The day’s first emissary—a minibike—darted past, launched from the apocalyptic armada surrounding me. Another dawn for the captains, oft bearded and bellied like Toby Keith in a Frankenstein fever dream, reawakening their doomed creations with WD-40 and a Craftsman wrench. They are Gamblers with a capital G, living by their own car-centric lexicon and a meager rule set.
They are gearheads, sharp-witted jokers, iconoclasts who fix broken things—usually internal combustion engines. On this late June weekend in central Oregon’s high desert, they have congregated, 4,000 strong, as part of a sweeping movement to clean up trash-filled public lands. The weekend Gambler 500 event, also known as the OG 500 or simply Gamblertown, started small in Oregon just over a decade ago.
It’s grown into a massive gathering that’s equal parts Burning Man and Baja 1000. Participants modify vehicles of every sort—cars, trucks, vans, and even school buses—into all-terrain adventure machines. Some dress in outlandish costumes.
They venture into the backcountry to collect trash, have fun, and experience Mother Nature. Now there are Gambler chapters in every state, blending off-road rambling with environmental stewardship. Invariably these Gambler events draw allusions to the “Mad Max” movie franchise.
The oddest of vehicles—call them hoopties, beaters, or worse—sprout appendages like gnomes or spiders or even propane-powered flamethrowers, and it’s comforting to categorize them via a cultural reference point. The only problem is that the “Mad Max” films are packed with insane characters trying to kill one another. Gamblers, while prone to some crazy moments, are battling litter as the enemy, bearing banners for Sons of Smokey, the Gambler 500’s nonprofit wildlands cleanup arm.
An app (available to anyone) allows users to mark public-land dump sites, and drivers follow waypoints to remove anything from scattered trash to abandoned boats and recreational vehicles. No comprehensive report describes the extent or the costs of the trashing of U.S. public lands, though studies hint at the continuing problem. The federal Bureau of Land Management oversees about 245 million acres, primarily in 12 western states; there are millions more acres in state and federal parks and forests.
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