If you're on your way out to the hills with an ice chest full of groceries and you get stuck behind one of those big ol' RVs with quippy names (The Voyage, The View, Wanderer) that insists on taking in every falling leaf and majestic redwood at 10 mph under the speed limit without pulling over to let you pass, you have two options:

You can, like your groceries, lose your cool and try to pass the RV on the scant stretch of road that's almost straight, one hand on your jiggling steering wheel and the other waving a majestic middle finger, scaring the tourists and whoever might be coming toward you in the opposite direction.

Or you can turn on the radio, find a station you like and play pretend. You're not a frustrated rural commuter with 20 miles of switchbacks between you and a waiting refrigerator. You're an explorer, an adventurer in a convoy of fellow adventurers making its way into the trackless wilderness, supplies and sundries strapped to our vehicles. None of us know what awaits us in the great unknown, where natives openly exhibit their unfriendliness by way of bullet-pocked signs and “no trespassing” notices. Reassured by the sight of our comrades ahead and behind we push relentlessly forward, propelled by a quenchless zest for discovery.

Remember: For us it's home. For the tourists it's a place they'd love to call home.