Camp So Hard

We’re loose around the edges.  We’re starting to smell like human beings, not brand names. If I am not mistaken, Whitman himself chanted, “The scent of these arm-pits is aroma finer than prayer.”  Maybe ol’ Walt could give us some pointers on how to score some cavewomen in rut.   

It's all due to what Dad calls “guerrilla camping.”  There is a method to our crash-spot decisioning, and it could rightly be considered madness.  Yet it leads to places like this:

 I called this one “Motel Mountainsage” (Montana and Wyoming sport more sage bush than a female sadhu - ewww).  Dad lays down the base coat for all money-shot sayage-ings with, “They should pay us to sleep here.” Preach it!  I’ll pour out one more here for my homies - Glacier National Park’s very own crash bandicoot spot…

Someone said that the third times the charms, so here goes....

Yup.  It goes like such: ride one's face off till dark, find choice spot that one probably shouldn’t spend time in, and sleep at said choice spot.  It makes for a spontaneity and awesomeness, but can logistically, and literally, can be a pain in the ass (especially when you opt out of the ground-pad clause, like boy genius here).  It also serves to further our wookie aesthetic; while pulling out a nights worth of forest mange from my hair, Gareth crisply observed, “Dude, it looks like that tree came in your hair.”

Our sun salutations (which consist of eastward facing A.M. kidney-tapping sessions), river ecosystems killing baths, and baked bean-induced farts (which could tear a straight hole in the ozone layer - I guess that’s one way to find us) come across as an excessive celebration of the American spirit.  Yeah, I think that’s it; we’re just acting really American.

Yet there’s more to our vagabond tactics than grunge and guffaws.  Following the intuitive voice can turn a vacation into a journey, a joy-ride into a synchronistic exploration.  You sniffin' what I'm steppin' in?