated these woods, birchbark canoes carried Penobscot families, French trappers, and early settlers along this same liquid corridor. Roads and four-wheel drive are efficient, but water was long the only practical highway through the North Maine Woods. One day I’ll return, trade steel and rubber for a packraft or canoe, and run the full 92-mile Allagash Wilderness Waterway the way it was designed to be traveled - downstream with the current, camping on gravel bars, letting the same ancient river that carried so many before me carry me quietly home.


For most of the 19th and early 20th centuries, this was the heart of Maine’s great logging era. Each winter, crews from Bangor headed north to cut spruce and pine on the Allagash, St. John, and Penobscot watersheds, living in remote camps through sub-zero nights. In spring, when the ice went out, the rivers turned into moving carpets of logs - millions of board-feet floating downstream, guided by fearless river drivers who broke jams and rode the logs through rapids that swallowed the careless. Those drives ended decades ago, but the woods are still actively and carefully logged today, and the same rivers that once carried timber now draw those chasing solitude. It’s a working forest that still feels wild.


When I rolled up to the Telos Checkpoint a few days ago and told the attendants my destination was Fort Kent - due north on the Canadian border - they exchanged glances and asked if I really meant to take the paved route via Ashland. I said no, I intended to drive straight north through the heart of the North Maine Woods on the logging roads. Their worried expressions said it all. I asked how many miles lay ahead; I’d last filled up in Greenville over 100 miles earlier and my gauge was already dropping. They couldn’t give a precise number - no one, they said, really drives that direct line. Studying the map, I estimated 100–125 miles of remote gravel to the final checkpoint, with another 30 miles still to go before Fort Kent. It would be close, but my calculations showed I’d roll into town with between 1/8 and 1/4 tank remaining, plus two full Wehrmachtskanisters in reserve. The 6.4L HEMI never faltered, and when Fort Kent finally appeared, the fuel needle was exactly where I’d predicted. Mission accomplished.


The man behind the Trans Maine Overland Trail is Justin, the heart and soul of 207 Overland. A Maine native who grew up driving every back road he could find, he spent years quietly piecing together the TMOT from thousands of miles of personal 4x4 exploration. What drives him is pretty simple: he wants more people to feel the magic of the deep North Woods the way he always has. When I finally rolled into Fort Kent, tired, dusty, and grinning after finishing his trail, I got to meet Justin in person. Shaking the hand of the guy who drew the map I’d just followed across half the state felt like the perfect ending to the adventure, one overlander welcoming another home.


After a week of dust, gravel, and jerry-can math across the TMOT, I rolled into tiny Saint Francis and pulled up to the Forget Me Not Diner, a classic north-woods eatery that feels like it’s been here since the river drives. I’m sitting in a booth and have not showered or changed clothes since Rockwood; and the waitress (who’s probably seen every hungry logger and overlander who ever limped in here) slides over a steaming plate the size of a hubcap: golden fries buried under fresh cheese curds and a dark, peppery gravy that smells like victory. One bite of authentic Maine-border poutine and every mile of that 400-mile gauntlet suddenly feels worth it. This, I decide between mouthfuls, is the real finish line.


There is a violence in convenience: it quietly removes every reason we once had to be strong, alert, resourceful, and grateful. Tap water erased the skill of finding a spring; supermarkets erased the prayer over a successful hunt; electric heat erased the nightly ritual of laying tomorrow’s firewood. We traded mastery for ease and called it progress, but the soul keeps its own ledger. Out here, where the cell signal dies and the nearest light is the one you make yourself, the ledger balances again. You feel it the first night you fall asleep exhausted but complete, the first morning you drink coffee boiled over a fire you built with your own hands. So here’s the warning and the invitation at once: go find a piece of country big enough to swallow your excuses, turn the truck off, and stay a while. Fish for supper, sleep under stars, let the wind comb the softness off you. Trust that you are still the same animal your ancestors were - tougher than you’ve been allowed to remember. You will wake up. And the only real risk is that you might meet the man you were supposed to be all along - and decide you like him too much to ever go back.

 

[flan]

I’m thrilled to read about your adventures in the NMW. I’ve dabbled in there hiking little kineo entering at kokadjo and hiked the same path to the B52 memorial.
The ghost trains have been on my list for a while, in another year and a half I’ll have the freedom to live out more adventures and the NMW are full of them.
Did you return through the same route or take paved roads to a new destination?

 

[ramblinChet]

I’m thrilled to read about your adventures in the NMW. I’ve dabbled in there hiking little kineo entering at kokadjo and hiked the same path to the B52 memorial.
The ghost trains have been on my list for a while, in another year and a half I’ll have the freedom to live out more adventures and the NMW are full of them.
Did you return through the same route or take paved roads to a new destination?

The North Maine Woods are a must see for anyone who loves the outdoors and I am already looking forward to returning. I struggled with where to go after completing the trail and will share the details in a day or two.

For now, I just placed an order with AEV and knocked off one maintenance item - the OEM chrome capped lugs are showing their age so I'll give these a shot:

 

[ramblinChet]

Loring Air Force Base

Limestone, Maine​

Loring Air Force Base (AFB) is located in the northeastern corner of Maine, approximately 5 miles west and south of the international border at New Brunswick, Canada, and 400 miles north of Boston. Major components of the base include the airfield, the Alert Area, and the Weapons Storage Area (WSA). Pursuant to the recommendation of the 1990 Defense Base Closure and Realignment Commission, Loring AFB was closed in September 1994, and currently is in caretaker status.

Building 8250 (Arch Hangar) The Arch Hangar was the first major structure built at Loring to serve Strategic Air Command’s core mission: holding the Soviet Union at risk with instant, overwhelming retaliation. Completed in 1951, it set the pattern for rapid, all-weather maintenance of heavy bombers on an Arctic frontier base. Its 340-foot clear span sheltered crews working through −40°F nights so the alert force could launch within minutes.

Historic American Engineering Record, Creator, et al., photographer by Bates, Jeff.​

Building 8250 (Arch Hangar) At the time of construction it was the largest monolithic concrete arch roof in the United States. Engineers poured an inverted catenary shell only 5 to 7 inches thick across a 340-foot gap, divided into six independent 50-foot segments to handle thermal movement. The formwork rode on rails and jacks, sliding forward as each new bay cured - an audacious ballet of concrete and steel performed on bedrock in the dead of a Maine winter.

Historic American Engineering Record, Creator, et al., photographer by Bates, Jeff.​

Building 8280 (Double Cantilever Hangar) The Double Cantilever Hangar was the crown jewel of Loring’s flightline. It remains the only hangar on the base that could swallow five B-36 Peacemakers wingtip to wingtip, or later three B-52s with room to spare. Built in 1954, it anchored the maintenance complex and embodied SAC’s demand for bigger, faster, unobstructed space to keep the nuclear fleet combat-ready around the clock.

Historic American Engineering Record, Creator, et al., photographer by Bates, Jeff.​

Building 8280 (Double Cantilever Hangar) Ninety-five-foot trusses cantilever out from central supports with zero visible columns inside the 250 × 600-foot bay. Arched longitudinal trusses give full height clearance while ejected caisson foundations resist frost heave. The design is so precise that even after seventy years of neglect the roofline has not sagged or swayed a fraction of an inch—an engineering poem written in steel and concrete.

Historic American Engineering Record, Creator, et al., photographer by Bates, Jeff.​

Between Pennsylvania and Georgia Avenues the barracks stand hollow, windows punched out like missing teeth. Birch and goldenrod have conquered the basketball courts where airmen once played under floodlights at 2 a.m. Vines climb the fire escapes; the steam heat is long cold. Yet if you stand on the cracked sidewalk at dusk you can still catch ghosts of floor wax, Brasso, and burnt dayroom coffee drifting on the wind. The Maine forest is patient; it reclaims one shattered pane at a time.


They were nineteen, twenty, twenty-one - handed the codes to apocalypse and told to act like adults. Inside these same crumbling walls they pulled alert, slept with go-bags under the bunk, and tried to look calm when the klaxon screamed at 0300. They flew chrome-plated bombers to the top of the world and back, then landed to cheap beer and Lynyrd Skynyrd blasting from Building 1308. They thought the Cold War would outlive them. Instead the buildings they cursed every winter are outliving the war itself, while the forest grows through the floors where they once stood inspection.


Building 262 (South Sentry Post) This seven-foot concrete cube, poured in 1952, once housed a single armed guard watching the weapons storage area. Narrow horizontal slits ring the top for vision and, if necessary, rifle fire. A small heater kept the sentry from freezing while he stared across snowfields toward whatever might come out of the north.


Building 260 (Storage Structure A) From the outside it looks like a plain two-story warehouse - blind windows, blank walls, a deceptive entrance porch. Step through the heavy steel door and you descend into fortress-thick concrete: a 10-foot-wide outer wall, a dog-leg corridor, and four vault rooms lined with shelving once reserved for nuclear weapon components. The upstairs was never real; it exists only to fool reconnaissance satellites passing overhead.


Building 272 (Plutonium Storage Building) Built in 1955 and nearly identical to 260, Building 272 hides its true purpose even better. The entire above-ground “building” is a concrete mask - fake windows, fake doors, fake second floor. The real entrance is a basement stair on the east side leading to another 34-foot corridor and four vaults buried beneath the lie. Even the forest seems to respect the deception; trees grow right up to the blind walls but never quite touch them.


Bunker 251 (Weapons Storage Area) The blast door hangs half open like a broken jaw. Inside, bare concrete sweats in the damp air where steel racks once cradled hydrogen bombs nose-to-tail. The only marks left are faint scuffs from bomb carts and the chill that never left. This cavern kept Armageddon chilled to exact specifications for decades. Now it is only absence - an echoing vault heavier in silence than any warhead it ever held.

 

[ramblinChet]

Trans Main Overland Trail - East Extension

Part One of Three​

After knocking out the 373-mile western-to-northern (blue) leg of the Trans Maine Overland Trail, I pointed south down U.S. Route 1 from Fort Kent, chasing warmer air. For a moment I daydreamed about following that highway all the way to Key West someday, but the maps spread across the passenger seat had a better idea: the 237-mile (green) eastern extension that would carry me clear to Maine’s wild edge. That felt right.


Nothing says rural Maine like an honor-system roadside stand - eggs, pumpkins, and a wooden box for cash sitting alone in the sun. These little outposts only work where people still trust one another without cameras or locks, a quiet remnant of an older, more homogeneous America. They were once everywhere; now they survive in pockets where theft is still rare and neighbors remain neighbors.


First time I hit the Golden Road–Telos Road junction, the North Maine Woods felt like another planet: endless gravel, black spruce walls, that old bridge rising out of the fog like a gate to nowhere. I crept through it half-crouched, an intruder. Weeks later I rolled back in and the same dusty crossroads greeted me like an old dog that remembered my scent - the rusted mailbox, the crooked “Telos 7” sign, even the same axle-eating pothole. Suddenly the wilderness wasn’t indifferent anymore; it felt almost protective, as if it had decided I belonged.


Just before the hard turn east to Big Ambejackmockamus Falls, the river charged north in a boiling riot of whitewater, hurling mist and thunder against the rocks. I followed a rough trail back through the spruce until the falls themselves exploded into view - only then did I raise my camera, frame the chaos, and let it drop again. No image could carry the roar in my ribs or the cold spray on my face. Some beauty demands to be met raw. The falls stay hidden behind a dark wall of spruce in the picture below, and I’m keeping it that way. Go find them yourself someday; if you can’t, send a kid you love and let them bring the sound back in their own breathless words.


Back when I punched a clock, meals were an annoying interruption - four quick bites and back to the grind, blind to what I was throwing away. What a fool. Now I light the diesel cooktop just to hear its soft roar, slice meat slowly with my father’s Randall knife while birds welcome me to their living room, and sometimes I pause as a single leaf lets go overhead, drifts down, and lands with a soft kiss that begins its quiet return to soil. Slow down. Make the meal the main event. Take longer than you ever dared, chew until the flavors confess, and remember why you were given a body in the first place.


She rises alone, Katahdin - black-blue granite throne of the north, catching the first fire of morning long before the rest of us wake. From my southern ridge she loomed like a cathedral built by glaciers in the Hands of God, knife-edge ridge slicing the sky while the foreground blazed: maples bleeding crimson, birches spilling molten gold, stubborn oaks still clutching emerald, and the pale bones of ash already singing winter. The Penobscot is born in her shadow, the Appalachian Trail dies at her feet, and every October she wears a wilder crown than any king ever forged. Look long enough and time itself pauses, bows, and steps aside for this ancient queen who outshines every ruby autumn dares to offer.


Pushing east along the East Extension, I rolled into Millinocket as fog lifted off the lakes and stopped at the old seaplane base - home of Katahdin Air Service - where red-and-white floatplanes sat tied to the dock like bright birds dreaming of flight. I stood on the ramp breathing avgas and pine, watching beavers glide beneath the floats, and made a promise: one day I’ll climb aboard, let them drop me deep in the green heart of the North Maine Woods, shoulder a canoe, and paddle out under my own power. After stocking up on meat and potatoes in the little town that still calls itself “Magic City,” I rolled south to Lincoln, fueled up, and slept on the shore of Mattanawcook Lake at the public landing, windows cracked to the loons, dreaming of that future flight.


The lake that night lay so still it stole the sky and wore it like a second skin - perfect impossible blue stretching down into the water where every tall pine stood upside-down, spires touching root-to-root with their twins beneath the surface. For one breathless moment the world doubled itself in quiet glory, and I just sat letting the reflection remind me that some beauty only exists when everything holds still long enough to look at itself.


Deeper into the hush of Redington Forest on Bryant Ridge Road, the track suddenly stopped at five massive, moss-laced boulders planted like a giant’s knuckles across the path - no sign, no warning, just the quiet finality of a trail that had closed its door. The big BDRs would have a dozen detours posted by supper; these small, private woods roads belong to fewer tires and wilder moods. That’s the deal: there is no right or wrong path, only the one in front of you and the one you choose next. Obstacles aren’t insults; they’re invitations. And the farther you go, the truer the only rule rings out: never quit. I killed the engine, stepped into the cool spruce silence, and started walking the edges, smiling, because the forest had just made the day interesting again.


I found the faint go-around soon enough - a narrow green tunnel marked only by the thin scars of side-by-side tires, nothing the width of a full-size truck and camper. I walked it first, boots sinking in moss, brush clawing back the moment I passed, a half-mile of overgrown maybe until the boulders faded behind me. But the question hung like woodsmoke: would another wall of rock wait on the far side, and if it did, would the forest leave me room to breathe? I stood there listening to a raven laugh overhead, then climbed back in, fired the 6.4L HEMI, dropped into two-low, and nosed the rig into the green throat. Branches scraped paint like slow fingernails, saplings bent and sprang back, and I eased forward into the unknown, smiling at the only certainty I carried: whatever waited ahead, I still haven't found what I'm looking for.

 

[ramblinChet]

Trans Main Overland Trail - East Extension

Part Two of Three​

I probably jumped the gun pushing straight into the East Extension right after finishing the west-to-north spine. The ridges, the spruce corridors, even the mud all mirrored what I’d just left behind, and the spark of new-country excitement refused to catch. Don’t misunderstand; I was still eating the miles alive, but the scenery was running the same checksum, a predictable side-effect of saturating yourself in one wilderness quadrant. Yet out there alone, when the repetition grows almost oppressive, the old instruments pick up something else: a rational order beneath the sameness, a harmony that humbles you and, at the very edges of hearing, the whisper of a darker reckoning with what you carry inside.


Most of my traverse is solo, a deliberate drop of the signal-to-noise ratio to damn near zero so every sensor can run wide open: raw light, uncompressed sound, stone biting into palms, snow tasting of granite and sky. Out here the world is 100 % load-bearing reality - no render layers, no synthetic aperture lies. Mountains mass in gigatons, coywolves howl with living lungs, resin and salt air no chemist has ever counterfeited cleanly. Inside the city grid the same bandwidth is choked with counterfeit photons, eight-millimeter marble veneers over steel skeletons, fragrance labs pretending woodsmoke never came from fire. The contrast is structural: one will hold your full weight in the dark, the other collapses. I’ve run that test a thousand nights under open sky. Only the real earns trust. Give me the unfiltered nature; I’ll pitch my shelter there.


Eastbound, the terrain clamps down hard: canopy lowering, brush thickening, air going cold and salt-heavy; every gauge swinging at once. The longer you log hours under open sky, the sharper the old instruments read; pressure drop, leaf angle, bird silence, scent vectors; data streaming straight into the spine like it once did for every man who ever walked upright. That native firmware used to run as quietly as breath. Now I scan the modern grid and most units are blind, needles frozen under layers of concrete and signal bars while the forest broadcasts urgent reports in ten languages at once. I keep moving, letting the wild zero the dials back to factory true.


The trail dives into Passamaquoddy Indian Township Reservation (sovereign ground, 200,000 acres of tribal forest and wetland), just nature standing guard over seasonal beaver floods that can swallow a pickup. When the track ahead disappears under brown water, I stop. To punch a vehicle through 2–3 feet of standing or slow-moving water: wade it with a stick to map the firm road crown, prep with 4-Low and diffs locked (if available), then enter at fast walking pace (3–5 mph) while holding 1500–2000 RPM. The gentle bow wave drops the water level at the grille by half a foot. Straight line, no sudden moves, steady throttle all the way to dry ground. Momentum without speed, torque without wheelspin.


From Calais I cut south along the coast, paused at Saint Croix Island to eat lunch and scan charts, then shot the unmarked causeway onto Moose Island and rolled into Eastport on pure hunch. What waited was the easternmost city in the States: a raw-knuckled fishing port lashed by twenty-five-foot tides, brick streets diving straight into the Bay of Fundy, sardine ghosts still owning the air. One uncharted vector, no preconception, and the wild handed me a hard, clean truth.


In the Bay of Fundy the tide does not rise; it is raised, salt water lifted by the moon, the moon itself swung by the earth, the earth by the sun, each mover moved, each power borrowed, until the chain ends where motion itself begins: in that single, unmoved Act whose essence is simply To-Be. Here the sea preaches more plainly than any disputation - I stand near the exposed harbor and know that every drop by drop, wave by wave, the ocean confesses what the philosophers labored to prove: all that is moved is moved by the First Unmoved Mover.


For two days Eastport’s quiet wharves turned carnival when a cruise ship taller than any local roof tied up and spilled passengers hungry for mustard-yellow statues, bronze pirates, waterfront art shacks, and the climb to Shackford Head. I traded trail miles for their sea miles; then later stood alone on the pier at dusk while ten decks of light eased away, running lights slipping into the darkness until the night swallowed them whole. For an instant I was twenty again on a super-carrier's fantail, watching foreign ports shrink to a single glow before the black water took everything but the wake; same engine heartbeat, same quiet lesson that every departure is just rehearsal for the final one.


The people of Eastport, and especially the Port Authority crew, were pure Maine gold: quick with a wave, quicker with local knowledge, zero attitude about a mud-spattered truck and a stranger asking a hundred questions. Sometimes I’ll see a scene and the shutter clicks almost before I decide. Later, back in my camper, I use my mind to lay the images out like puzzle pieces and watch a bigger picture assemble itself, one no single frame could ever carry. So get out there, wander without a script, burn a little gas and time, snap everything that makes the heart lurch, and then tell the story only your own scattered fragments can tell. The world is waiting for your version.


He sits in the worn-out pickup parked at the very end of Eastport’s pier, window creaked open to the salt wind, wire-framed glasses catching the low sun. The truck hasn’t moved in years and neither has he, not really; the engine is cold, the tires flat-spotted, but from that high cab he still commands the entire Bay of Fundy. Eyes sharp behind the scratched lenses track every roller marching in from the Atlantic. Hands that used to reef and steer now rest quiet on the cracked steering wheel, yet the sea knows its own: every flood tide licks the pilings beneath him like a faithful dog, murmuring the old promise that the day will come when the truck, the pier, and the worn-out body will simply dissolve into blue water and he will be underway again, bound for the deep horizon he never stopped sailing toward. And soon I will be free...

 

[ramblinChet]

I’m parked on a quiet pull-off along mid-coast Maine tonight, the Wallas Nordic DT diesel heater humming low in the Four Wheel Camper while the wind rips in off the Atlantic and the AEV Prospector’s thermometer sits at 32 °F. My ten-year-old North Face down puffy finally gave up the ghost last winter - baffles flat, loft down 30%, patched three times, and smelling like a campfire that lost a fight with a wet dog. I missed the spring clearance window (lesson re-learned: on the road full-time, you buy it when it’s in stock), so after weeks of weighing options from only the brands I’ve trusted for decades - L.L.Bean, Patagonia, Eddie Bauer, and Helly Hansen - I just ordered the Helly Hansen Men’s Verglas Down Jacket 2.0, 750-fill hydrophobic goose down, Pertex Quantum shell, under 9 oz shipped. It’s in the mail and due any day now.

Here’s the straight engineering truth after years of living in this stuff from throughout these United States: nothing beats premium down for warmth-to-weight and packed size. The Verglas will loft huge, disappear into its own pocket, and let me split firewood in a t-shirt at 10 °F while breathing better than any synthetic on the planet. The HyperDRY treatment means I won’t die if I get caught in a Maine sleet storm. But I also know the long game - repeated stuffing fractures clusters, salt air and body oils cook the fill, and in five to eight hard seasons of full-time use it’ll lose 15–20 % loft permanently. I’ll baby it: store it loose and give it the annual Nikwax bath.

Modern high-end synthetics would shrug off wet snow, stay warm when soaked, and probably outlast the truck, but they cost me 25–30% more weight and twice the space in a rig that’s already packed. For a full-time overlander who counts every ounce and every cubic inch, that’s a non-starter.

So yeah, I went down again. When that box shows up later this week, I’ll have the lightest, warmest insurance policy money can buy for another decade of winters, desert nights, and everything in between. Gear is life out here - and with the Wallas keeping the camper cozy, I’m already looking forward to breaking in the new Verglas the hard way.

 

[ramblinChet]

Solar System Monthly Validation Report – November 2025​

This report presents the system validation and verification results for my solar power system and battery bank after 91 days of off-grid travel. The sole power source consisted of two 250-watt solar panels (Rich Solar) connected to a solar charge controller (SmartSolar MPPT 100/30) and a 200 Ah battery bank (two LiTime 12V 100Ah Group 24 Deep Cycle LiFePO4 batteries). Neither the AC-DC charger (Blue Smart IP22 Charger 12V-30A) nor the DC-DC charger (Orion XS 12/12-50A) was used during this period. The objective was to evaluate the adequacy of the solar system and battery bank capacity to support off-grid travel demands.

System validation and verification for a vehicle’s solar-based electrical system involves confirming that the setup meets design specifications and performs reliably under anticipated operating conditions. Validation ensures the system addresses the intended purpose (e.g., providing consistent power for off-grid requirements), while verification confirms proper integration and functionality of components. This process is critical for my setup, where approximately 65% of operation occurs under forest canopy (reducing solar input) and 35% in semi-open areas with partial sunlight, enabling early identification of inefficiencies.

The histogram below illustrates the maximum state-of-charge (SOC) achieved by the battery bank during each 24-hour cycle. Over the most recent 30-day period, the maximum SOC ranged from 71% to 100%, with 21 days recording values between 90% and 100%. Although I did not log the specific times when SOC reached 100%, this value was frequently attained around midday. These results indicate that the system has sufficient solar capacity for most of November’s operating conditions. It will be valuable to assess performance during December and January, when solar input is typically lower. Overall, I am satisfied with these findings, as the system exceeded the design goal of providing sufficient power for seven days using solar energy alone, successfully delivering power for the entire 91-day period.



The histogram below illustrates the minimum SOC achieved by the battery bank during each 24-hour cycle. Over the most recent 30-day period, the minimum SOC ranged from 67% to 91%, with 18 days recording values between 80% and 91%. The minimum SOC was typically reached early in the morning, just before sunrise. During the system design, my goal was to ensure the SOC rarely dropped to 25%. The fact that the lowest recorded SOC over the 31-day period was 67%, with all other values higher, demonstrates the system’s robust performance.



The screenshot below, captured from the Victron Energy solar charge controller, displays the energy collected by the system over the past 30 days. The white portion of each column represents the percentage of time spent in Bulk charge mode, while light blue indicates the Absorption phase and medium blue denotes the Float phase. The data shows that the system reached the Float phase on half of the days. This indicates that the system was fully or nearly fully charged for approximately half of the time. On November 20–22 and 25-30, snowy and overcast conditions limited solar input, while on November 23-24 the system quickly recovered pulling in as much as 1.03kWh on a single day. Of special note is the fact that no solar energy was harvested on November 27-28 since my system is configured not to permit lithium battery charging when measured battery temperature is below 0 °C.


This data is associated with the chart above. I attempted to attach the CSV file to this post for further review but the uploaded file does not have an allowed extension.


I will periodically measure system performance and publish updates similar to this report. Evaluating the system’s behavior over the coming years will provide valuable insights into its long-term performance and alignment with design expectations.

Here are links to all previous reports:

2025	September
	October