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When I was seven, I ran my own travel show. Somewhere, in a box at my mom's house, there's a VHS tape to prove it. Watch it—if you can dig up a VCR and endure some very 1980s graphics—and you'll see me stride into frame, grinning with the confidence of a tiny Ryan Seacrest, and announce: 'Welcome to our indoor, outdoor fun. You'd better grab some popcorn because it's going to be VERY, VERY funny.'
The rest of the tape is me hopping between 'exotic' locales: showing off my bunnies, tearing down the street at 'lightning speed' on my bike, and performing my (extremely beginner) piano for what feels like forever.
I'm cringing just remembering it. But even as I do, a smile sneaks onto my face.
Everything seems so simple when you're a kid. You dream up incredible expeditions and pack your best friends—your treasured toys and pets—along for the ride. No complications, no fine print.
And you just KNOW that when you grow up, you'll actually live those dreams. You swear you'll make way better choices than the uptight adults around you and turn every fantasy into reality.
But bit by bit, without ever intending to, you become those adults. Your parents' worries become yours. That dreaded phrase 'one day...' starts leaving your mouth, and it takes something huge to pull you back to the sky-size ideas you once held so tightly.
Which is exactly where this story begins: October 7, 2015, in the ER of my local hospital.
Image: Cindy Hughes/MuddyLove.com
Like you, I'd always dreamed of traveling with my dogs, and by my early 30s my 'one day...' had ripened into a full vision. Not that I'd act on it. No, no—I kept it tucked safely in the back of my mind for special occasions, like avoiding responsibility by daydreaming. But I'd worked it all out: 'one day' I'd take my dogs clear across North America, ocean to ocean. Over picture-perfect peaks, endless wheat fields, and glassy lakes—all bookended by the seas we'd swim in. We'd stargaze with the dogs curled around us, and it would be...
We're in a hospital, remember? Hooked up to machines at two a.m. Or did you forget?
It seems like the worst possible moment to be daydreaming, but trust me—when everything gets stripped away and you're facing a life-altering diagnosis, your 'one days...' are the ONLY thing on your mind. And as they start slipping away, you panic:
'What if I never get to ______? Why didn't I ______? Oh god, what have I done?'
And over the next five months, mostly bedbound with an undiagnosed neurological condition—at times unable to speak or walk—I started planning the trip.
Which sounds absolutely insane now. I had no idea whether I'd ever be well enough to go. But while my husband Dustin tried to hold our lives together, I spent day after day alone in bed with my three best friends—my Huskies, Eve, Ice, and Montana—dreaming of the adventures we'd share the moment I recovered.
So I did what any (not so) sane person would do: I started Googling pet-friendly hotels, mapping out driving routes across Canada, and trying to figure out how to fit months of food and gear inside a Mazda 3 hatchback.
I kept thinking: this is just survival fantasy; we can't afford any of it; there's no way anyone will let three Huskies into an Airbnb, let alone a hotel; Canadian weather is a logistical nightmare—leave too early and we'll freeze, leave too late and the dogs will bake in the summer. Was this even possible?
'When everything is stripped away and you're faced with a life-altering illness, it's the ONLY thing you think about.'
So many questions: how many hours a day could the dogs handle in the car? Would they sleep in a tent without eating it? Can dogs even ride on ferries?
But with my dogs as my anchor—their endless joy a doorway back to the magic of my childhood self—it all started to come together. And on April 27, 2016, six months after my first hospital visit (most of it spent in bed), we hit the road, headed for the far west coast of Canada to camp on a Tofino, BC beach and paddle in the Pacific.
Three Huskies, two humans, and one grubby white hatchback—a rolling journey we named Huskies in the Hatch.
In under three months we drove across all 10 Canadian provinces (and back), over snow-capped Alberta peaks, around impossible turquoise lakes, and through the Saskatchewan grasslands. We squeezed in mini-adventures, threw epic dance parties to our 'if-I-hear-this-song-one-more-time' playlist, and tucked into warm blankets with room service when the rain rolled in.
And when we reached the East coast, camping on bluffs above the Atlantic, I remember one crystal-clear moment: the girls tearing down a miles-long beach, splashing into the waves, and me dropping to my knees and sobbing with pure joy.
It was the strangest feeling—living a dream while being completely aware you're in it, trying to wrap yourself in it and drink it all in. This was it. Everything I'd dreamed about lying in bed. Everything my childhood self had wished for us as adults.
There were SO many picture-perfect moments. But the stories behind them mattered just as much. Like the running gag: me shooting a million photos while the dogs stared in opposite directions and Dustin hollered at me to hurry up. Let me tell you, getting three Huskies to look the same way... ever... is nearly impossible.
And then there were the not-so-perfect moments—the chaos.
The camping misadventures in snow we never planned for. Nights spent soaked in relentless rain, miles from anywhere, sleeping upright in the car. Our ginger Husky Montana needing emergency surgery. Me accidentally kicking out the windshield in a downpour an hour before a ferry. Even the trip's unofficial ending in Quebec—where I ended up back in the hospital and the whole journey became a rescue mission to get me home. I wouldn't trade a single second of it for all the money in the world.
They say never meet your idols because they can't live up to the hype, but let me tell you—that trip, those memories... I can't even type through the tears. They're what carried me through the next three years bedbound. They're what saw me through convalescence and back to my life, back to the mountains with my dogs.
It's as if my childhood self knew I needed this adventure to survive the hardest chapter of my life—and to unlock a skill we so often lose somewhere in adolescence: the ability to live in the moment, to venture.
People always ask: would you go back? Would you do it all again, even knowing it's wrapped up in illness?
Yes. A million times yes, because I found my way back to myself. Sometimes, pulling into the car to run errands, I get the urge to just keep driving with the dogs—up to Alaska or down the Oregon coast. And I want to suggest something to you. Or maybe not you, but the little boy or girl inside you who's screaming for one big adventure:
It doesn't have to include a life-changing illness.
Don't wait that long. Don't make life FORCE you down the road you're meant to travel. Go willingly, before you have to. Go back to that child sitting in a cardboard-box airplane, exploring with their dog—or toy dog—the companion who holds the key to their hopes and dreams, and find that wonder all over again.
Our story is a journey of Huskies, happiness, and, in the end, a return to health.
Gear Picks for Adventurous Dogs & Their People!
Portable Food & Water Station - This Dexas collapsible feeder folds flat for easy packing and storage. (from $10, dexas.com)
A Road Trip Essential! - Safely protect your vehicle with 4knine's comfy, waterproof, easy-to-clean seat and cargo covers. (from $60, 4knines.com)
The Road Less Cycled - Ride with your dog! The Bike Tow Leash lets dogs from 10 to 186 pounds trot safely alongside your bike. ($146, biketowleash.com)
Follow Sonia's pack on YouTube, IG, or FB @huskiesinthehatch
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