"Gaddafi is dead" he announced, clutching a small battery operated radio. He’d introduced himself the previous evening as "SuperDave". Heading south towards Santa Barbara for the winter with dog Jasper. Explaining his faithful, if somewhat lethargic, friend preferred a steady seventy degrees. He was getting old.
The pair had been migrating south each winter for nine years. Thirty or so miles each day. Where did they normally stop each night, I enquired, knowing campgrounds were rarely that close together, and some were now closed.
Campgrounds aside, he explained, you could pitch on land, or behind empty buildings, provided there were no signs to preclude it – "Posted" or "No Trespassing". Never inside dwellings or structures. And not near schools.
