I've made notes of this to myself in journals before. And it's good advice, for those who wander, and live by camping. That at the first sign of any intrusion at your camp-spot, the place where you sleep, you leave to another spot presently. Because once intrusion begins, it only becomes more and more frequent.
And I have plenty of examples. When I first began to live like this, wandering, camping, I had to learn this by error. But error is perhaps the best teacher.
One day I would notice a footstep, or a snapt branch or stick. And I knew that someone had been at my spot while I'd been away. But I'd still stay.
And then a few days later, at the spot myself maybe, maybe taking a nap, or maybe setting-up for evening even, I'd hear people approaching. And I would jump-up and leave, or at least try to get as far away from my spot as I could, to fool them, the people approaching, so that they'd not know where it is I sleep. Because when you sleep, afterall, you are vulnerable. And despite so close-a-call, I still stay.
And then maybe a few more days pass, and I am just waking in the morning, still tucked into my sleeping-bag. And a man walking his dogs walks right passed me. So I pretend still to sleep, and he continues walking.
And still I stay. And now I even leave my bag at the spot in the day, only just slightly hidden, while I go to work. I return and notice a zipper on the bag open that I hadn't left open. And my knife is gone.
Or I see hunters. And I know they see me. But I return again later. And this time when they see me, they fire warning shots. But I move only a bit—I stay really. And they call the cops. And now a cop is waking me.
It's good to go when you live like this at the very first sign your spot has been discovered. Go because you can go. Always you should have other spots picked-out anyway which you can just easily go to for a night at least while you search for a new spot the next day.
But there comes a time I suppose when you won't go. When the spot you've found is perfect maybe. And this is of what I mean to write, the rest above being only a long-winded prologue.
Or maybe you are injured, and you can't go. And it's then that you must defend what you have—all you have, to be true. You don't go. You stay. You make them go. Then you start a revolution.
But that's life camping. But in other walks-of-life this occurs too. People defend their ways of life, from the rich to the poor.
A man won't be robbed again and again. Eventually, he'll buy protection, security, a gun perhaps. Cops, for example, protect the interests of the rich. They make laws, the rich, to protect their interests, their way of life, of which we are all then subject. And cops enforce.
A poor man has maybe a shotgun—maybe. And if people intrude onto his property,—or animals—wolves and coyotes and such—he shoots them. Or he makes-due with what he has, a poor man, maybe a broom or a stick he must use to defend his home. But defend it still he does.
Managers at a job fire an employee who stirs unrest. That employee makes the other employees question what it is they're really doing. And to stop that, the manager,—who you bet has a comfortable way of life, having only to hire and fire employees and keep a full staff than do any of the actual work themself—they fire the troublesome employee.
Even animals defend their spots. Dogs bark for example. Spanish dogs bark especially.
So what's the difference then? People generally own their own property perhaps. They've paid for it. They've sacrificed time for money. So they've given their lives then really to pay for that property. But camping, am I not paying too? Not with money, but even more directly I am paying with my life. I am risking my life for my camp-spot, so exposed to the elements, to cruel though lovely nature, to preditors, animal and human. I am paying too, to be sure, with my life. Have I no right then to defend my spot in the way that everyone and everything else defend their spot? I am born. I am free. I must have a place to sleep, even if I don't choose to pay for one—to give my life working in order to pay for one, more exactly—of which that, working in order to pay for a place to sleep, resembles slavery to me.