Every year, I renew my Minnesota State Park pass. It’s always on my windshield — a little square sticker that catches the sunlight just right — even if I don’t make it out to the parks as often as I used to.
It might not sound like much, but to me, that pass means hope.
I live right next door to a state park, and for years it was like my second home. From spring through fall, I was there nearly five days a week — hiking, taking photos, or just breathing in the scent of pine and damp earth. It was my place to think, or not think at all. Just be.
And I wasn’t alone. My Newfoundland mix, Koda, was my constant companion. He was big, goofy, and endlessly patient with me — and with everyone else, too. Every Friday, a mother and her daughter would come down to the river. Her daughter had special needs, and one day, Koda just knew. He gently nudged his way over, tail wagging, and started playing with her. The little girl laughed — full, bright belly laughs. Her mom teared up and said she hadn’t heard that sound in years.
That moment stuck with me. That’s what the park is for — connection, healing, joy. It’s more than trails and trees. It’s life happening quietly all around us.
Of course, not every memory is that poetic. Like the day Koda decided he was done walking and laid down right in the river. There I was, trying not to slip or fall in myself, while also making sure his giant, happy head stayed above water. He looked absolutely content, as if the current was his personal spa treatment. People down at the river where laughing hysterically as I struggled with him
And then there was the time we accidentally ended up on a trail that turned out way steeper than I expected. My balance isn’t the best, and before I could panic, Koda stepped in front of me, pressed against my legs, and side-stepped all the way down that hill — slowly, carefully — letting me lean on him the whole way. He was my silly boy, but he was also my steady ground.
These days, I can’t walk those trails like I used to. My body doesn’t always cooperate. But every year, I still buy that state park pass — because it’s not just a sticker. It’s a promise to myself.
It’s my reminder that I still belong out there — under the trees, by the river, with the wind on my face.
I love seeing more Minnesota parks adding all-terrain wheelchairs, making nature more accessible for people like me. It’s a small thing that means the world. It tells us, “You’re still welcome here.”
So yes, that little pass stays on my windshield. It’s more than a ticket for entry — it’s a symbol of hope, of connection, and of the simple truth that nature doesn’t give up on us.
Sometimes, hope looks like a sticker.