The Scout
I’ve been thinking a lot about the International Scout lately. Maybe it’s nostalgia, maybe it’s the way certain things just last, but there’s something deeper about this truck that makes it more than just a rad vehicle. It’s a relic, yes, but it also seems to carry a sense of universality that feels relevant in today’s fragmented world.
It’s more than metal and mechanics; the Scout has become a symbol of resilience and individuality, while at the same time connecting people through a shared sense of rugged adventure. As I explore this, I can’t help but wonder if it taps into something much larger—something like the idea of universal truths hidden behind the mask of culture, nostalgia, and our personal affinities.
The Scout, like any well-loved truck, seems to carry the spirit of freedom. It’s what we want machines to do: take us places we couldn’t go otherwise. There’s a pioneer vibe to it, a sense of exploration, both literal and metaphorical. But this opens up a wider question about the American ethos it’s born from—freedom of the road, freedom of choice, even freedom from modernity itself. Off-road, in its simplest form, represents the ability to see go beyond the boundaries set by society. This harkens back to Henry David Thoreau’s Walden, where retreating from society becomes an act of liberation. And yet, this very sense of freedom might carry within it an undercurrent of disillusionment. Is it still authentic freedom, or has it been commodified, repackaged, and sold back to us under a consumerist guise?
It's hard not to see how land—the very ground beneath our feet—has become a tool of control, a weapon wielded by the rich, by those who inherited or bought their way into power. In Canada, it's especially stark. The land, once a symbol of possibility and growth, now feels more like a prison—a gilded cage erected by a generation that has hoarded wealth, closed the doors behind them, and left the rest of us scrambling. What once symbolized freedom has turned into the chains that bind.
The Scout, that rugged, well-loved vehicle, embodies something that feels like it's slipping through our fingers: freedom. The kind of freedom that lets you go anywhere, that allows you to escape, to explore, to find new ground—both literally and metaphorically. It's what machines were supposed to give us: liberation from limits, an ability to break out of the molds of society, to live off-grid, off-road, beyond the boundaries that keep closing in around us.
But that spirit of exploration, of self-sufficiency, has been hijacked. The sense of freedom that the Scout embodies comes from a time when you could still dream of getting away, of going off-road in more than just the literal sense. Off-road meant independence from the grind, from society’s rules, from the tyranny of the rent-seeking landlords who have turned land into another form of control. The pioneer spirit that the Scout represents wasn’t just about conquering land, it was about being free—escaping the suffocating structures of control and finding something raw, something true.
But now, even that feels like it’s been sold back to us as a kind of lifestyle product. Can we ever really go off-road anymore? Every inch of land is owned, fenced off, rented out, commodified. The same people who inherited vast swaths of land—or bought it up through systems rigged in their favor—are the ones who’ve turned it into a weapon against society. Those “daddies,” those legacy types, sit on their thrones, extracting every bit of wealth they can while offering the illusion of freedom to the rest of us. The land is theirs, the roads are theirs, and the Scout’s symbol of freedom is another product in a world where even rebellion feels controlled.
There’s something profoundly tragic about it. The truck was supposed to take us to places we couldn’t go, beyond the boundaries, away from the suffocation of a society that places more value on capital than on people. But where can we go now? Every road leads back to the same system. Even off-road, we’re still driving on land that someone else owns, under rules that someone else sets, paying rent—if not with money, then with the very freedom we thought we were chasing.
In many ways, the situation calls to mind the thinkers of the Enlightenment (leaving Marx out of it—no need for that baggage). Rousseau, for instance, warned that as soon as someone said, "This land is mine," society began its descent into inequality and control. The idea of ownership, when taken to its extreme, becomes perverse—a way for those in power to dominate those without. Now, instead of land being a shared resource, a place of potential for all, it’s been hoarded, partitioned, and turned into an instrument of slavery. Those with control over the land control the people who live on it, and they’ve learned how to extract every drop of value from us—whether it’s through rent, mortgages, or the labor that keeps their system running.
There’s no true off-road anymore. Even the wilderness, those vast stretches of land that once represented untamed freedom, have been carved up, bought out, and turned into commodities. The land has been locked up by those who need it the least and sold back to us in small, unaffordable pieces. The rich “daddies” control not just the land but the very idea of freedom, packaging it into something we can consume, not something we can ever truly own.
It feels like a betrayal of the very idea of what Canada—or anywhere, really—was supposed to represent. The vast, open spaces, the wilderness, the promise that you could carve out your own piece of the world if you were willing to work for it—those ideas have been consumed by greed, turned into marketing slogans by the very people who’ve made it impossible for the rest of us to even dream of such a life. They tell us to work hard, to innovate, to go off-road, all while they sit atop the land, extracting wealth and controlling the narrative.
In that sense, the Scout is more than just a truck. It’s a symbol of what we’ve lost, of what’s been taken from us.
"What They Took"
This land, it’s not yours, never was. They took it, quietly, while you slept. You thought you were free, but freedom’s a lie they sold you with a smile.
You dreamt of open roads, but they fenced them off, paved over the wild, put a price on the dirt beneath your feet. And now you pay, every day, for a piece of something you’ll never own.
You run, but there’s nowhere to go. They built walls you can’t see, invisible lines that keep you in place.
The sky used to be free.
Now it’s for sale.
And the stars? They belong to someone else.
"Freedom for Sale"
You think you’re free, but freedom is rented, leased by the hour. And the cost?
More than you’ve got.
They sold you the dream, packaged it neat, slapped a price tag on it. You bought in, because what else could you do? But now you see, don’t you?
The dream is theirs.
The land, the sky, even your breath—it all comes at a cost.
And the ones who own it? They don’t care if you make it out alive. "No Exit"
There is no off-road. No wilderness waiting. It’s all been marked, mapped, and claimed. You thought you could escape, but there’s no way out. Just roads that loop back to the same place, over and over, until you can’t tell
if you’re moving or standing still. They told you there was freedom, but all you found were gates and signs that said keep out. "The End of It" You’re not free. You never were. But knowing that—that’s the first step.
They can take the land, the roads, the sky. But the truth? They can’t touch it. It’s yours.
Hold on to it.
when they come for that (truth), let it burn.
You think you're free? Look closer. freedom’s been butchered, bled out slow until it's nothing but a whisper, built to trap you.
And they—daddies at their backs, their hands in every pocket, touch what they can, smiles a goddamn joke on faces that haven't known hunger, or real fear. Signed their deal.
Yeah, them—never let you off-road.
There are fences you can’t see, till you hit them. Invisible, electric, searing your soul.
You want wilderness? It’s gone, mate. Paved over, the clever thieves in thousand-dollar suits turned the dirt beneath your feet, gold they’ll never touch. Want to own the fucking sky now, the stars while you were asleep
dreaming of road trips in a Scout, as if rubber on asphalt could save your soul.
In that voice, all gravel and goddamn truth: "There’s no road outta this, mate." No fucking road.
they built the walls first, let you wander gust just far enough to think you were maybe free.
But the fall, the rich fucks sleep, skyline’s lit by the fires of all we’ve lost, emerges—not the one you remember—not the one who saves—one who’s seen the truth & spits it back at the world. Like bile.
The shadows cling to because there’s no light left. sold that too. fucking pieces.
A sun auctioned off to the highest bidder. living on borrowed time now, the dark—not coming to save you. coming to burn it down. wrapped in blood and fury, rip the lies from their throats while they scream in boardrooms, reading bones, trying to be burying the past beneath marble floors. doesn’t care anymore,
Because no one else does.
Off-road—ha! a fucking joke. sold us that too. Freedom as a bumper sticker, a tagline on some commercial
’the Scout climbs a mountain’ wait,
doesn’t fucking exist.
They paved over it, condos there.
A Starbucks.
An office for the rent collectors, laugh every time you dream of dirt under your wheels.
Off-road, mate? There’s no road, there’s no off-road either. just a box, locked you in, every escape, imagine just another illusion, in glossy ads, by the bones of the dead who tried before you.
Look closer.
The dust on your boots? the dreams of all who thought, maybe i could walk out of this alive. here’s the truth: not free. never were. a cog, pawn, fucking commodity, in delusions of choice. land is gone, freedom sold. still you dream, it’s all you’ve got left, haven’t stolen that yet…
The freedom it represents feels more and more like an illusion. We’re driving, sure, but we’re not really going anywhere. We’re still stuck within the confines of a system that’s been built to keep us in place, to extract from us while making us feel like we’re free.
In the quiet corners of the city, where shadows gather and whisper, you walk alone. Each step echoes a story,
one of a thousand goodbyes. You've lost more than you can count—friends who drifted like autumn leaves, love vanished with the morning fog, family who slipped through your fingers like the last rays of the setting sun.
On the street, the light flickers, as if struggling against the inevitable dusk. You pause, watching as it battles,
knowing, like all things, it must fade. It’s in this waning light you see their faces, smiles preserved in the amber of memory, voices a gentle murmur in the breeze.
This city, with its ceaseless noise and relentless change, holds secrets in its heart. It cradles your pain, not to smother it, but to whisper a truth: you are not alone in your remembering. You move forward, carrying your tapestry of losses and loves, woven into the fabric of who you are. With each step, you accept the eternal cycle of light and shadow, of holding on and letting go.
Because in the heart of the city, amidst the whispered shadows, you've found a simple, profound truth: even in loss, there is beauty, in remembrance, a type of salvation.
The question now is: How do we reclaim that freedom? How do we break the cycle of control and commodification? How do we go truly off-road in a world where every road seems to lead back to the same place?
Maybe the answer isn’t in the Scout, or in any machine, but in the way we think about land, ownership, and freedom itself. Perhaps real freedom means reimagining the very foundations of society, rejecting the legacy of rent-seeking greed, and finding new ways to connect with each other and the world around us. Because as long as land remains a weapon, as long as it’s controlled by those who seek to dominate rather than share, we’ll never be truly free—no matter how far off the road we try to go.
