And dust clouds swirl like nature’s crown,
The truck slows down, time shifts its gear,
That’s when we know that camp is near.
Each pothole tells a story sweet,
As gravel crunches ‘neath our feet,
Alan Jackson on the radio plays,
While civilized world slips away.
The old truck rocks from side to side,
Each bump and dip a gentle ride
Into a world where time moves slow,
Where wisdom has a chance to grow.
That first deep breath of mountain air,
When windows drop without a care,
Pine scent mixing with the dust,
Converting “have to” into “must.”
Round each bend, anticipation grows,
Past landmarks that each local knows:
The leaning birch, the lightning pine,
Nature’s markers, yours and mine.
The dashboard rattles like a song,
While stories flow where they belong,
Your voice mixed with the gravel spray,
Teaching lessons along the way.
Through puddles deep as morning light,
Past clearings where the deer take flight,
Each turn reveals another view
Of mountains painted wild and blue.
The truck crawls up each weathered rise,
While memories flood through windshield skies,
Of countless trips just like today,
When dirt roads showed us wisdom’s way.
Familiar washouts mark our path,
Where spring rains showed their gentle wrath,
Each rock and rut we navigate
Builds anticipation’s sweet, sweet weight.
The radio fades to static art,
As mountains take us both apart
From modern world’s incessant rush,
Trading chaos for evening’s hush.
That final hill before the bend,
Where cell phones lose their signal’s end,
Marks passage to a sacred space
Where peace has found its resting place.
Through mud or dust or dappled shade,
Down paths that generations made,
Each journey on these mountain roads
Lightens life’s demanding loads.
The truck knows well these twisting trails,
Where every journey never fails
To turn two hearts toward simple truth
Found where the dirt road shows its proof.
For here’s where real life begins:
When pavement yields to mountain hymns,
When dust clouds mark our slow parade
Into memories being made.
Each washboard stretch and muddy run
Brings camp life closer, one by one,
Till finally through the trees we spy
Our cabin ‘neath the mountain sky.
These aren’t just roads we’re traveling on,
But pathways to where we belong,
Where grandfather wisdom flows like streams
Down dirt roads made of mountain dreams.
And though the journey shakes us some,
Each bump brings transformation’s sum:
For when the dirt road takes its hold,
We find what’s worth far more than gold.
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