Rain, wind, snow. Sometimes it feels as if nature keeps inventing excuses for us to stay inside. Skip the run. Delay the work in the apiary. Tell ourselves, “Not today.”
But discipline isn’t about waiting for perfect conditions. It’s about accepting the ones we’re given.
This Saturday, nature tested me in its own way. At home we only got a thin layer of snow, barely enough to color the fields. But about 350 meters higher, above our village, winter had already settled in. Up there you could find fifteen to twenty centimeters of fresh snow.
The weather didn’t invite me. It didn’t motivate me. And yet… I went.
Into the Heart of Winter
The path to Korinjski vrh (Korinj) is familiar. First the bare road leading to Laze, then three steep climbs. At the end of the village a trail turns right into the forest and continues toward the summit.
That’s where winter truly began. Snow on the branches, a soft white film over the ground, and a silence so dense it almost hummed. The path became a quiet line winding upward, drawing me into a completely different world.
There was no view on the top — the clouds hung low and wrapped everything in a pale grey. Still, the feeling was powerful. Running on a snow-covered trail has something raw and joyful in it. It wakes up the child in you, the one who gets excited at the first sign of winter. Your legs feel lighter, the mind clearer, and that one hour on the trail passes in what feels like a moment.
Some time ago, a local mountain enthusiast told me about a project he’s been working on: a metal plaque that will one day mark more than two hundred peaks visible from Korinjski vrh. He shared how much work, measuring and patience goes into something like that. The plaque isn’t up there yet, but the idea is alive — a reminder that dedication rarely grows out of comfort.
If you don’t go, you don’t have a story
Years ago a Slovenian brand printed this sentence on a T-shirt, and it stuck with me. It says everything. Stories aren’t born from comfort. They come from choosing to step out when it would be easier to stay home.
Back at the house, with the fire crackling, I watched the video I took on the summit. It made me think about how easily we forget that winter isn’t a season for shutting down. It’s just a different rhythm. Nature rests, but we still need movement, fresh air, and moments that reset the mind.
It’s the same with beekeeping. When it rains or snows, there’s less to do outside — but never nothing. Inside the AZ hive room, there’s always something to fix, prepare or improve. Discipline isn’t dictated by the weather. It’s shaped by attitude.
When it rains, I run.
When it snows, I run.
And when the weather works against me, I still take care of the bees — because there’s always something worth doing.
Accepting the conditions is part of the practice. And in that acceptance, there’s a surprising amount of freedom.
If reflections like this speak to you…
… follow the blog. I share stories where running, beekeeping and life intersect. Maybe one of them nudges you forward on your own path.
