True North Thoughts

Tag: travel

  • The Calm After The Storm

    Morning: Small Routines, Big Responsibility

    January 26, 2026 started like any other winter day — salt in the back, coffee steaming in my hands, boots heavy with grit from yesterday’s plow. The wind bit at my face as I left the house, carrying the small routines that make life feel manageable while the world quietly prepares to punish you. On the news, they gave it a name: Winter Storm Benjamin. Thirty-six hours, they said. Like naming it made it manageable.

    I glanced at the fleet list. Five trucks. Two down. Three working. My chest tightened. Every route, every driveway, every expectation depended on nothing else failing. My phone buzzed with route updates, crew check-ins. I muttered under my breath, “Just make it through today. Just make it through today.”

    People say to rest before a storm. I couldn’t. My mind wouldn’t stop racing. I was responsible — not just for clearing snow, but for keeping the team moving, keeping the streets safe, keeping my family in the game.

    Midnight: Hopes Shattered

    By midnight, the storm wasn’t the only thing closing in. We still had two trucks, and for a moment, hope existed — fragile, but real. Maybe we could make it through without losing more ground.

    Then ten minutes later, my phone rang again. “Dad’s truck’s out.” My stomach sank. Two had become one.

    Before I could even process that, another call. My brother. Off a driveway, wedged between a tree and a light post, snow piling around him, waiting for a tow truck. One truck left. One. That’s all we had to carry the weight of every route, every sidewalk, every expectation still coming.

    I remember gripping the steering wheel, cold sweat on my palms, whispering, “Just keep going. You can handle this.” Panic hit like a punch to the chest, hollow and sharp, but the thread of determination refused to snap. What else could I do but move forward?

    The New Truck: Temporary Relief

    I was pulled off my route to retrieve the new truck — the one we had all agreed wasn’t ready for plowing. Not ideal. Not tested. But necessary. Snow whipped against the windows as I drove, visibility low, wind rattling the cab. I thought about the team relying on me, my father waiting for a tire replacement, my brother stuck, and the streets that needed clearing. There was no room to hesitate.

    Noon Monday — the truck was ready. Relief hit in brief flashes — chest loosening, shoulders easing just a little. I drove thirty minutes. It felt solid. Normal. I parked it and let myself believe, just for a moment, that maybe the worst was behind me. Foolish, maybe. But a spark of hope is always welcome.

    The Grind: Exhaustion Becomes Weight

    I slept seven hours because my body demanded it. Then I went right back out.

    Seven hours after parking the truck, I turned the key. Nothing. That hollow, almost-start — the pause where you bargain with an engine to come alive. It never did. Same problem. Same sinking realization. Towed. Again.

    I climbed into another truck. My shoveler never came back that night. From 7:45 PM Monday until 4:30 PM Tuesday, I kept going. Not fast. Not strong. Just steady. Snow crusted the plow edges. Wind rattled the cab. Exhaustion pressed into my bones. At some point, tired stops being something you feel and becomes something you carry, like a weight you can’t put down.

    4:45 AM Tuesday — my body finally demanded a reset. I pulled into a quiet parking lot, heart pounding, snow muffling the streets. Fifteen minutes. Eyes closed. Engine off. Just fifteen minutes of nothing — enough to remind myself I could survive another stretch.

    Recovery and Human Connection

    We survived. Everyone had been plowed twice. Sidewalks were still buried, still waiting, but we agreed they could wait until Wednesday. Sometimes “good enough” is all you have left. Sometimes it has to be enough.

    Tuesday night, I came home. Hot meal in hand. The smell of bread, the warmth of the kitchen, comfort I hadn’t felt in two days. I collapsed at 6 PM, out for eleven and a half hours. No dreams. No sound. Just rest. My body had shut itself down before my mind could catch up.

    When I woke, my phone told another story: thirty missed calls. Thirty voicemails. Over fifty texts. All asking about sidewalks. Pulling me back into the storm’s weight.

    Among them: a girl I’ve been talking to. Worried I might be hurt. Or worse. That hit differently. A reminder that while I was buried in responsibility, someone still cared about me. Someone saw me as a person, not just a worker. That human connection cut through exhaustion like a lifeline.

    Reflection: Lessons in Perseverance

    After another full day of shoveling and blowing, knowing tomorrow holds maybe four more hours before the paperwork begins — route sheets, notes, invoices — I feel every ounce of tiredness. But beneath it, a quiet thread of resolve hums. The snow will melt. The trucks will get fixed. Sidewalks will be cleared.

    And the news says another storm like this one is forming for the weekend. Another battle. Another stretch of relentless hours. But this time, I carry a small certainty: we’ll survive it again, like we did this time.

    I’ve learned something in these hours: surviving isn’t about perfection. It’s about showing up. About pushing through, again and again, even when your body screams no. About finding hope in the smallest moments — a hot meal, a text from someone who cares, a truck that finally starts.

    Even in the middle of exhaustion, with everything stacked against you, hope finds a way in. We’ll show up. We’ll endure. We’ll make it through. Again.

  • Just Under 4 months

    Today I was sitting at my computer, knocking out work for the family business, when I randomly found myself clicking over to the campground’s website. I don’t even know why—maybe I just needed something familiar. Something easy. Something that could pull a simple smile out of me for a minute.

    I started scrolling through pictures from last year. Campfires. Familiar faces. Kids running around like the world is nothing but fun and fresh air. Quiet mornings that don’t feel rushed. The kind of memories that hit you in the chest in a good way… and in a hard way, too, because you realize how much you’ve been missing them.

    And then I saw it.

    They announced they’re opening for the season on May 1.

    It’s just a date on a website. That’s all it is. But it landed like a jolt of electricity. Like someone flipped a light on in a room I didn’t realize had gotten dim. Four months sounds like forever until you say it out loud—just under four months—and suddenly it feels close enough to start picturing again.

    Because for me, it’s not just “camping.” It’s a whole rhythm. A routine that I look forward to in my bones.

    Fridays at the campground have always felt like a reset button. Even if the week is chaotic, even if I’m tired, even if life feels heavy—Friday comes, and something in me wakes up. The packing. The little checklist in my head. The “did we remember this?” back-and-forth. The drive up. The first turn into the place. That first moment when you step out and the air smells different—like pine, firewood, and summer trying to show up early.

    It’s the excitement of getting back to our site, unlocking the door, opening everything up like you’re bringing it back to life. It’s setting things up the way we like them, because that’s our little home away from home. It’s the first cold drink, the first “how was your week?” with people who feel like family, and the way the kids instantly turn into a different version of themselves—lighter, louder, happier.

    It’s the simple stuff. The stuff that doesn’t sound like much until you realize it’s exactly what you’ve been craving.

    I don’t know why this winter has been getting to me the way it has. I’ve never been the type to obsess over seasons. But this year has felt heavier—like the days have been dragging and my mind has had too much room to wander. The end of last year and the start of this one did a number on me. Things shifted. People changed. Some connections I didn’t expect to lose started slipping away before I even realized what was happening. And then my grandfather passed, and it felt like the year took one last piece on its way out the door. I’ve been carrying that around more than I’ve wanted to admit.

    So seeing “May 1” wasn’t just about a campground opening.

    It was a reminder that there’s still something ahead that feels like me. A reminder that there’s a version of life coming back that includes campfires, fresh air, family, friends, and nights where the world gets quiet enough for your head to quiet down too. A place where the noise doesn’t win. A place that doesn’t ask me to be anything other than present.

    Just under four months.

    Not tomorrow. Not soon enough. But close enough that I can feel it. Close enough to start looking forward again instead of just getting through the days.

    And maybe that’s what I needed today—not some big breakthrough or grand plan—just a date that proves the heaviness isn’t permanent. A little sign in the distance that says, keep going… you’re almost back.

  • The Slow Down I Didn’t Know I Needed

    In my free time, I enjoy a lot of different activities, but most of them share one purpose: slowing the world down for a little while. Life moves fast without asking if you’re ready for it. Work piles up, responsibilities stack, and before you know it, you’re going through the motions instead of actually living.

    Now that fall has settled in and winter is just around the corner, I find myself home more. The campground has closed for the year, and with it, one of the biggest sources of peace in my life has gone quiet until spring. The nights are colder, the trees are bare, and everything feels like it’s shifting into a different season — not just outside, but in me too.

    During the summer, the campground is my happy place. My family has a seasonal site, and every time I pull in, it feels like the weight of the week lifts off my shoulders. There’s something different about that place — maybe it’s the crackle of the fire, the smell of other families cooking dinner, or the sound of whatever musician is playing down at the field. Or maybe it’s just the freedom to step away from everything for a bit.

    Most weekends, I don’t even bother stopping at home after work. I punch out at 4 p.m., get in my truck, and head straight there. Those drives are the bridge between my busy week and the quiet I’m chasing. By the time I arrive, people are settling in, fires are being lit, and the whole campground feels alive in a way nothing else does. It’s one of the few places where I can truly exist without worrying about anything.

    What I love most is how simple everything becomes. I rarely even carry my phone, and if I do, it stays in my pocket. Life slows down. My thoughts get quieter. I can just be.

    But the last month of the season is always the hardest. You can feel the shift long before the gates close. Friends start packing up earlier. Weekends get quieter. The music stops. The fires burn out faster. It’s the beginning of the end, and every year it hits me the same way — a mix of gratitude for the memories and a heaviness knowing it’s almost over.

    I find myself wanting to squeeze every last moment out of that place. Every last fire. Every last night sitting outside under the stars. Every last breath of summer before winter takes over.

    Reflection

    The end of the season always makes me step back and think about why places like this matter so much. It’s not just the campground — it’s what it gives me. Space. Stillness. A break from everything that moves too quickly. As life shifts into winter, I’m reminded that finding moments to slow down isn’t a luxury — it’s a necessity. And while the campground sleeps for a few months, the peace it gives me stays with me, reminding me to find that quiet wherever I can.

    More to come soon.