2025 Wrapped

It’s Wrapped season. You probably know what I mean. Your phone sends you an alert telling you what you listened to most or how many hours you logged on Strava or how many rides you took on the Peloton. Our year summarized into neat little lists and pie charts.

To be honest, I love it. I love seeing everyone’s year-end recaps, and I feel as though the summaries shared about my music or fitness habits tell a story of my year. For example, when I was in the throes of completing my PhD, my Spotify Wrapped reminded me of all my early morning writing sessions. I had a habit of listening to choral music in the wee hours of the morning. I thought it would stimulate brain activity or something like that. I finished my PhD, so it must have worked. But I digress.

I wish there was a Wrapped to summarize other aspects of my year as well. The other day, my husband and I were talking about the kilometres logged on our Tacoma and the story they tell about our year. There’s no app that tracks the dirt roads we’ve taken, the people we’ve shown our tiny community to, or the number of Whitehorse grocery trips we’ve logged. So, I thought I’d make my own version. A Tacoma Wrapped, if you will. Four seasons, twenty-four thousand kilometres, and the moments that defined our year.

Winter

Three summers ago, our friends Ben and Irini came to the Yukon for the first time. We knew it would be special. Extra special really. Ben had told us he would propose to Irini, his high school sweetheart, on a hike we’d do together in Kluane National Park. And this year started out with a return visit from Ben and Irini, now a married couple.

We picked them up in Whitehorse, and our first stop was a two-night stay at a small off-grid cabin on the Wheaton River. As we made our way down remote road to the cabin, we marvelled at what was a picture-perfect winter wonderland. We hiked and snowshoed and skied, and we spent our evenings around the fire. A great start to our time together. Christmas was back home in Beaver Creek, but before we made the 500-kilometre drive, we stopped in Whitehorse to stock up. Good packing was critical. The Tacoma had to carry not only our usual grocery load, plus the two dogs and overnight supplies, it also had to carry our two friends, their luggage, gifts, winter gear, ordinary groceries, and all the beautiful specialty items that would be part of our Christmas feast. The five-hour drive back to Beaver Creek was filled with Christmas music, laughter, and beautiful views.

Spring

This past spring, I spent hours and hours on the bike. I was training for a race. First, this meant cycling indoors, and then once the snow had melted, it meant the Alaska Highway. Hundreds of kilometres were logged up and down that road each week and although I was still painfully nervous in the weeks leading up to the race, I felt ready. As ready as I could be. Just a week before the race, at a routine vet check-up, we were told our dog, Chilli had a mast-cell tumour that needed to be urgently removed. I was devastated and, although it was a difficult decision, ultimately I decided to withdraw from the race, which was just a day after Chilli’s surgery was scheduled.

Over the course of just a few weeks, Chilli and I spent dozens of hours in the Tacoma, driving to and from Whitehorse for the multiple veterinary appointments that were necessary to make sure he would have the best outcome possible. I watched the scenery blur past. Mountains, forests, and endless stretches of road, but my mind was always focused on Chilli. The drives became a strange mix of quiet reflection and frantic planning. Every moment of hope was punctuated with fear and a realisation of how little control I actually had over the situation. During the difficult moments, I reminded myself that what I could control was making sure I got Chilli to the appointments safely.

Was I thinking about how lucky I was to be driving in a sound truck? I don’t think I was, in truth; I have become that accustomed to our Tacoma. I trust it so much that in times of stress I don’t have to think about it. One of many things that, when I reflect on it, make me feel very, very fortunate. Later, my grandmother told me a story about my uncle and their red and white 1976 Landcruiser FJ55. They were at the circus in Nakusp, BC. A small family-operated circus, and one of the bears was sick. Long story that involves lots of back-and-forthing between my grandmother and the bear’s trainer, and then a long, night-time drive to the vet in Nelson with my uncle at the wheel, my grandmother in the passenger seat, trainer and sick bear in the back. “Worry about the truck?” my grandmother said in response to my questions about stress level, “Good heavens, no. We were focussed on the bear.”

Summer

My husband and I love to camp. There’s nothing like packing up the truck with the dogs and all our gear and hitting the road. The simplicity of living out of the truck is something we both relish. This summer was nothing short of spectacular in that regard. We spent many nights sleeping in the bed of our truck under the midnight sun. Mornings with coffee close to the fire, hikes, lake swims, and evening with campfire nachos and smores. When summer’s end approached, we wanted to take one last trip. We planned. We packed. And we knew it would be perfect. Which it was, aside from one embarrassing hiccup.

On the first day, in typical slow camping-mode morning fashion, I was making myself a second cup of coffee. The water on our tiny MSR Pocket Rocket stove was boiling and just as I was about to take it off, I turned and the handle of the pot caught my jacket. In an instant, several litres of boiling water had spilled all over my legs, from mid-thigh to my ankles. I ripped off my merino wool long underwear and socks, but the farther down my leg I pulled the tights, the more skin came off with the clothes. Blisters appeared immediately.

Burns require immediate attention. A hasty pack-up into the Tacoma, gathering and throwing and not much caring where and how everything landed as long as it was in, and we were off, me in the front with my leg up, foot on the dash. The nearest health centre which was a few hours away and the road was almost entirely gravel. I don’t remember much about the pain during the drive, but I do remember being grateful for the truck. Certain it could handle the rough terrain without issue, certain it would get us there safely. My burns were cleaned and wrapped and the staff gave us supplies and instructions and for the next few days, our Tacoma served as a mobile medicalstation. Because, yes, we continued to camp. The dynamics of our trip had shifted, but it was worth it. The truck was a clean, safe space to re-do the bandages, keep my legs dry when it rained, and shelter from the sun when it got too hot. Despite my clumsiness, it was a beautiful trip, and the scars on my legs, while not exactly pretty, serve as a permanent reminder of a mishap survived.

Fall

In one of my first years in the Yukon, I hosted a wreath-making night at my house. It was a simple evening. We were relatively new in town and we didn’t have much in the way of furniture. I sat with my guests on the floor, crafting and laughing and making new friends. Someone captured the evening with Polaroid photos. It was cozy and imperfect and I felt the possibility of a deep bond with these people who were my new neighbours.

This year, I wanted to renew that feeling. While on Vancouver Island, I sourced supplies with my mum, visiting florist shops and Michael’s, collecting pinecones and boxing my mum’s stash of dried flowers. We twisted willow branches from my grandma’s trees into bases. I packed so much that I flew home with extra suitcases, which presented a potential problem since, when I landed in Whitehorse, I still had a huge grocery order to fill and I several pieces of furniture to collect. Honestly, I spent a few long minutes with all my stuff around me, in and out of the truck, wondering how short-sighted I had been: I was facing an impossible packing job.

But help arrived. The good folks at Canadian Tire took the time to help me arrange and rearrange the back of the truck, stating repeatedly that it was going to work, no problem, definitely doable. And, miraculously, it was! I stood there, delighted and touched and also a little bit amazed. How was it possible that I’ve packed and unpacked the Tacoma for almost seven years, with hundreds of pounds moved across hundreds of kilometres year in year out and I can still be surprised at its capacity? I felt pretty darn good and, I’m happy to report, the wreath-making was a huge success, a kind of testament to what can be possible if you have patience and creativity. Eleven people participated and the result was eleven (thirteen, actually, because some of us might have made more than one…) beautiful wreaths, each one unique and a reflection of one person’s way of putting things together.

Thank you, Tacoma for making these things possible. Saying “I love you” to my truck feels a little weird, but saying “I love my truck” to other people sounds just fine.