Rossmönster Baja Deluxe

     Like all small boys, I have an affection for trucks. 

     From when I was very small, and would carry a red rubber fire truck with yellow wheels in my hand at all times, as a general comfort object and ready distraction, something that could be rolled back and forth on any flat surface when an idle moment presented itself.
    To now, when I'll admire a shiny Mac the Bulldog hood ornament on a Mac truck, or the twin chrome exhaust stacks on a Peterbilt, or the man-size tires on an earth mover.
    We were pulling into the Stanley Hotel for lunch after an extraordinarily satisfying morning at Rocky Mountain National Park — Monday's column discussed that. My brother, who always knows what to do next, said that Guy Fieri has a place there, The Post Chicken & Beer, that we must try. I wasn't about to argue.
    That's where I saw it, passing through the parking lot gate ahead of us — you have to pay $10 to park at the Stanley. Their way, I suppose, of trying to both reduce and monetize curious Stephen King fans who want to rubberneck the locale of "The Shining." Taking your $10, they soften the blow by giving you a token good for $5 off your tab at The Post.

     At first I noticed the vehicle itself. How could you not? Just look at the thing. A brawny slab of custom gunmetal gray, with fog lights and rugged bull bars in front. Then I saw the name: "Rossmönster." My older son's name is Ross, and I tucked the term away for future reference, to give as a gift to my daughter-in-law. Not that he is in any way monstrous. Some guys are. Still, the word still might come in handy as a term of chiding affection. "Less Rossmönster, honey, more yes-dear-right-away..."

Chicken, biscuit and waffles.

     Lunch was everything advertised. I'm not really a fried chicken guy. But they did have a pork chop in burnt orange sauce that called my name. I have to admit, I felt a shiver of order-regret when I saw my brother's plate piled with grub. Two waffles and a biscuit. But he generously traded me a leg and a waffle for a hunk of chop, and neither of us left hungry. 

     First-rate food, and the bartender Joel — we ate at the bar — was friendly and efficient. Plus extra points for a new NA beer, Grüvi Golden Era (also with an umlat. What is happening to us? Are we all Scandinavians now? Or is this more of the synchronicity discussed here Tuesday?)
    Back in Boulder, I lost myself in the Rossmönster web site, watching videos about the truck I saw, the Baja Deluxe, a $444,611 custom camper built on a 5500 Ram pickup. 

     Seeing the vehicle, with its solar panels, front winch and Starlink, I initially assumed it was some kind of rolling armageddon bunker. But the marketing seems designed, less toward survivalists, than for those who want to blast across Joshua Tree in the most comfortable tent ever. The company was founded in Boulder in 2010, and the trucks are built there, which is cool. Rossmönster presents dog-friendliness as a core corporate value, including portraits of the shop dogs right after the staff. Hard not to like folks who do that.

     Co-found Ross Williamson includes a deeply sincere video tribute to his own late dog, Bubs, whose full body profile is the company logo. A well-crafted essay in loss that made my wife cry, at first the video struck me as something that one could possibly scoff at — I felt stirrings when I initially watched it — but then realized, when my own beloved Kitty goes, I will be completely devastated and who knows in what fashion I'll respond? Williamson's reaction — handcraft small boxes for Bubs' ashes to distribute to friends — is certainly unconventional, though the third time I watched the video I thought, "You know ... that's a good idea."

    I'm not in the market for a $444,611 mobile home (not as hideously expensive as it first seems, given that a luxury motorbus can set you back $2 million). But I thought I would toss Rossmönster out into the aether, for two reasons. One, as a reminder that people still build stuff in this country. And two, while public displays of emotion are generally frowned upon, particularly for guys, that rule is suspended when it comes to dogs, and for good reason.