Chapter 1: On the Road Again

In October 2023, I wrote a Facebook post: 

"Two years ago, I sold my home and all my material possessions, except for my 2013 Mazda 3 hatchback and what I could fit in her. My life was uncertain; I didn't know what I was doing or where I was going. I became obsessed with the idea of adventuring, but given my financial circumstances, I didn't feel I could attain it. I told myself it would have to wait until I could afford all I thought I needed to live the lifestyle I envisioned. I pushed the impractical idea out of my mind but never out of my heart.

Shortly afterwards, I moved to an urban area in Alberta. I always struggle in cities. A few weeks in one, I inevitably feel like I am suffocating, and I long for the solitude and beauty of nature. Ironically, I could see the mountains from where I was living. I was an hour away from some of the most spectacular landscapes in the world, only to feel helpless to explore them alone in my little car.

Fear has played a massive role in my life for as long as I can remember, albeit unconsciously. I have always considered myself practical and realistic but never fearful. Taking an aging Mazda 3 into the wilderness alone seemed reckless, so I instead hoped something would change in my life to make what I longed for seem more safe and accessible to me.

Fast forward two years, and I am driving along the coast of Lake Superior, part way through a solo cross-country car camping trip, feeling what can only be described as pure alignment, when the realization hit me: I'm doing it! What I could only dream of months before was now my reality. The amusing part is that nothing has changed in my life in a practical sense. I am still driving that same car, and I still don't know where I will be next month or how I will pay my bills. But somewhere along the way, I stopped waiting for my dreams to happen and just started living them. And strangely enough, this car had a big role to play in that. 

I can't help but feel a resonance with her. We've both been lost, broken down, and gotten stuck. We may not always be the prettiest or fastest, sometimes overlooked and underestimated, but always full of heart and ready for what may come. Is it weird to say that my car inspires me?

The amount of affection I hold for this inanimate object is odd. But how could I not love her? She has granted me my freedom, sheltered me, brought me joy, and allowed me to follow my heart, even when it was leading me into the impractical unknown. She's gone places I never dreamed her capable and taken me along for the ride. And for that, I will always be grateful. 

So, here's to my Mazda 3, the car that keeps on giving and inspires me to do the same. Cheers to 200,000k!!!"

Three months after I posted this, I received a message from a digital editor at a creative agency in London who was in charge of Mazda's online magazine, Mazda Stories. They were interested in including me in a piece they were working on for International Day of Happiness featuring Mazda owners from around the world and the stories of how their cars bring them happiness. Although the piece consisted of only a few sentences, as an aspiring writer who has worked towards making writing my living for eight years, any interest in my work enormously impacts my motivation to continue moving towards my dream. I was honoured to be included, and it significantly brightened my winter. 

When spring finally arrived after a long and challenging Canadian cold season, I was more than ready for another adventure in my little car. For some time now, I have felt called back to where I wrote my Facebook post last fall. And so, at the end of May, I hit the road again, this time cruising west, a little more confident and a lot more packed in.

I am typically a car camper who keeps it simple, but this trip is different. My intention is to make it a writing retreat, and since there is no space to write comfortably in my vehicle beyond short bursts of creativity, I have also packed an "office," including a 9'x10' tent, a folding table and a chair into my already tight quarters. 

It's a 24-hour drive to where I'm headed, but unforeseen vehicle repairs delay me for a week in New Brunswick. Finally, nine days after departing PEI, I arrived at my destination in northern Ontario to a setting sun and a swarm of black fries.

The last time I was here, it was only for a day's rest, which I spent huddled in my car with my "stove" lit, battling the cool fall day and brisk wind ripping off of Lake Superior. Some might classify this as a bust, but for me, it was a day of pure joy where the words flowed through me and out my fingertips with a grace I imagine is a writer's life pursuit.

This is what drew me back here, and this time, I planned to stay for a week. I have fantasized about days filled with nature excursions and extensive writing, but as is often the case in life, things haven't panned out exactly as I anticipated. It turns out that the call this time is to rest. Rest for what, I do not know, but I have learned that forcing my will onto life's nudges never works out in my favour. And so, I rest, albeit a bit begrudgingly.

Even nature herself seems to share the sentiment, repeatedly gifting me onslaughts of rain and bugs. And aside from my mind's occasional bullying that I should be out doing something, I am quite content to just be. As usual, I write each day, but not with the incessantness I envisioned, and I have yet to do any excursions at all. In truth, I am not someone who enjoys overly strenuous outdoor recreation anymore. Maybe it's because I spent almost a decade of field seasons tromping around in the remote wilderness, bushwhacking through dense forests and swamps soaked in sweat or rain, under constant attack from mosquitoes and horseflies, and on perpetual lookout for bears and disgruntled moose. If I had to guess, that's likely what took me down a peg or two. 

Now, I am a lazy adventurer. I nap in my car in the shade. I sip coffee in my hammock and watch the clouds pass. I listen to the leaves, the birds, and the rain. I take leisurely nature walks, reciting the names of all the plants my sixth-grade teacher so lovingly taught classes of children, year after year. I hand-feed squirrels and watch nearby ants march in a line. I sit at my desk in my office amongst the trees and admire the view beyond the screen of my laptop. 

It is this gentle immersion in nature that I love and the slowness and simplicity that I seek: hand washing my clothing from yesterday, pour-over coffee, basic meals, solitude, and not talking—oh, the gloriousness of not talking. The complications and bustle of life fall away, and all I am left with is the peace that being in close proximity to nature inevitably brings with her if I can just slow down enough to let it in. I am not in survival mode here; I am in thriving mode. 

More rain is coming, and the bugs have never left. I am here for another three nights, and then I will pack up and meander east once again. I intend to go slowly on my return trip and do more leisurely exploring than resting or writing, but who knows. I've learned to keep my plans loose and my expectations open. Whatever magic awaits me will unfold without my dictation. 

Until next time, dear reader, thank you for being here.

Up Next: Chapter 2: Headed for Home

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