The road has paused for a while. Two unhurried weeks stretch ahead of us. The cabin is stocked with a mountain of food and the promise of loud and happy conversations. The first night sets the tone: Glasses clinking, voices rising, and the cabin already echoing with the kind of overlapping chatter only my family can produce. As the sun dips toward the tree line before supper, Chris wanders out to the dock with his fly rod, savoring the quiet rippling of the water. His patience pays off with a modest triumph: A bass so small it barely bends the line, yet it’s enough to make him grin like he’s landed a trophy.
Much needed family time
Being with my parents is never quiet; the air itself seems to hum with their forty-four years of lively sparring. They’re less like graceful dance partners and more like a bickering comedy duo—one part kitchen chaos, one part standup comedians. The night of the “pineapple incident” was peak performance.
Dad, intent on mixing his legendary piña coladas, clanged through cupboards with theatrical urgency. Mom, already exasperated, barked from across the kitchen: “Check the top shelf!” Within seconds they were arguing over the mysterious whereabouts of a can of pineapple chunks.
Chris and I were out on the deck, windows open, quietly listening as the volume climbed. Then the truth surfaced: the pineapple wasn’t even for the blender, just for the garnish. Mom’s voice sliced through the evening air, sharp enough to rattle the ice: “Is it just for decoration, Robert?!”
Later, Dad confessed half grin, half shrug that he’d left that little detail out on purpose. “If I’d said it was just for garnish, she wouldn’t have gone on the hunt,” he recounted, clearly delighted with the chaos he’d stirred. Chris and I burst out laughing, and we still laugh out loud every time we retell it, the echo of her outrage and his sly triumph replaying like our own sitcom rerun.
Seeing my sister in person, after a year of nothing but phone calls and awkward time-zone math (for some reason, the 1 hour time zone difference was difficult to comprehend) and hugging without a screen between us made me realize how much I’d missed her. One hug and we were right back to our usual nonsense, trading inside jokes before our bags even hit the floor.
We all gathered at their house, which she and her partner have remodeled into something out of a design magazine: clean lines, cozy corners, sunlight spilling across every room. We wasted no time popping open the Aperol and prosecco, clinking glasses of spritz that glowed like orange sunsets. The grill never got a break: skewers sizzling, vegetables charring, someone always sneaking “just one more” piece of bread off the cutting board.
The night stretched into a happy blur of laughter, teasing, and “try this, it’s amazing” bites passed across the table. After a year apart and a big move across the border, it felt ridiculously good to be loud together again, the kind of family evening that leaves you sticky with citrus, full of food, and a little giddy from both the cocktails and the company.
The Internet Debacle
As peaceful as the lake is, a reliable connection is our lifeline. The afternoon’s to-do list includes pointing the dish and checking speeds in time for tomorrow’s work calls. The reality of setting up an internet connection at every stop demands quite the imagination. Finding a clear line for the satellite is less about technology and more about choreography, I soon discover.
Considering what the equipment cost, I certainly didn’t expect us to audition for a connectivity dance recital. Yet there was Chris, circling the property with his phone held out, app open, muttering about signal strength and north-facing skies. Every few feet he’d stop, squint at the treeline, and sigh. The challenge escalated when we realized that the sacred direction was a solid wall of pine. That’s when the creativity dial went to full MacGyver mode. I turned away for all of five seconds, maybe to swat a mosquito. When I looked back, Chris had vanished.
“Hello?” I called, scanning the yard as though he were a runaway toddler. “Over here!” came the faint reply, like a voice drifting from another dimension.
It finally dawned on me to look up. And there he was: Balanced on the slanted roof, cellphone still in hand, walking slow circles like some tech-obsessed moonwalker in his camo crocs. The scene was straight out of those early-2000s cell-service ads: “Can you hear me now?” I have no idea how he even got up there, no ladder in sight, just the stubborn determination of a man promised decent internet connection.
At that point I surrendered to the inevitable. Let the rooftop satellite whisperer chase his bars. I retreated to the cabin, finished the unpacking and hoped our next stops would have unobstructed views of the sky, or at least, a less acrobatic tech support department.
A few hours later Chris comes back down and shares the accomplishment of having successfully set up the satellite internet. He had taken the foldable worktable, brought it up on the roof, had secured it with some green straps and cinder blocks. “Where did you even find those?” I ask. “Around.” is the answer I get. I nod, impressed. I retreat inside, marveling at how a simple need for Wi-Fi can turn a quiet lakeside day into an episode of Survivor. At this point, I’m convinced of two things: One, Chris has a mysterious talent for turning ordinary objects into engineering marvels; and two, I will never, ever, look at a satellite dish the same way again.
Mont-Tremblant Village
Mont-Tremblant really does feel like someone air-mailed a snippet of a European mountain town to the Laurentian Mountains. The pedestrian village unfolds in a cheerful palette with its buildings dressed in bright reds, yellows, and blues, while cobblestone lanes wind uphill like something out of an alpine storybook. Boutiques spill light onto the walkways, restaurant patios hum with people, and every turn seems to frame a new postcard view.
From the lower plaza, you can hop on the Cabriolet, a free open-air gondola that glides slowly above the rooftops. As the breeze catches your hair, you’re lifted toward the base of the mountain itself. Looking up, and the summit stretches skyward 932 meters (about 3,058 feet for my American friends), its slopes etched with evergreens and ski runs.
In the years we’ve been together, Mont-Tremblant Village never made it onto my “must-show-Chris” list. I always assumed throngs of selfie sticks and souvenir shops would be an automatic nope for him, the kind of place he’d give a single glance to before retreating to the nearest quiet trailhead.
The moment we rounded the corner and the Luge course came into view, my assumptions cracked. His eyes lit up, his shoulders straightened, his stride quickened and suddenly I was the one trying to keep up. The man who usually side-steps anything touristy was practically bouncing on his toes, scanning the track, already plotting which run would be fastest.
For those of you who don’t know, luging has two different definitions. On the one hand, it’s a scenic, fun-filled ride in a 3-wheeled sled that uses gravity and gives the rider full control. On the other hand, and as it pertains to my family, picture a pack of over-caffeinated sled dogs, launching themselves down the track as if a prize was waiting at the bottom, hollering for anyone ahead to move it!, while simultaneously plotting small acts of sabotage on each other. Every bend becomes an opportunity to run into one another’s bumpers and send the sleds fishtailing off the track. The only rule is: NO RULES.
One summer, fifteen-year-old me discovered just how ruthless my own father could be. He gave a perfectly timed nudge that sent my luge skittering sideways with me skidding, arms windmilling, across a strip of gravel. The sound of fabric tearing met the crunch of stones under my palms. My jeans ripped open at the knee, the sting immediate.
And yet we howled with laughter. By the time we reached the bottom, tears of hilarity mixed with the grit on my face. We waved down the on-site paramedics, who dutifully cleaned my scraped knee while we recounted the epic move like it was a family legend in the making.
When I think of it, I can’t believe I’d never thought to bring Chris here to try this activity before!
Flying high in Mont-Tremblant
Two days after our first luge victory laps together, the craving for another adrenaline hit was impossible to ignore. We called Ziptrek Tremblant, snagged a reservation, and spent the rest of the day with that delicious, restless buzz that comes from knowing something wild is waiting.
Back in the picture-perfect village again, our inner daredevils quickly spot the office. With our nerves already humming, waivers are signed and harnesses are cinched.
The afternoon is clear and bright, perfect for a ride on the mountain’s Panoramic Gondola. This is basically a floating glass elevator that glides over the treetops, lifting you higher and higher until the village below is the size of a toy town. At the summit, the view is pure postcard. The layered mountain sides fade from dark to pale blue. It’s the kind of 360-degree view that makes you wonder if someone’s turned the saturation dial just for you.
The sense of calm quickly dissipates as the first leap up ahead has you questioning your life choices. A tiny metal gate opens. You step down two see-through stairs and launch. Gravity takes the reins and the wind roars in your ears as you twist over an ocean of evergreens. Two of the five lines stretch more than a kilometer—long enough to wonder if you packed a spare set of nerves.
Three hours later, after five zip lines and a surprisingly pleasant trail hike between runs, we coasted back into the village, hair thoroughly wind-styled and grins we couldn’t shake. If you’re after heart-in-your-throat thrills wrapped in jaw-dropping scenery, Ziptrek Tremblant is worth every Canadian dollar.
First Off-Road of the Season
Our first off-road motorcycle adventure of the season took us into the Laurentians’ Réserve faunique Rouge-Matawin, and, I’ll admit, I was feeling a little nervous. My heart thumping, I eased onto the first stretch of gravel. The bikes crunched beneath us as we rolled into the wildlife reserve. Right out of the gate, I was questioning my confidence—what kind of terrain would greet us?
Turns out, it was everything a short day-trip should be: soft, rolling gravel roads, hills packed hard enough to give traction but still a little bounce, and a few rocky sections that demanded full attention and careful line choices.
A covered bridge arched overhead, like an old friend welcoming us to the dirt, and the forest opened up to glimpses of wild camping spots tucked in among the pines. Streams glittered in the sunlight, cutting across the track and offering the occasional playful tire splash.
By the time we headed back to our cabin, the nerves had melted into pure satisfaction. Short, sweet, and just the right mix of challenge and scenery, it reminded us exactly of why we chase these little adventures on two wheels.
After two weeks, the road pulled us onward again, the cabin shrinking in the rearview like a photograph you’re not ready to put away. Homecoming is sweet, but the horizon has its own pull as we continue to our next destination.
NOMADIC ADV 
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