My Solo Trip to Canada: A Return to Winter

On Saturday, January 10, 2026, I landed in Montreal for a solo trip to Canada. It was my first time in Canada, despite growing up just a few hours south of the border in southeastern Vermont. Until 2007, US citizens could cross the border without a passport—but even so, I never ventured into the Great White North.

Arrival was seamless. Entering Canada at the Montreal airport was the smoothest, most efficient experience I’ve had in any country. Biometric identification makes it a breeze, although I will miss passport stamps.

In less than 40 minutes, I’d deplaned, made a pit stop, cleared border control, collected my luggage, and crossed the full length of the airport to my driver’s car. The bathroom line was the worst of it.

Canada made a wonderful first impression.

The Silent Sadness of Winter

It was a two-hour drive from Montreal to North Hatley, where I’d be staying at Manoir Hovey, near the Eastern Townships. Along the way, we passed small farms with tall silos, and dormant cornfields with trimmed stalks poking up from the snow in neat rows like stubble on a man’s jaw.

To my surprise, the drive stirred a deep sense of nostalgia for the Vermont winters of my childhood. Winters that had always felt too long, too dark, and too cold. The constant heating left my skin dry, chapped, and itchy for months.

Yet there is no denying that those winters were visually stunning. They’ve even inspired me to write a few winter poems over the years.

As we drove in silence, the landscape felt steeped in a kind of sadness. Bare forests stood along the roadside, tinged with that bluish-purple hue that only comes after the leaves have fallen and the bark is all that remains. Dry, toasted brown oak leaves clung stubbornly to their branches, rattling in the cold wind. The fir trees, once vibrant green, looked dull.

Signs of Life

Sunset neared, and the winter sky softened with streaks of pastel blues, pinks, and grey. The trees stood like skeletons in the snow, their bark dark and wet with snowmelt. I knew the forest was only sleeping, but still, the landscape felt lifeless.

And yet, signs of life were present if I looked closely: a hawk perched on a high branch, a deer tucked between the trees. Life, in winter, hums quietly beneath the surface.

Still, I felt grief rise in my chest. Perhaps it was just a deeply stored memory—the association of winter with the long months of melancholy that crept into my childhood home like a fog.

Familiar Icicles

The highway cut through steep rock formations that had been blasted to make way for the road. Sharp boulders of grey and brown rose dramatically along the shoulder. These rocky outcroppings are common in the Northeast, remnants of the glaciers that once shaped this land.

I spotted thick, jagged icicles spilling down from the rock crevices—some tinted yellow, blue, or green by mineral runoff. I don’t remember the last time I saw icicle clusters. It wasn’t that I forgot they existed, just that I’d gone so long without seeing them, they melted from my awareness.

I’d always loved spotting icicles on winter drives in Vermont, but in South Carolina, where I live now, they never form. So, when I saw them again—their nubby surface glinting with fresh drips—I felt a spark of recognition, like bumping into an old friend in an unexpected place.

Who would have guessed I’d feel such a strong sense of kinship with roadside icicles?

Snowy Nostalgia

By the time I arrived at my hotel and checked into my room, darkness had fallen. At this latitude in mid-January, the sun sets by 4:27 p.m., but there was just enough light to glimpse the frozen surface of Lake Massawippi from my balcony.

The forecast had called for a chance of snow in the night, and when I awoke at 7 the next morning, I rushed to the window with childlike anticipation. As a kid, the possibility of overnight snow was as magical as Christmas Eve.

Waking to a fresh blanket of white was a thrill—the sunlight bouncing off every surface, the world glowing. Would school be canceled? If so, my mom would come in and quietly turn off my alarm, adjust the covers, and whisper, No school.

As a teenager, I’d sleep in. But as a young child, knowing my dad would plow and leave huge piles of snow along the driveway, the excitement was too strong. There were forts to build! Snow angels to make! And tubes to ride down the driveway at breakneck speed!

Somehow, 30 years later, that same thrill still lived within me.

A Return to Winter

When I pulled open the drapes that morning and saw the snow-covered ground, I felt that same familiar giddiness, with a side of cognitive dissonance.

I’d spent most of my life claiming to hate winter: the cold, the darkness, the mess, the emotional heaviness that threatened to suffocate my entire family. I moved south to escape it all. And yet…

As I (predictably) wrestled with the Nespresso maker for a cup of decaf, dawn had begun to cast a soft, blue light across the landscape.

The sun had not yet risen, but the crows called from the trees along the lake, and I smiled. Of course, there would be crows—corvids always appear when I travel. They’re my spirit animals on the road, always watching.

Finally, espresso in hand, I stepped onto the balcony in the 33º air, still warm from sleep. Except for the gentle patter of falling snow and the distant scrape of snowplows somewhere across the lake, the air was perfectly still.

To winter, I had returned.

Hello, old friend. It’s nice to see you again… I’ve missed you.

Fresh Tracks

Layered in fleece, cashmere, responsible down, and boots, I plodded down the road to the manor for breakfast. My boots crunched through the untouched snow, and I felt the thrill of being the first to leave tracks. I wondered if this is how early colonists felt when they’d mistakenly believed they were the first to discover new land.

I scanned the woods for signs of life. What animals had passed by in the night unnoticed? Rabbit tracks lined the patio bordering the sleeping garden. A large buck had passed by my bedroom window, pawing at the snow in search of buried grass.

After breakfast, I wandered around the grounds.

That’s when I realized—I’d missed this: the gentle pattering of falling snowflakes in the evening, the shimmering drips of melting icicles in the morning sunlight.

The Pull for A Solo Trip to Canada

I was genuinely surprised when I felt the pull toward a winter wonderland escape just eight weeks prior. I generally make a point of not traveling in the winter—especially not to cold, dark places.

However, the pull was strong, so a few days later, I booked my solo trip to Canada, happy to have some alone time to look forward to post-holidays.

I couldn’t tell you the last time I was excited to experience true winter like this, but I’m glad I followed my intuition. My body knew it was something I needed to do.

Remembering Winter

Life is cyclical. Both literal and metaphorical winters are necessary for slowing down, reflecting, conserving, and replenishing before the energy of spring pushes us forward.

This part of me that knew true winter had been in hibernation for 20 years and needed to be awakened and remembered. Four nights were just enough to enjoy the novelty before it wore off.

As I passed the spa on my way back to my suite, the crisp, refreshing scent of eucalyptus hung in the air. Steam from the heated pool curled upward, catching the morning sun. It was only 9:30 a.m., but the sky blazed that brilliant blue that only comes after fresh snowfall.

I smiled up at the few remaining clouds.

And once again, found myself whispering,

Hello, old friend. It’s nice to see you again… I’ve missed you.

Personal Reflections for Further Reading

• Manifesting in Jackson Hole
• The Grief of Losing a Horse
• Late Summer Musings

⬇️ If you enjoyed this personal essay, please leave a comment below. I’d love to hear from you!