Photography- Photographer David Waschbusch
The route matters because the comfort has to be reached the hard way
The road is worse
than anyone says.
Loose stones.
Deep ruts.
A washboard stretch
that rattles the dashboard,
Dust rises behind the tires,
lingering long in the air.
You pass a broken fence,
a hand-painted arrow,
as if nothing ever truly registers.
When the steam finally rises
between scrub and rock,
the body already knows
what waiting can bring.
The springs are warm, yes—
it’s this very road that strips the day’s weariness, layer by layer,
so you can feel it, properly and true.