I think I waited too long to start looking for a yurt. Yet here we are, a few days from The Long-Endured Big Outcome, and I want to hide out with a family-sized bag of chips, the cat boys and the Good Book.

In the search for the great escape, I discovered some darn sweet yurts without wi-fi and with bunk beds. I’ve always loved a good bunk bed, ever opting for the second story in case of a cave-in. Plus, if a bear should find his way inside, I figure he’ll go for the low sleeping fruit.

It’s fun to say “yurt.” It comes from the Russian word, yurta, which was apparently too hard to pronounce. Nomads have been using them for thousands of years. They may have the right idea of moving along every so often — perhaps prior to the next election.

Yurt walls have cool geometric designs on the inside. Can a bear or cougar tear through a canvas wall if they smell turkey sandwiches?

I found a yurt I liked the look of located on the bank of the beautiful Umpqua River. It’s available year-round and isn’t way up in the mountains where the snow flies and Bigfoot hibernates. Reddit tells me that Squatch doesn’t hibernate, but migrates, presumably to lower terrain as the weather cools and to locate a cozy pub somewhere. So, bears may not be the only challenge to my chosen location. However, BF may join me in a game of gin rummy over a hot toddy, and he doesn’t give a wilderness woof about the election. Cricket and Eddie, who have a bad habit of reading over my shoulder as I work, have vetoed extending the welcome mat to Bigfoot, so he’s out. I will be certain to let you know when I do this.

The week ahead lies like a field of dread starting with Daylight Savings Time ending and darkness descending with a curtain of gloom about mid-day. The cats and I get confused because it’s growing dark about nap time, then we wake seemingly in the middle of the night, but I should be fixing dinner, or so they tell me. Oh, well. More time for telling stories around the campfire. The week then proceeds through Election Day for which I’ve stocked an arsenal of earplugs, then forward to a dental cleaning — the pleasantest of the lot. I’d take a dozen cleanings, even if they’re playing country music, if I knew the election would mark the end of the disgusting memes and rhetoric and we could settle down, stop sucking our thumbs and losing friends, behave like mature adults and accomplish something positive. When did that last occur? Every time I chance upon a speech from the two main contenders, they’re calling names or worse, making scary promises about what will happen if they’re elected.

Recently, I naively commented to friend Lynn, “I think we’ll all be glad when it’s over.” She aptly replied, “Oh, you think it will be over? Remember the last time?” Then, I did. You mean the bloviating and rabble-rousing could continue? Are we living in the Wild West? Where is Marshal Dillon?

I cast my ballot today. I took it to the Eagle Point library drop box. I’m confident that it will get to where it will be properly counted. Yesterday, I spent at least two hours poring over candidates and propositions —occasionally taking a break with a game of solitaire or watching “Leave it to Beaver” (what would Ward do?)— trying to use critical brain-power to arrive at the right fully-darkened oval. I always second guess myself afterward, but I did my best and exercised my privilege. As I walked my ballot to the box, I felt that sense of thankfulness and relief that we live in a free country and that my contribution to the Big One was over for another four years.

Meanwhile, it’s still beautiful autumn. The leaves are giving us a late show of turning, and a pair of gray squirrels are leaping through the trees, barking at Cricket and signaling winter ahead with their nut-gathering. And finally, the blessed rain.