When Autumn Turns to “Uh Oh”
It’s that time of year again—the days get shorter, the air gets crisper, and you can smell pumpkin spice… everywhere. Campgrounds start closing, leaves start falling, and soon those cheerful little snowflakes will be plotting your seasonal misery.
The time has come for a decision, and campers have two sane choices::
- Chasing The Sun: Peel out and blast south toward safety, warmth, and the blissful knowledge that you won’t need to pee in a sub-zero port-a-potty
- The Canadian Vow: Winterize your trailer and commit to a six-month stare-down with winter. This is the peculiar, thrilling path for Meg, Dylan, and the other frosty souls determined to prove they can thrive even after their eyelashes turn into tiny icicles.
Since disappearing for six months wasn’t an option (apparently, my boss frowns on “extended sabbaticals involving beach chairs”), winterization it was for me. I’d done it before—how hard could it be? I had a checklist. Confidence level: expert. Reality: nope not me.
Step One: The Great Food Eviction
The yearly ritual began with clearing out the fridge, freezer, and cupboards. Meg, believes in being prepared for anything, so the cupboards looked ready to supply a small army—or host a zombie apocalypse.
On the plus side, we didn’t need groceries for a week. On the downside, something in the back corner had turned into a fossilized lifeform. Removing it will require a jackhammer, but that’s a “next year” problem.
At least we reduced the chance of attracting mice looking for a cozy Airbnb. (Nothing says “winter getaway” like a trailer full of snacks.)
Step Two: The Pyrex Incident
Next came the cupboard purge. That’s when the Pyrex measuring cup decided it had lived long enough.
Meg opened the door, and the Pyrex—clearly plotting its escape—leapt off the shelf, kamikaze-style, onto the counter. The explosion was cinematic. Glass everywhere.
Meg was barefoot, Dylan took Checkers outside, and I, in full superhero mode, grabbed the broom and cleared a path to her slippers. Getting Meg to stand still was a heroic feat in itself. Once safe, she started cleaning up while I “supervised” from a safe distance, offering helpful feedback like, “You missed a spot.”
Judging by her glare, she was definitely listening. Mission accomplished.
Of course, that was followed by my well-timed lecture on why we don’t keep glass in the trailer. Because when your trailer hops down a road like a caffeinated kangaroo, you don’t want to open the door and find a glittering carpet of broken glass.
Step Three: The Draining Drama
With that crisis handled, it was my time to shine. The water system needed draining, and I took charge like a seasoned pro.
I opened the valves—water tank, hot line, cold line—and waited for everything to drain. Then I tackled the hot water tank valve, stood there looking official, and waited again.
Easy. Too easy.
Now came the antifreeze—the pink stuff. I hooked it to the water pump, flipped the switch, and admired the smooth flow. Too smooth.
That’s when I heard something outside. A pink river was flowing from the trailer. Turns out I forgot to close the hot water tank bypass valve. For the uninitiated: that mistake wastes roughly seven gallons of antifreeze.
Cue dramatic dash back inside, shutting off the pump, fixing the valves, and pretending it was all part of the plan.
Finally, pink stuff flowed where it was supposed to—through the taps, shower, and toilet. My “supervisors,” Meg and Dylan, were playing cards, offering helpful commentary. Meg even gave me a few sarcastic “performance notes” to even the score for the glass incident.
Step Four: Battery Relocation & Emotional Goodbyes
The final step: disconnecting the battery and bringing it home. I’ve been tinkering with a solar setup, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that solar equipment costs roughly the same as a small car.
So, I keep the whole setup, batteries and all, in the basement on a trickle charger—insurance against theft, damage, or my next big idea.
Then came the sad part: raising the stairs, and closing the door with a soft click tucking her in for her winter sleep.
“Everything ends, and it’s always sad. But everything begins again too, and that’s always happy. Be happy.” – The Twelfth Doctor
Step Five: Dreaming of Next Season
Now begins the planning stage—also known as “counting down to Mother’s Day weekend,” when the provincial parks reopen.
Winter is our brainstorming season. Picture it- pj’s on the couch,crackling logs in the fire, aroma of coffee swirling between us (never forget the coffee), the year has just ended and began again at 12 a.m,dreaming up ways to make camping easier and another EPIC season of soaking in adventure. Because let’s face it—every misadventure teaches us something.
Lessons Learned (aka: Things I’ll Forget Again Next Year)
- Always double-check the bypass valves before pumping antifreeze.
- Never store glass in a trailer. Ever. Yes even pyrex!
- Jackhammer optional, but maybe handy for cleaning spills that fossilize.
- When Meg gives the glare, assume she’s right.
- Humour (and coffee) make winterization bearable for most.
Wrapping Up: Working Smarter, Not Harder
So, our trailer is tucked in for the winter, and we can relax—dreaming of campfires, sweet treats, forest walks and summer nights under the stars.
Until then, I’ll tinker in the basement, sip my coffee, and plot ways to make next year’s setup smoother (though knowing me, it’ll just make a better story).
How do you handle the end-of-season ritual? Any epic winterization fails—or tips to make it easier? Drop them in the comments! Let’s share the laughs (and maybe a few survival strategies).
