Set to a nostalgic instrumental version of Somewhere Over the Rainbow, according to the “Sister Bay Over the Years” photo album no one asked my iPhone to create from distant memories captured, October of 2013 marks my first stay at Wagon Trail Campground near the tip of Wisconsin’s Door County peninsula. Eleven entire years ago. I’ve lived at least seven lifetimes since then, but it seems closer to yesterday mindset-wise. I can still feel her, that bright past version of me, full of question and wonder and the equivalent of teenage angst, but for people in their 30s. I had scrunched up the courage to write publicly just that summer, mostly as a coping mechanism to deal with feeling utterly alone, especially amongst people.

Alone in my thinking, in my wants and needs, alone in my quirky little life path full of detours and dead ends, a journey noticeably different from those around me. People were pairing off, starting families, checking off life milestones, goals, achievements, climbing ladders, planting roots. I didn’t know what I wanted, but I knew what I didn’t. And I tried on Veronica’s Closet worth of costumes in attempt to fit in somewhere (anywhere!), to figure out what felt right, felt like me, but ended up with a recurring role on What Not to Wear. A trapped claustrophobic, stuck and out of place.

It’s interesting to think about who I would be, born 11 years later. Because it feels like there’s been a lifestyle shift. My choices don’t feel so strange in today’s world. They’re actually kind of defended, celebrated even. I feel more accepted by society now. Or maybe I’ve surrounded myself with a society who accepts me? What would’ve inspired me to write, if not aloneness? Anything? OMG WOULD I BE A NORMIE?

By October of 2013, I had already decided to shake up the snow globe, quit my job and see the world, throwing my hands up to the great unknown. Onward! But before I left Wisconsin, a place I was so very sure I’d never fully return to yet claimed to love so very much, I realized I hadn’t intimately explored all it’s nooks and crannies, hadn’t met nearly enough of the eclectic range of locals to warrant my deep admiration. At least that’s my justification today. Eleven years ago I was probably mostly looking for a good time and a reason to day drink outside. Wisconsinites excel at curating reasonable excuses to do just that. Our unofficial state motto: Life’s a party, and then you die.

Enter Sister Bay Fall Festival. Legend has it, the festival began as a party the town used to throw for themselves to celebrate the end of the tourist season, but when Chicagoans caught wind, they were all like, Heeeeeeeyyyyy, you guys partying without us?? We can close up the cabins a week later. We’re in!! And you can’t exactly say no to the folks who keep you afloat all season, enabling you to navigate those tourist free Great Lake winters. Watch pretty much any holiday Hallmark movie if you need help understanding this financial dynamic.

Anyway, I convinced an old high school friend that it would be super fun and cool to leaf peep the peninsula and rub elbows with the locals, who, as it turns out, were all working, so our elbows just got raw rubbing up against other tourists. Obviously we camped, because priced-for-Chicagoland lodging was in direct conflict with quitting my career and heading off to What Came Next. Besides, “camper” was this relatively new identity I was exploring, and I’d acquired enough of the costume to really give it a go.

I got hooked. With few exceptions (you know like, picking millions of berries in Poland or recovering from a thru-hike), I’ve be-bopped around Door County nearly every October since. It’s become this weird little meaningful tradition for me. A lot of folks take the calendar flip to January as an opportunity for reflection, though possibly because it feels like you have to or the very least should try, not because you actually want to. They really push those resolutions. And it’s obviously too much pressure for us all to improve ourselves at once, so I rescheduled my own maintenance for October. There’s something delicious about the closing of a season. Transitional. Fresh clean slate. Full of potential, satiated by the season, hungry for rest.

Each year I take the same forest walks, appreciating them more because of their scarceness, comforted by the familiarity, conscious of how the differences change the vibe. The bakery in Rowley’s Bay burned down last year, still no buyers. It’s eerily quiet, fewer cars, zero pedestrians, the chain link fence containing charred memories of the past.

Standing in state park jewels, my mind wanders to prior years. Who I was standing there with, who I wasn’t, where I was mentally. What was I going through then? How did it impact who I am today, did it impact me at all? Does the memory make me smile? Sigh? Both? And after the randomly scheduled highlights, I do one new thing. I have no interest in cramming my day, the point is to take it slow. Explore one new place, take one new hike, visit one new local establishment. A fresh clean slate, full of potential.

It’s wild to think back to where I was just 365 days ago, how so much can change. This time last year I was giddy with love potential and the prospect of change. Something new, something different, the unknown, freshly unemployed. I was tethered to nothing. The world was my oyster.

This year I’m recovering from the most magical summer, full of adventure and happiness, woven with strains of loss, currents of disappointment and struggles. I fell in mutual love, the storybook kind, only to discover, as Patti Smyth did in 1992, sometimes love just ain’t enough. Other things, do in fact, matter. I met so many beautiful souls, shared intimate moments, engaged in open and honest communication with people who not only filled my cup drained by energy vampires, but patched up the puncture wounds. I’ve had to let go of a lot to gain so much more. I have grown, shed yet another exoskeleton.

Everyone knows those people caught in the mindset where everything is just happening to them, the people who never stop to consider their own role in the predicament, that maybe they could be part of the problem. It’s easy to point fingers, harder to take responsibility. And it’s actually pretty easy to let their mindset slide in the name of friendship, until they come for you. I’ve learned some things are worth salvaging. Some things are not. Knowing the difference is part of the work.

You can’t please them all and you’re never going to. I’m no longer interested in convincing anyone of anything, proving that I’m good or right. I’ve learned to be okay with people being wrong about me. I can’t control their narrative. But I know who I am. Held accountable by family, friends, colleagues and total strangers, I’ve spent the past 11 years writing out loud, dedicating an embarrassing amount of time observing and analyzing how my actions and attitude affect those around me, where I fit, where I don’t. Somewhere in all of it, I started living with the world, not just in it.

Sometimes the juice is worth the squeeze, but more, often it’s not. Which is fine because too much juice is just too much juice.

Enjoy our good nature, that’s Wagon Trail’s slogan, specializing in quiet nights and secluded sites. I particularly love walking the grounds, meeting the seasonal residents, the yappy dogs who just can’t shut up about how handsome Freddie is when we walk on by. I’ve been bathing in retirement activities since my 20s, apparently I have a lot in common with the retiree idea of a good time.

It’s one of those places you book out for the next year before leaving, though I never know what the next year holds, even if I make the reservation with intention. I’ve learned just how much can change in 365 days. Over the years, my space and its inhabitants has evolved. Members of Dinndorf family joined on a few occasions, once I brought a partner, and the past two years it’s just been me and my dog. I book progressively longer stays for the next year, year after year. I can work from anywhere. Why not my bell tent in the middle of the woods surrounded by the second greatest lake?

I do that on purpose, book before departure, not only to guarantee my little hideaway spot, but because every time I’m there, I am so fucking grateful, I can’t imagine not taking advantage of the autumnal colors, crisp air and sunshine, but also, I know myself. I know how hard it is to leave my house because I’ve made my house hard to leave. Packing up a bunch of shit just to vomit it out five hours away is a lot of work, especially when you’re building this empire on your own and you’re the only one who will even enjoy it, though I did make/force/encourage a pair of sisters I met at the dishwashing station come check it out. They were glad they did, you can take my word for it.

Anyway. I try to do everything I can to set my future self up for success, and pre-booking is part of that plan. Cuz boy did I NOT want to drive to Door County when the scheduled Sunday rolled around.

Present Tosh cursed Past Tosh as I packed the Toyota, squishing blankets and pillows and floor cushions into crevices they didn’t fit. Seriously, what made me think this was a good idea? Spending a week alone. At a campground. In the middle of October, as darkness was falling earlier and earlier. What would I even do every night when the sun went to bed? Coming off an emotional weekend, I cried most of the way there. But I made it. Because both past and present me knew I needed it. Because everyone needs it, life slowed down.

Working from home is easier, no rooms to havisham, nothing to clean, no house chores staring at me, none of the usual distractions. I set up my castle in the trees and exist. Constant forest bathing. A simplified, reduced life. Brain relaxed and focused, all quiet save for the wild kingdom chirping all around me. Fred comes and goes and he pleases from the tent, peacefully enjoying his place in the kingdom until our weekend neighbors start moving in, then he’s got some questions for everyone.

I walk to my favorite grove, the one that feels like I’ve crossed into Narnia through a magical portal of majestic maples towering, encircling, welcoming me to their world. Listening to the sounds of the forest, I make voice memos of my thoughts, like I’m some famous author or naturalist taking notes but not of the landscape, unless we’re referring to my mind. Outside of the necessity of work, except for a few Instagrams to remind myself next year why I do this, I stay relatively disconnected and immerse myself in the moment. I relish the lack of options. Who can ever choose with all these options?! And it feels like everything is multiplying at an uncontrollable exponential rate. It’s too much. 

The week that started out a bit cold gradually got way too warm because, Wisconsin. I finally made it to Mink River Basin and accidentally sat at the bar for five hours hooting with the local lunch crowd, even bought a sweatshirt that says “Giver’ at the River!” to memorialize the day. My all time favorite hobby is shooting the shit, and we shot the shit right outta the damn sky. And boy was it easy to see this year. My week on the peninsula fell over the Hunter’s Moon, 14% brighter than average due to its proximity to earth.

Each night I fell asleep to the excited chatter of the creatures of the forest, my eyes popping open just as the radiant rock shone directly over my tent through the small clearing in the trees, the song dogs howling in interrogation, seeing who’s around. Fred, normally high alert on night watch now snoring quietly on the ground next to me, stretches his legs, all four at once, sighs deeply and curls back to bed.

On the fourth morning, after the Hunter’s Moon peak illumination, I walked into the office. They know us by name there. Fred got a treat for a sit and a high-five, I got a spot confirmed for October 2025.