Every mile on the map is a blank page when the family piles in around the camping wagon. Kids decorate the steel frame with stickers from roadside diners, while parents stash snacks, hoodies, and the dog’s leash in the same canvas walls that once carried beach toys. At the trailhead, the wagon transforms into a treasure chest: binoculars on top, picnic blanket beneath, juice boxes wedged between wheels that have become honorary family members. When little legs quit, the empty cart turns into a royal chariot, giving rides back to camp where stories are traded like currency. Evening popcorn smells better when the kernels tumble inside the same wagon that hauled firewood, and constellations feel closer when viewed lying side-by-side in the wagon’s bed, heads touching, voices quiet. Years later no one recalls the exact mileage, yet everyone remembers the squeaky wheel that sounded like laughter echoing down every dirt road.