There’s something about your first winter doing a thing that makes you realize just how committed you really are.
This year was my first winter driving the box truck for the Paonia Food Movement — and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous. Deliveries mean crossing McClure Pass, and anyone who’s driven it in winter knows it can turn from beautiful to treacherous in a heartbeat.
Snow-packed switchbacks. Sudden whiteouts. Long stretches with no services. And me — in a box truck — with two dogs riding shotgun.
So instead of letting anxiety simmer all season, I decided to prepare.
First came the practical upgrades: brand new snow tires and a set of chains. Non-negotiable. But then my mind wandered to a bigger question:
If we got stuck up there overnight… what would we need?
That’s when the list started growing.
Food and water for me and the dogs.
A backup heater.
Extra human layers.
Extra dog layers.
Sleeping bag. Sleeping pad. Blankets.
Headlamps. Batteries. First aid kit.
And if we were truly snowed in? Why not make it survivable — maybe even a little adventurous.
So yes, I added my cross-country skis. And dog booties. Because if a ski out became the safest option, I wanted it to be possible.
At some point I looked at the pile staged in my driveway — a small mountain of preparedness — and just laughed. It felt a little dramatic. But it also felt grounding. Like claiming responsibility for the road ahead instead of fearing it.
The truth is, building a resilient local food system isn’t just about sourcing and selling. It’s about showing up — in all conditions. It’s about getting the food over the pass even when winter reminds you who’s in charge. It’s about taking the risks seriously and preparing well enough that fear doesn’t run the show.
I snapped a photo of the haul before loading it into the truck — proof of my “just in case” era.
And you know what? I never had to spend the night on the pass.
But I drove differently this winter. Calmer. Slower. More confident. Because I knew that if the mountain had other plans, we were ready.
Resilience isn’t bravado.
It’s snow tires, chains, extra dog food — and the willingness to prepare for the long night, even if it never comes.