Until that “picturesque” dusting of snow isn’t a dusting. It’s a shroud, a silent, white curtain dropping on the whole play. Or that “lovely” coastal breeze, the one that smells of salt and freedom, turns into a humid, heavy, bar-knuckle fist. Suddenly, "storm surge" isn't an abstract term on the Weather Channel. It's a very real, very wet threat aimed directly at your axles.

Adventure isn’t just about where you go—it’s about how you get there. I’ve spent years piecing together overland rigs, finding beauty in the imperfect, the beat-up, the budget-built.