Vacation – Off the Grid

😅 “I’m Going Off-Grid and Might Cry About It”

Starting today, I’ll be disappearing into the wilderness for eight days. Not metaphorically—literally. We’re talking no cell service, no internet, no technology, no Google to settle pointless debates, and no way to check if my email is on fire.

I’m going with 26 other brave souls (so no, I haven’t lost all my common sense), and we do have satellite communication for emergencies—so while it’s not dangerous, it is what I would describe as technologically lonely.

I’m debating whether to bring a battery pack to keep my Apple Watch alive, mostly so I can track how many steps I take before my legs give out. I might keep my phone charged to take some pictures… but with no signal, it’ll basically be an overpriced camera with trust issues. I’m also kind of excited to test the satellite SOS feature on the iPhone 16 Pro. Not that I want to use it, but you know… Science.

Here’s the thing: I’ve done “unplugged weekends” before, but this is different. This time, it won’t just be that I choose not to check in. I can’t. Even if I wanted to. Even if I suddenly needed to know the weather in Cleveland or whether OneDrive is syncing properly. (It’s not. Let’s be honest.)

Most of my adult life, even when on vacation, I’ve kept a laptop nearby “just in case.” I’ve never taken a true “step off the grid” vacation. This one? Total blackout. And my brain is already pacing nervously in the background asking, “But what if we need to code?”

Because let’s face it: I won’t be able to write any PowerShell. No Get-ADUser, no scheduled tasks, no glorious logging to C:\temp\powershell-exports. And—brace yourself—no ChatGPT to help when I forget the syntax. Just me and my memory. Which is built on caffeine, sarcasm, and Tab autocomplete.

This trip is with people from church, but it’s not a church retreat. So we’re not chanting or fasting—we’re just going to sweat, carry boats over our heads, and try not to eat freeze-dried regret for dinner.

We’ll be canoeing through the wilderness, portaging between lakes (which is a fancy word for “pick up your canoe and carry it like a medieval backpack”), and finding a random patch of earth to sleep on every night. Rinse, repeat, probably cry once or twice. For eight days.

To spice things up, I only know about 4 or 5 people going. Which means I’ll have to make small talk with strangers in the woods. As an extrovert, I do like people—but I’m more of a “talk for three hours with someone I already know” kind of guy, not a “start a conversation in the forest while swatting bugs” type.

Now, let’s talk personality: I’m not an optimist. I’m not a pessimist. I’m what you might call a realist with a deeply committed overthinking habit. Optimists think I’m too negative. Pessimists think I’m weirdly hopeful. I just like to call things like they are—then maybe analyze them from twelve different angles while pretending I’ve let it go.

I love God, my family, and my job—in that order. (Though let’s be real, sometimes I mix them up, and it shows.) I want to live in that order. This trip gives me a chance to sit with that, wrestle with it, and maybe come back with less stress and more clarity. Or at least better calf muscles.

As I’m writing this—actually dictating this—I’m on a training hike with 60 pounds on my back. That’s not a typo. I was in the Army, so I know how to suffer for a cause. But let’s be honest, being a better husband, father, Christian, or leader doesn’t always involve pain you can train for—it’s the daily “die to yourself” kind. And I don’t always get that right.

So yeah, this trip might be physically exhausting. It might be mentally stretching. It might make me say “never again” multiple times. But I hope it also becomes one of those turning points—where you unplug just long enough to remember what really matters.

Pray I don’t get eaten by a bear. Or worse, have to debug something without a terminal.