So much of the art of travel comes down to being able to appreciate things -- and not just freakish scenery.
Recently I camped out as far as I could go before reaching the orange signs about road work. I wasn't that close to the road but huge, belly-dumper trucks came by, one after the other, and blasted me with noise and dust. It doesn't sound like the greatest camping situation, but I actually enjoyed the entertainment show.
Later, I even told the road engineer that I enjoyed watching the show. He smiled.
And why shouldn't I? Gravel roads are superior to unimproved, dirt roads by a wider margin than paved roads are to gravel roads. There is something about a gravel road that charms. It pulls your imagination back to a not-so-distant past, a past that belonged to ancestors that you might remember from your childhood.
I didn't see the belly-dumpers disgorge the gravel, but presumably it was laid down about a foot deep. Then the grader pulls this cylindrical, smoother-outter to thin the gravel and embed it in the underlying dirt. Notice the big concrete blocks weighing the roller down.
And speaking of barely imaginable ancestors, why not think of your own boyhood as the ancestor of the man? Just think of the nostalgia of boyhood... of playing with trucks in the sand:
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| from oddhogg.com |
What a great photo that somebody took! Look how serious the Little Men are. They are completely engrossed in the importance of what they are doing. They are like dogs at a dog park, chasing each other or playing tug of war.
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After all, we use quotes and metaphors from famous writers if they fit perfectly with what we are writing at the time.