Springer's Journey

Today was supposed to be a travel day.

Technically, it still was.

But somewhere between the mountains, the wind on I-84, the blinking dashboard lights and my own nervous system trying to file emergency reports, it became something else entirely.

I left Bend-Sunriver this morning after realizing snow was headed in.

There is something deeply satisfying about finally learning that avoiding bad weather is not weakness.

It’s wisdom.

I used to think enduring misery was some kind of accomplishment.

Now I think differently.

Cora and I crossed through mountain country with high winds pushing against us.

The dashboard lights blinked again.

Mayday Murphy immediately began broadcasting disaster bulletins while Ferrari prepared for emergency evasive maneuvers.

Cora, meanwhile, remained completely blasé about the entire situation.

I finally stopped at Emigrant Springs State Heritage Area.

Seven hours after leaving.

Seven hours.

And honestly? That’s where the real lesson started.

I checked the weather forecast tonight and realized tomorrow may not be much better for travel.

Snow.

Cold.

Possible ice.

So I made a decision that the old version of me might not have made.

I stayed.

Not because I was helpless.
Not because I was panicking.
Because I was thinking.

The campground host, Julie, helped me move to a better site.

Her little dog’s name is Nancy, which somehow feels exactly right for a snowy campground in the mountains.

And tonight I am sitting in my tent laughing.

That may not sound important, but it is.

Because I checked the weather.
I made a plan.
My keys are in the exact place they belong.
My purse is safely inside the tent.
My glasses are beside Maya on my makeshift dresser — which is actually the storage container holding lanterns, charging cords and all the little things that make this life work.

I realized something today:
freedom does not come from chaos.

Freedom comes from systems.

Pilots understand this.

My dad taught me that years ago with checklists.

Important things go in the same place every time because exhaustion makes fools of all of us eventually.

Now, when I feel anxious, I sometimes reach over and touch the pouch where my keys are stored.

And immediately my nervous system settles a little.

Everything is where it belongs.
So am I.

And maybe that’s what this journey is really teaching me.

Not how to become fearless.
But how to become steady.

Tonight snow may fall outside my tent while I sleep safely in the mountains.

And instead of asking:
“Why is this happening to me?”

I find myself smiling and saying:
“This will be interesting.”