“Life is either a daring adventure or nothing at all.” – Helen Keller
I’ve learned recently that Helen Keller was right. Life has to be a daring adventure — because the alternative is to simply exist, and existing isn’t enough. If you never take risks, never laugh at the wrong turns, never feel your heart race in your chest, then days blur into one another. You breathe and survive, but you don’t live.
Adventure doesn’t always mean leaping from cliffs or flipping through Class V rapids — though recently I’ve done those too. Sometimes it’s choosing to try something new when you could have played it safe. Sometimes it’s allowing yourself to be clumsy, messy, imperfect — and still daring to keep going, keep laughing, keep loving.
That’s what these past few weeks have taught me: that daring adventure lives in both the wild and the ordinary. In wolves at sunrise, in paddleboards and drizzles, in spilled drinks and safe arms, in the dash between two dates that makes up a life.
These weeks, I made time for me. Real time. The kind of time where you stop surviving and start living.
Camping at Grundy Lake
I began with something simple: camping with a friend and our kids — some of hers, some of mine.
We planned for late nights under the stars, hoping to watch the meteor showers. But Mother Nature had other ideas. Instead of clear skies, the clouds rolled in, and we got hit with the worst rainstorm of the summer. Both tents had some water ingress, so maybe new tents are needed for our annual summer camping trip… but not even wet clothes or being woken up damp at 2 a.m. could ruin our fun.
When things go wrong, you can choose to be miserable and unhappy with the events, or you can accept what happened, laugh, and move on — embracing the chaos and accepting the wrong as the right. That night, we chose laughter.
Still, camping isn’t ruined by weather — it just shifts the story. We cooked simple breakfasts, sandwiches on the go, drank gallons of water in the heat, and then spent hours hiking. Around Swan Lake we wandered, up trails and along boardwalks through the marshes. Chickadees whistled their “cheeseburger, cheeseburger” song while loons called in the distance. We stopped at lookout points and let ourselves just breathe in the abundance that nature offers.
There were ice creams on hot afternoons, endless hours of swimming and playing in the lake to cool off, and evenings spent around the campfire. And not just any campfire treats — marshmallows cut open and stuffed with chocolate clusters, toffee, pecan, almonds, even Reese’s Pieces melting in the middle. They were so sweet you couldn’t eat too many, but the fun was in trying.
Mostly, though, it was the memories. Laughing kids, sticky hands, the glow of firelight, and friends sharing simple joy.
“We didn’t realize we were making memories, we just knew we were having fun.” – A.A. Milne
Hiking in the Rain
I hiked trails in what we would call, in Scotland, a drizzle. Not pouring rain, just that steady mist that never really stops. It was hot out, so the water felt refreshing as it settled on my skin.
And because adventure is always better with a bit of mischief, we flicked water off the leaves onto my six-year-old son as we walked. At first, he was not impressed. But once he realized he could flick it back at me, it became a full-on game.
What could have been an inconvenience turned into laughter, play, and connection.
“Some people feel the rain. Others just get wet.” – Bob Marley
French River and Jumping Into Rivers
We didn’t even plan to jump in that day. In fact, the original plan had been to start at the French River with breakfast — just to take in the beauty of the place. Breakfast was missed as we ended up cooking for all my kids before we left and we were not alone as a wee guy loves to adventure with his mom. But I missed the turnoff, and we ended up at Grundy Lake where I had camped the week before. My six-year-old tore down the paths, playing hide-and-seek, laughing and free.
On the way back, though, we stopped to walk the French River Trail. And that’s when it happened: one moment we were admiring the water, the next we were in it — splashing, swimming, fully clothed, letting the current carry us.
Others stood on the bank, watching. You could see it in their faces — the wishing, the almost-doing.
But for me, it was worth it. It was worth everything.
It was mid-thirties Celsius, plus humidity, a beautiful sunny day. I whipped off my t-shirt and dove in wearing my bra and jeans — and honestly, my bra covered more than my bikini top would have, so it wasn’t like I was flashing the world. It was just freedom.
Of course, I forgot to take my car keys out of my pocket — classic me. Luckily, the car still started when we got back to shore. That’s the clumsy side of me again. But you know what? It made memories. Good memories. The kind you can’t make if you stay dry on the sidelines, watching.
“You can’t cross the sea merely by standing and staring at the water.” – Rabindranath Tagore
White-Water Rafting
I went white-water rafting for the first time with Momentum Rafting in Quebec. Not the easy ride — the adventure package. Class III and Class V rapids, the kind that demand everything from you.
We flipped in the Class V, and suddenly I was body-surfing the river, tossed by the water, gulping air between waves. When I resurfaced — laughing, alive, aching in muscles I forgot I had — I felt stronger than I have in years.
And here’s the kicker: out of five people in our boat, I somehow ended up with three of the paddles. Not just mine, but two extras I scooped up and clung to through the chaos. So there I was, soaked, laughing, and holding more paddles than anyone else. Go me.
I know my entire raft of fellow adventurers thought I was the crazy lady. While they were catching their breath, I was woot-wooting, ready to go again. I even asked if we could ride backwards down one of the smaller rapids — just because why not?
And then came the part where the river decided to play along. We’d already gone backwards once earlier, down a smaller rapid, laughing the whole way. But later, at a section called the Coliseum, the water levels had dropped and we drifted too far right. The boat hooked up on a rock, spun us around, and suddenly we were heading backwards again — only this time on a bigger rapid.
Somehow, though, it didn’t feel as huge. We’d already done it once. We already knew we could. So instead of panic, it was just more laughter, more proof that sometimes the river gives you exactly what you asked for.
And then there was the BFR — the Big Rock. Everyone calls it with a little more emphasis in the middle, but we’ll keep it clean here. It’s one of the cliff-jumping spots on this part of the river. Of course, I was the first one off the edge. Not once, but three times. Launching myself into the current, surfacing with adrenaline roaring in my ears, ready to go again before anyone else had caught their breath.
I wasn’t there to play it safe. I was there to feel alive.
“You’re braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.” – A.A. Milne
Swimming With the Current — in Error
I was the first one off the edge — leaping into the air, hitting the river, surfacing with adrenaline coursing through me. And I didn’t stop there. I went back and did it again. And again. Three jumps in total.
While others hesitated at the top, I couldn’t wait. For me, it wasn’t about fear. It was about freedom.
But on that first jump, instead of swimming straight to shore like everyone else, I swam with the current in error — heading toward the next set of rapids.
From the shore, it must have looked like chaos. I missed the rescue rope completely, never even saw it. They launched a rescue kayak after me, but I didn’t even know it was there. Later the others told me they were screaming, and that there were people scrambling to get to the water to reach me, rushing to reach me from the bank.
Did you hear us shouting at you? they asked afterwards.
No. I didn’t hear a thing.
I wasn’t reacting to them, or editing myself for anyone else watching. I was in my own space, in my own body. I heard my heart beating in my ears. I could feel the river surging around me, the carpet of water dragging me forward. I heard my own voice in my head, calm and steady: You know how to swim. You’ve always known how to swim.
There was a time, years ago, when I swam a mile every morning before work. Those muscles haven’t been used in a long while, but you don’t forget. The water still remembers you, and you remember it.
So I kept going. Just me, the current, my breath, and my body. No audience. No performance. Just existing in my own small bubble of focus until finally — shore.
Yes, I went the wrong way at first. Yes, the current took me farther than planned. But I didn’t freeze. I didn’t sink. And I didn’t need saving.
That moment summed up more than cliff jumping. It summed up my life: sometimes you go with the current in error, sometimes everyone else panics while you stay calm. But if you trust yourself, you’ll always find your way back. And if you don’t then you have a whole team of friends standing by to help you reach the shore safely.
Because you always could find your way. You just forgot for a while.
“Just when the caterpillar thought the world was over, it became a butterfly.” – Anonymous proverb
Climbing for Perspective
Another day, I climbed the Temagami fire tower again. The climb itself is short but steep, and the reward is spectacular — a view that stretches forever, treetops rolling like waves of green beneath an endless sky.
There’s something about standing that high up that strips life back to its essentials. The effort of the climb fades as the horizon opens, and what’s left is perspective. A reminder that the world is vast, resilient, and beautiful — and that I am part of it.
I must return in the fall, when the hills blaze red, gold, and orange in the sunshine. Watching the seasons change from that height will be like watching the earth itself breathe.
There is a reconnection in moments like these. A stillness that soothes the soul. It doesn’t shout like white-water rapids or pull like a river current — it whispers, reminding me that peace is just as powerful as adrenaline.
“And into the forest I go, to lose my mind and find my soul.” – John Muir
Paddleboarding for the First Time
Then came another first: paddleboarding. I have to confess, my first attempt at standing ended in a spectacular backwards starfish off the board — complete with a happy scream as I went over.
But after that, I found my balance. I nailed the next few stand-up attempts and ended up playing in the lake for a couple of hours. A little wobbly, sure — sometimes standing, sometimes kneeling, and sometimes just lying down in the sunshine, drifting and smiling.
At one point, we even deliberately knocked into each other’s boards, sending us both tumbling into the lake — surfacing with laughter that was loud, genuine, and utterly unrepressed. That feeling of pure, unfiltered joy is what we need to carry into every day. Doing things we love, letting ourselves play, and being totally, perfectly imperfect.
It wasn’t about perfection. It was about fun. About letting myself be playful, free, and alive in the moment.
“Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass; it’s about learning to dance in the rain.” – Vivian Greene
Sleeping With Wolves
At Cedar Meadows, I fed elk with soft eyes and towering antlers. I watched bison lumber with the ancient weight of the earth itself. And then, I met the wolves.
That night, I stayed in a glass chalet overlooking their enclosure. As dusk fell, they lingered at the treeline. Watching, patrolling, but never coming very close. They had their own rhythm, their own rules, and I was just an observer.
But in the morning, it changed.
As the sun rose, the wolves padded closer to the glass, and then they played — tumbling, circling, nipping each other like oversized puppies. To them, it was just another day in the life of the pack.
To me, it was unforgettable.
Joy in the Ordinary
Not every test of strength comes from rapids, cliffs, or fire towers. Some come in the quiet moments — like sitting down to a dinner date, having a safe, romantic evening.
It was the first time in a long time that I felt safe enough to have a glass of wine. That alone was about pushing my personal boundaries, about trusting myself and the person across the table. The food was beautiful, the conversation flowed, and for a while it was just easy — fun, light, even romantic.
And then Clumsy Child Syndrome kicked back in.
First, I felt a sneeze coming on — but I somehow suppressed it. When I tried to inhale again, I had breathed my bite of bison straight into my windpipe. It wasn’t pretty.
What followed was terrifying: repeated Heimlich manoeuvres, back slaps and a lot of choking. Even after all that, I still couldn’t get a proper breath, and it took nearly two hours before I could breathe somewhat normally again without coughing.
But here’s what mattered: it didn’t ruin the night. After the steady “Are you okay?” came laughter and gentle joking — including being called a muppet again. There was gratitude that I was alright, but never blame, never judgment. Just concern that lasted through the entire evening, with quiet check-ins: “Are you really okay?”
And then, a few days later, at another dinner — this time at Montana’s near the airport — Clumsy Child Syndrome made another appearance. I managed to spill my entire Diet Coke across the table.
Again, no anger. No frustration. Just calm, a quick clean-up, and moving on. He even slid into the booth beside me, laughing as we carried on with dinner. Joking about my clumsiness, he teased that maybe he should just always sit next to me when we eat — so that if I spill a drink, it lands on an empty seat across the table instead of him, and if I choke again, he won’t need to jump across the table to save me because he’ll already be right there.
And maybe that’s exactly it. Maybe next time, we’ll just sit side by side.
“Find someone who knows you’re not perfect but treats you as if you are.” – Anonymous
The Ordinary Becomes Extraordinary
Because in the end, this is what makes life extraordinary: the ordinary moments.
The simple breakfast at Tim Hortons. The French vanilla coffee. The hand reaching out to help you down a slippery rock in the rain. The water bottle passed over when you’re coughing in the car. The cup of hot tea brought to you in the morning — not because you asked, but because someone cares.
The things some people take for granted, I see as extraordinary. I see the glimmers in little things. I hear the laughter when we knock each other off a paddleboard — laughter that is genuine and loud and unrepressed. That is living.
It’s also in the small ways we show up for others: doing things in a hundred simple ways that say I care. It’s about acknowledging that things go wrong, and knowing you have two choices. You can say, This is wrong, this sucks, and let it ruin the moment. Or you can say, That was wrong, but actually, it’s kind of funny.
You can embrace the wrong.
The wrong turning on the road. The wrong way you swim in a river. The wrong way to swallow a bite of bison. The wrong way to go down a rapid — backwards because you drifted too far right.
There are so many “wrong” things in life. But if you shift your perspective, they’re not wrong. They’re just different. And if you let them, they become the best memories you’ll ever have.
Because you get one shot at life. There are no do-overs. All you can do is live in the moment.
I read a sign once that said: “Your life is made up of two dates and a dash. Make the most of the dash.”
So embrace the crazy. Embrace the mundane. Embrace the wrong. Laugh hard. Cry when you need to — that’s okay too. Live every feeling and every moment, because that little dash is all we get.
Because sometimes the wrong turns, the stumbles, the unexpected spills — those are the moments that shine the brightest.
And those, more often than not, are the best memories you can have.
“Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away.” – Unknown
