My nephews and I have created this tradition that every Thanksgiving I drive my family up to my old hometown in Alabama and after we have our big meal that is usually around twelve in the afternoon we go up to Oak Mountain and hike up to Peavine Falls. Oak Mountain is a huge State Park near Birmingham and is probably one of the most beautiful places I have ever visited. Now, one thing I always do is, when I am at the top of Red Mountain I would always survey the neighboring mountain tops for Vulcan. Now, Vulcan is the largest cast iron statue in the world and it too sits atop Red Mountain so I am surveying the tops of all the surrounding peaks but I can’t see him, I never do. Then I launch into my usual speech about how much I wish we could take a side quest to Vulcan before heading home but there is no way it would be open that late… or would it? I had equipped my phone now with the latest in AI technology that even James Bond would feel a twinge of jealousy about as I asked ChatGPT what Vulcan’s hours were. I was blown away when I saw it was open until ten. I immediately rounded up the children and made the twenty minute drive to Vulcan Park. It was a very short drive so it was not long before we were coming up the road taking us up the mountain when we saw him. Vulcan, the largest cast iron statue ever made in the world. The gray steel colour was outlined in the dark blue sky standing high on his pedestal reaching up towards the sky. It was nearly sunset. We first headed into the museum to get our tickets to go to the top of Vulcan but we were once struck with a kind providence as we were informed that their computer systems were down and therefore we would not be charged. We were given our official post it note and made our way over to the pedestal that Vulcan sat atop. The entire monument was being renovated so naturally the lifts were out but that was fine by me as I was interested in seeing the guts of the statues as we lumbered our way up. The pedestal was a stone mason style that felt like an old turn of the century design. Accurate since it was made in the early nineteen hundreds. The bottom of the stairs was a white marble room with the stairs starting on the right and wrapping around the wall going to the left. After going up the original stairs the marbles gives way to a dark stone. The original walls of the statue. Going up the only hint to how high you are is the thin windows. Approaching the top, the large steel doors open to an outside view of downtown Birmingham from almost two hundred feet above Red Mountain. I am actually slightly averted to heights but I can never say no to a breathtaking view and the thrill of filming it. As I stepped outside into the cold high altitude breeze I could see the lights of downtown lighting up and in the distance the sky was a deep red being washed out slowly by a black star dotted sky. I made my way slowly walking around the entire deck and seeing the entire three hundred and sixty degree view that Vulcan offered. There is something almost spiritual for me being in places like this. I had visited Vulcan years ago when I was a kid and it was an inside observation room and you couldn’t see Vulcan but just the surrounding view but now being outside in the wind looking up and seeing the great cast iron olympian and not only see the view but really feel. The grating was a little bit of a shock when I realized I could see all the way to the ground. After taking a moment to really take in the view I had been waiting to see for years I took my time climbing back down the stairs. I felt like I was leaving a friend’s house that I knew I wouldn’t be seeing again for a very long time and it was a little sad. Before leaving though we took a walk through the Museum at Vulcan Park, spoiler alert, there is a celebrity housed there, Bill for Capitol Hill, if you know you know. Making my way back to my ride I stopped and turned around and took a moment to really let the moment sink in, to really let it settle in my memory before heading back. If you are ever in Birmingham, Alabama I highly recommend a stop to enjoy it. Sunset, in my opinion, is the very best time. Until next time dear adventurers, God bless you, St. Brendan travel with you, and may you always find the right trail.
NYE in the Wild: Lake Delancy, Ocala National Forest
New Year’s is the trip I always wait for—the one I plan hardest and look forward to most. Since 2020, it’s become a tradition: camping out the turn of the year, welcoming whatever comes next from deep in the woods. This year, Adam and I returned to one of our favorite spots—Lake Delancy, tucked away deep in the heart of the Ocala National Forest.
As with any good adventure, getting there wasn’t without its surprises.
I’d booked the site for December 30th and 31st so we could roll in easy, set up camp, and settle in. My driving, however, started on the 29th when while loading gear, Adam called—naturally I did the responsible thing and ignored it. Then came the text: “We have an issue.”
My heart skipped. I called him immediately.
With a laugh, he said, “I knew that would get your attention.” His truck repairs weren’t finished, and the truck he was using couldn’t haul the extra dirt bike Chris would need when he joined us on New Year’s Eve. This meant I needed to load my ATV, drive an hour south to Sarasota, pick up the dirt bike, head back home, finish packing, and be ready to roll the next morning.
Simple enough…
I loaded up the Foreman and headed south, hung out with Adam for a bit, strapped down the dirt bike, and made the return trip. Back home, I finished packing everything else—camp gear, food, tools, layers, and a banger play list that would leave the forest in awe, undoubtedly bringing out all natures creatures in curiosity of the awesome music. The next morning, we met at Publix, stocked up on supplies, and formed a little convoy to pick up Leonor.
This trip was special—it was Leonor’s first tent camping trip, and our first together. Sharing my favorite tradition with her was very special to me.
The drive took about two and a half hours. When we turned onto the Forest Service Road—pockmarked, dusty, and barely maintained—my heart swelled. That road means remoteness. Quiet. Freedom. We passed the familiar sign: “Welcome to the Ocala National Forest.” That sign always feels like crossing a threshold—into the bush, into God’s country, where the wild things are.
Adam had already arrived and pitched his tent. We wasted no time setting ours up, Leonor helping lay out blankets and gear since we knew the temperature would be dropping fast. As the sun slipped behind the trees, Adam grinned and said, “About time to get the fire going.”
Dinner that night was chicken thighs with squash and zucchini, the veggies chopped by Leonor and cooked to perfection by Adam. It was one of those meals that makes everyone go silent for a while—nothing but the sound of chewing, fire popping, and my occasional “Mmmmm”.
As we were swallowed by the dark, the cold had settled in hard. Around 35 degrees and falling. We walked laps around camp, half-hoping to spot the bear Adam and I had seen on a previous trip. But after several rounds, it became clear: it was too cold for anything to be moving, including Old Smokey.
Leonor and I turned in first. The rest of the night was brutal.
The temperature dropped to 28 degrees—bone-deep, painful cold. My feet ached. I shivered uncontrollably. None of us slept. At first light, I got up immediately, Adam built a fire, and we stood in the sun slowly defrosting. I’ve slept in cold places—reenactments, winter camps—but this was the coldest night I’ve ever endured.
Breakfast fixed everything. Runny eggs, bacon, cheese, Wonder Bread—Adam has this ability to create a feast anywhere we are, it is one of his superpowers. After eating, Leonor and I drove about 30 minutes into town for more firewood, blankets, hand warmers, food, and water.
Back at camp, it was finally time to ride.
We unleashed the machines and disappeared into the Ocala backcountry—Adam leading on the dirt bike, me close behind on the ATV with Leonor holding tight. Out there, far from everything, the noise of the world falls away. All that’s left is peace. Pine, sand, sky. Truly wild Florida.
After the ride, I sent the drone up and captured a bird’s-eye view of Lake Delancy and the endless green ocean of forest stretching to the horizon. It truly moves you in a way I find difficult to articulate. A feeling of adventure and beauty, awe and excitement.
That night’s dinner was ribs—the best ribs I’ve ever eaten. As the fire crackled, we counted down the final moments of 2025. In the distance coyotes howled at the moon adding a beauty and calm to the darkness of the night. When midnight hit, we all celebrated another glorious year and shouted, “HAPPY NEW YEAR!” Another year closed the right way.
That night, we were ready for the cold. Two socks with a hand warmer sandwiched between them, extra blankets, sleeping bag layered just right. I slept like a rock—confirmed by my snoring, which Leonor kindly pointed out the next morning. A brutal first night, followed by a perfect one.
As we packed up to leave, nostalgia tugged at me. Leonor and I took one last slow walk around Lake Delancy, and I told her stories—past trips, mishaps, and my favorite: the night we followed a black bear I’d happily nicknamed Old Smokey.
“I always see something,” I said. “I hate that this time—when you’re with me—we didn’t.”
I hadn’t even finished the sentence when a black bear cub wandered calmly through camp.
We stopped. Took photos and video. Followed at a safe distance while alerting others. Campers watched in awe as the bear passed through, unbothered, wild, and perfect. A gift from God—a beautiful sendoff.
Ocala will always be special to me. And Lake Delancy will always feel like home.
If you ever get the chance, go. You might just find paradise.
Cruise to CocoCay – Day 1
When my alarm went off at 6:30, it felt like I had only blinked. My eyelids were heavier than my own luggage. I dragged myself up, got ready, and caught a ride to Leonor’s place — we were traveling with her parents. The drive over was very pleasant, though I was given the usual send-off reminder: “Don’t get drunk and don’t embarrass yourself, Danny.” A tall order, but I felt oddly up to the challenge.
We left around 8 a.m. for the three-and-a-half-hour drive to Fort Lauderdale. I didn’t mind the road trip, not at all, it was my bladder did. About two hours in, I was starting to feel my teeth float, thankfully I was rescued when Leonor’s mom called for a pit stop to pick up some snacks. After that, we were back on the highway and soon pulling into Port of call. That may be the wrong term but it sounds nice.
Once we’d shown our passports to confirm we weren’t terrorists or troublemakers, we searched for a parking space — not exactly straightforward, but I was too distracted to care. I couldn’t take my eyes off the ship. The Oasis of the Seas stood before us like a floating skyscraper, dwarfing everything around it. I had no idea just how massive it really was until later.
Pushing my bag up the gangway, I stepped aboard and was immediately swallowed by the crowd — passengers everywhere, most headed straight for their staterooms. This made using the lifts more of a practice of breathe holding and yoga exercises as fitting into the lift one would have to contort themselves into a small crack between two other blokes who were well into using their drink package, which I didn’t get this time but that’s neither here nor there.
Our stateroom was on Deck 12, starboard-side aft in shippy lingo — Room 684. I dropped my bag and practically leapt across the bed to the balcony. The door took me a minute to figure out — “very shippy” style lock again, very cool I thought to myself as I said come on Dan outsmart the door now, but once open, I was taken back by the view. It was unbelievable. We were as high as a building, part of this massive floating city.
After a quick change, Leonor and I headed down to meet her parents on Deck 9. Their stateroom mirrored ours — cozy, with a queen-size bed, a couch, a few dressers, and a small safe which I made very good use of. Once everyone was ready, it was time for lunch.
We took the lift to Deck 8, rounded a corner, and stepped into Central Park. I’m not exaggerating when I say it is a literal park — trees, plants, open sky — right in the middle of the ship. Looking up, you could see the decks rising like an apartment complex around this oasis of greenery.
A coffee shop, bakery, and pizza shop along with other restaurants and shops along the path of trees. I grabbed a coffee, Leonor got a slice, and her dad went for a sandwich. From there, we wandered toward the Boardwalk at the rear or aft in ship talk.
It was like stepping into a seaside carnival: a hot-dog stand that served not just hot dogs but huge bratwurst, a candy shop, a Johnny Rockets, and a beach shop — even an enormous water slide curling down from the ship’s top deck to the ground in the Boardwalk. Past that was the Aqua Theater, where the water shows would take place. This ship just never stopped.
After exploring, we returned to our stateroom so I could take in one of the moments I’d been waiting for: departure.
I stood on the balcony, waiting like those movie characters waving from a ship as the crowd on shore waves back. The ship’s horns sounded — several short blasts followed by one long, this was the horn sounding the ship was ready to get underway. The ship shuddered, then began to glide away from the dock, slowly at first, then faster, cutting through the harbor waters. This massive city making its way to the sea.
We passed several fishermen casting their lines, waving up at us as we waved back. The whole thing felt surreal — cinematic.
Leonor suggested a walk to the top deck, and I thought “That’s Brilliant!”. I even poured my “signature” drink: a double shot of Jameson Irish Whiskey, neat — with a Sprite on the side so Leonor could enjoy some too. Normally, I take it with Coke, but who cares about that.
We wandered around the pool, grabbed free ice cream which was amazing, and just stood there together, watching the sea stretch endlessly. The moment was still and sacred.
I remembered a line from Khalil Gibran:
“There must be something strangely sacred about salt. It is in our tears and in the sea.”
And standing there, surrounded by the smell of salt and the sound of waves, I understood what he meant.
Dan Goes Outside 