Story

Climbers' Paradise.  The warm, orange glow of the setting sun signaled the change in atmosphere that enveloped the desert cliffs of Smith Rock.  Tourists quickly followed the herd through well worn trails alongside the banks of the Crooked River.  Their clean, new, luxury vehicles waited to whisk them off to the nearest restaurant, where they would tell tales of their adventures.  The day might have been coming to a close for the average explorer, but the park was still alive with the familiar laughs and victorious roar of dirtbags enjoying every last ray of light.  As long as the walls were painted with the faint glow of the sun, there were still projects to be sent.  Calling it early, we headed back towards the entrance with the looming thought of a five hour drive overshadowing the joy of our newly ticked routes.  Dread quickly vanished as we approached the parking lot; I chuckled to myself as my eyes scanned the horizon.  Scattered before me, each and every vehicle that remained silently told its own story.  Vanagons from California painted every color of the rainbow held stories of travel across the great American west; old, beat-up RVs told tales of miserable breakdowns and joyous repairs; and new, fully loaded Sprinters brought forth signs of the modern age.  These vehicles were metaphors for their owners, sharing a bond forged over miles on the open road.  As the sun finally set in the distance, I leaned against my own house on wheels, I was home.