There’s a particular moment at the start of every road trip where optimism peaks.
The truck is packed. The trailer is hitched. Everyone is buckled in and reasonably content. Despite all available evidence, this trip might be smooth, uneventful, and possibly even relaxing.
That moment lasts only as long as it takes Meg to spot a halfway-decent-looking bathroom, and a mandatory washroom break is needed.
This time, it lasted until the tornado warnings.
The Kind of Trip That Feels Familiar (At First)
We were on a meandering road trip to visit my parents. Nothing extreme, only a weekend with a planned sleepover to break up the drive.
We loaded the truck with the kind of organized chaos that comes from experience. Salty snacks doused us with each crunch. Silver tabs cracked and hissed within minutes of leaving. My son settled into that fragile peace treaty between boredom and tactical vigilance needed to protect his stash from the inevitable “Dad Tax.”
The trailer followed us faithfully, like a loyal companion rolling behind dutifully.
It was our first season trying Harvest Hosts, and we booked a night at “All in Alpaca’s” in Rockwood, Ontario. That sounded idyllic and unique. We were eager for something new. A good story, sure—but nothing that even hinted at drama.
The forecast called for some light rain.
Light rain is fine, not a problem. A courtesy shower for the truck and trailer to get some of the dust off the outside and get rid some of the bug guts on the windshield.
We plugged our route into Google Maps, our preferred navigator, and settled into the drive.
When the Sky Starts Acting Suspicious
Somewhere south of Georgian Bay still north of Staynor, the sky glowered suddenly, the politely pink sunset shoved violently and decisively as someone flipped a switch.
As we pushed southwest, the world began to thin out. Towns grew scarce and gas stations fewer, replaced by the scent of freshly churned earth and a crisp, charged air. In every direction, the land stretched out—flat, dusky, and broken only by the occasional oak or white pine. Here and there, century-old red brick ruins sat weathered and beaten, a stark reminder that if things went sideways, there was nowhere left to hide.
Without warning, our phones erupted in a collective shriek. The emergency alerts blared across every screen: tornadoes spotted in the area—take shelter immediately.
That sound is unmistakable. It bypasses logic and flashes straight to our fight, flight or freeze response centre deep within.
The wind swept in wild and hot, sliced through with a sudden chill—dramatic and temperamental. Rain followed, thundering heavy against the windshield. The trailer shuddered, not with violence, but as a subtle reminder that our brave metal shoebox was holding on tight through it all.
The mood in the truck shifted instantly.
Experience vs. Imagination
I want to be clear: I wasn’t ignoring the situation.
A lifetime in the military and driving through stormy scenarios that would absolutely give most civilians a heart attack, this registered as something to manage, not something to panic about. I was very aware of what we should and shouldn’t do.
No speeding.
No sudden turns.
No aggressive braking.
Smooth, steady, boring.
Meg and Dylan were both processing emotionally.
They were steel quiet yet vibing silence as humans tend to do when they’re trying not to spiral. Watching the sky. Watching the mirrors. Watching me.
My coping tool? I may have leaned into my role a little bit.
Calm voice. Casual reassurances. Possibly a joke or two delivered with questionable timing.
“Look on the bright side, there are no other vehicles on the road right now, I told them, but I think they were starting to question my sanity.
Nothing builds confidence like gritting and pretending everything is completely normal.
Google Maps Chooses Chaos
Right on cue, Google Maps offered its two cents. Meg already had her eyes narrowed in suspicion—she swears her curls can sense when technology is lying to her—and as it turns out, her hair was right. According to the blue line on the screen, our optimal path involved steering this metal shoebox directly into the swirling dark void on our left.
Not near it.
Not around it.
Through it.
To the left: dark, churning clouds that looked deeply committed to ruining someone’s evening.
To the right: lighter skies. Not perfect, but noticeably less threatening.
Using the advanced navigation technique known as looking out the window, I ignored Google. Relief washed over Meg, and she gave a firm nod of approval.
I decided to ride the line, pinning the worst of the weather to our left while chasing the scrap of blue sky on our right. It was a high-stakes game of threading the needle, made even more fun by the fact that everyone in the truck was silently critiquing my life choices, and I was right there with them.
Then, on cue, storm-themed songs came on the radio, because the universe has impeccable comedic timing.
I mentioned—casually—that the sounds of thunderstorms and rain were relaxing and helped me sleep.
This statement did not calm anyone.
When the Storm Tries Again
The skies started to clear up bu just when it felt like we might be in the clear, the wind picked up again.
The rain intensified.
The trailer rocked a little harder.
At this point, the truck was filled with that charged silence where everyone is thinking the same thing but no one wants to say it out loud.
And then—almost as abruptly—it stopped just before we arrived.
“What Rain?”
We pulled into the alpaca farm and stepped out, breathing a sigh of relief as a cheerful gentleman appeared to graciously guide us into a parking spot. It was a nice change of pace to have a human navigator instead of a satellite with a grudge.
When we mention the rain to him, he goes “What rain?”.
Apparently, the weather system we just drove through had not made it this far. Not a drop of rain, no wild winds, No dramatic skies. No emergency alerts. No flying cows.
We looked at each other like people who had just crossed through an alternate universe, a Tornadoverse if you will.
He told us that he had a team currently rushing a group of alpacas back from a fair—one that apparently hosts high-stakes alpaca competitions. As it turned out, the fair was barely ten kilometers from our own home; they’d been forced to flee the heavy rain after the fairgrounds flooded. Until that moment, I had no idea alpaca competitions were even a thing.
Apparently, awards matter—a lot. The better the awards, the more valuable the alpaca wool. Which suddenly reframed the entire operation as less “quirky farm stay” and more “elite fiber athletes.”
Finally Exhaling
We slotted the trailer in by the front gate of the barn and got everything leveled. Finally, we could relax. Shoulders dropped and breathing slowed as the tension drained out of the air. We broke out the camp chairs and lounged, frosty beverages in hand, watching the world settle down
Another trailer pulled in behind us, the family inside looking every bit as relieved to be off the road as we were. Before long, BCG (Blue Car Grama—Meg’s mom) pulled up to join us for the night. We had a beverage cracked and waiting for her as we settled into a shady spot, enjoying a front-row view of the duck pen right beside us.
Our hosts, Lindsay and Derek, texted us from the road while heading back with the crew from the alpaca beauty pageant. In the meantime, Lindsay’s father—our gracious parking valet from earlier—pulled up in a side-by-side UTV to give us the grand tour. Being total alpaca rookies, we were thrilled to pile into the back seats. It was the perfect setup: catching a cool breeze while he acted as our personal guide, breaking down the inner workings of the farm and the ‘purpose’ behind every paddock.
This was fun, informative, and immediately complicated by mosquitoes.
They appeared with surgical precision—every time we slowed down, they found us. Patient. Strategic. Relentless.
But the tour was still worth it.
Ducks, Chickens, and an Ongoing Border Dispute
Behind our trailer were two pens separated by a low wooden fence.
One held chickens and the other held Indian Runner ducks—the distinctive upright, slightly unhinged ones that look like they’re perpetually late for something. Constantly quacking as though debating whether the new food givers had dinner and quite enjoyed the sound of their own voices.
Every time a chicken hopped the fence into their territory, the ducks became a trained military unit defending their borders from all would-be invader chickens.
They turned in unison.
Lowered their heads.
And charged, aiming their straight narrow bills like bayonets.
The invaders would hastily retreat, flapping madly to get back over the fence to safety, clucking indignantly, clearly resentful of their neighbours lack of hospitality in sharing their food.
Watching these creatures was endlessly entertaining.
Meg and I both have deep roots in Southwestern Ontario, though our ‘farm cred’ comes from different worlds. She spent her youth whispering to horses, while I was getting acquainted with vegetable dirt. We sat there trading war stories with BCG, who topped us both with tales of the tobacco-picking trenches in Tillsonburg, Ontario.
Meanwhile, we treated the ducks like a live-action sitcom—waiting for them to do repeat performances. Dylan was the only one not talking shop; he just sat there, wide-eyed and giggling at the ducks defending their turf.
The Cleanest Barn I’ve Ever Seen
When Derek and Lindsay finally pulled in, they didn’t even stop to catch their breath. They jumped right into host mode, leading us through the evening quarters where the alpacas wind down after a long day of being beautiful. Then, they whisked us up to the boutique—a literal loft of luxury filled with high-end goods made from the very fleece we’d just seen walking around downstairs.
Honestly? I was stunned.
See, I grew up on a farm, so barns and I go way back. In my world, a “standard” barn comes with a thick, permanent layer of dust and rusty tools hanging from the walls like a curated museum exhibit titled Bad Ideas Through the Ages. I’m used to the ancient workbench in the back—the one that looks like a hardware store exploded and nobody bothered to tell the cleanup crew. I’m familiar with the delicate dance of sidestepping a muddy tractor parked just inside the door—because of course it was—and the sight of forgotten leather gloves slumped in the grime of a dark corner.
I know the smell of musty gas cans. I know the scattered wooden bushels filled with “ugly” veggies destined for Grandma’s kitchen (because they weren’t good enough to sell). I especially know the random, rusted artifacts nailed to the walls, silently judging you while daring you to touch them and contract tetanus.
But this barn? This was a different dimension.
The floor was spotless. The air was brightly lit and—impossibly—lacked even a hint of manure. The walls were clean and uncluttered, making me question everything I thought I knew about farm life. Derek and Lindsay explained that in the fiber industry, a clean barn isn’t a luxury; it’s a business model. Any speck of dirt that hit the floor was a threat to the alpaca’s wool. They told us that the cleaner the fleece stays on the animal, the less processing it needs later, resulting in much higher quality. On this farm, “spotless” was a daily chore, not an accident.
Alpacas and Accidental Supermodels
The kids were asked to help with some chores—specifically feeding the ducks and chickens—and they leapt at the opportunity like they’d just been offered their dream job with benefits. Suddenly, they were very serious people with vitally important agricultural responsibilities.
They marched bravely into the pen to serve dinner. Now, if you’ve ever fed chickens, you know they’re usually skittish little things that scatter the moment a human breathes too loudly. But add snacks to the equation? All that fear evaporates. At feeding time, chickens transform into a frenzy of feathered mobsters, pecking the ground with tommy-gun speed and aggressively “getting in your business” for the goods.
It was during this chaos that we discovered Meg is actually a recovering Alektorophobe. I’ll be honest—I had to look that one up. I thought it might be a fear of men named Alec, but it turns out it’s an uncontrollable, soul-shaking fear of chickens.
Apparently, her childhood was haunted by a legendary rooster at her daycare provider’s home. She shared stories of being absolutely petrified as the bird would hunt her across the small barnyard like a feathered terminator. While she recalls screaming and crying back then, she can at least laugh about it now. Who knew our resident farm girl was once a fugitive from a rooster?
The kids had nerves of steel and held their ground. The chickens now settled, No one was traumatized. Everyone emerged unscathed, the seed quickly devoured, and the kids strolled away with the confidence of people who had stared danger in the beak and won.
The ducks on the other hand, wanted nothing to do with them. They kept their distance until the kids were out of sight and marched precisely to the mess.
The herd of Alpacas were coming in for the evening and were now in the barn. The alpacas themselves were incredible creatures. Gentle. Skittish. Unbelievably soft. Their wool was so soft, you just wanted to give them a huge hug. There were two males in the back who were having a surge of testosterone and having a spirited discussion. They were taking turns spitting some vile green stuff from their innards towards each other. No hugs for them.
Then we met her, the alpaca—the prized winner had returned from her competition.
She had eyelashes.
Huge, dramatic, impossible eyelashes. About 3 inches long!!
At first, I assumed they were fake. Surely no animal just has lashes like that.
Nope. Completely real.
Some animals are just born fabulous.
Evening Routines and Duck Parades
As evening settled in, it was time to herd the ducks into their indoor pen.
Apparently, they can’t be trusted after dark. They may go AWOL.
This feels accurate.
We watched the duck parade, supervised by the farmers who secured the perimeter as they tend to wander at the end of a long day. They marched along in orderly chaos to their barracks, a special pen in the barn, slipping neatly through their special door like they’d practiced it, drilled it and executed it a million times before.
Later, my son was asked if he’d be willing to herd them back out in the morning to their daytime pen.
He was thrilled. Chosen. Honoured.
A Quiet Night After a Long Day
We spent the evening inside the trailer—games, a simple dinner, and an early bedtime. The kind of tired that comes from driving through storms and processing unexpected farm drama.
Sleep came easily.
Even for those who do not find thunderstorms relaxing.
Morning Duties and One Last Showdown
Morning arrived calm and clear. Meg was already up, brewing a pot of coffee that smelled heavenly, while I finally managed to open my eyes.
Dylan had taken his “escort duties” seriously, rising early to parade the ducks back through the perimeter. He moved with the efficiency of a drill sergeant, making extra sure that not a single duck strayed from the formation.
Once the ducks were back in their pen, the great poultry rivalry resumed almost instantly. The chickens were a whirlwind of clucking and flapping, seemingly relieved to have escaped the morning’s maneuvers unscathed. With their “heist” plans foiled for now and no longer free to tresspass unchallenged, they retreated to their coop to plot their next move. Some traditions, it seems, truly transcend time.
After breakfast, we took one last look at the alpacas—who remained as majestic and judgmental as ever—before packing up the trailer and continuing our journey.
Why These Trips Matter
As we rolled out, I realized something.
This wasn’t just a stopover. It wasn’t just a night on a farm.
It was making awesome memories with the family. That’s the best part of the journey.
This kind of story only happens when plans get challenged, weather gets dramatic, and Google Maps is politely ignored.
The kind of story that becomes part of family lore.
Trips like this are why we camp. The therapy we work at, to fill our cups together.
Not for the smooth drives or perfect forecasts—but for the moments that go sideways and somehow turn into memories we’ll laugh about for years.
If you’ve got a road trip story that didn’t go according to plan, I want to hear it.
If you’ve ever ignored Google Maps and lived to tell the tale, you’re among friends here.
And if you’re thinking about booking that slightly weird, totally unexpected overnight stop—do it.
Because sometimes the road gets rough, the weather gets wild, and you end up face-to-face with a prize-winning alpaca with better eyelashes than yours.
And honestly?
That’s where the best stories live.
Stick around. More misadventures coming.
If you’re looking for an afternoon or a weekend getaway that involves fresh air, hanging out with some pretty special animals and their family farm. You might be disappointed trying to convince your partner that a 150lb farm animal would actually fit in your Honda Civic, I can’t recommend “All In Alpacas” enough. I didn’t manage to smuggle one home either, but you might have better luck. Check out the herd at the link below. Their boutique is available online if you can’t make it there in person yet. They are part of the Harvest Host program, but also can book time with the animals if you are local.
Hunny, I’m scared of Roosters...not chickens!!
Dave, your blog about the family adventures at a farm is hilarious! I love how you give human traits to your trailer, the weather, ducks, alpacas and “rusted artifacts”. So clever! Also, the mention that Meg’s curls can “sense technologie is lying to her”.
Looking forward to reading more,
Daisy
Thanks Daisy, your encouragement means so much.
Perhaps your and Sue’s visit will be in a future episode. That was a hot day but painting rocks in the shade of that huge tree was a highlight of our summer.
This was a wonderful read 🙂 Great humour in the writing Dave! Lovely to read about your fun family adventures! And the photos support the story so well!
Thank you Julia ☺️