There’s something I’ve noticed about living in Buckhorn that didn’t hit me until recently. It’s not profound or life-changing, but it explains a lot about how people interact around here and why, every now and then, I feel like I stick out a little. Buckhorn is, at its core, a blue-collar town. Not in a stereotypical way, but in a practical, grounded, “you work with your hands and you get things done” kind of way.
Most of the year, the people you see in the restaurants are the same crowd: forestry workers, renovation crews, builders, landscapers, sand and gravel operators — all of them coming in with beards, ballcaps, steel-toed boots, and the kind of exhaustion that comes from lifting, hauling, hammering, and tearing things down. They talk shop because their work is real work — work you can point to at the end of the day and say, “I built that,” or “We cleared a lot of fallen branches after the storm.” Even most of the servers and bartenders are part of that rhythm, having grown up around it or married into it.
And then there’s me.
Not in the sense that I’m better or worse — just different. My world revolves around writing, communications, interviews, technology, media, features, and trying to explain things like PoE switches to people who don’t know they exist. I don’t walk into the restaurant with sawdust on my boots or drywall dust on my hoodie or coveralls. I walk in with a laptop bag and an inbox I’m mentally sorting through. I’m not the only non-blue-collar person here, but I’m definitely in the minority. The only three locals (I know) who are similar are a real estate agent who deals in commercial properties, a lady who works in HR and talent acquisition, and an investment broker. Four people in the whole town whose work lives are built around conversations rather than construction.
Maybe that’s why we stand out.
But what’s fascinating is how the whole dynamic changes when summer rolls around. Suddenly, Buckhorn fills up with university students looking for seasonal work — and the students couldn’t be more different from the blue-collar backbone of the town. One is studying nursing. Another’s in neurobiology. Someone else is in business, education, or environmental science. They show up in April or May, work hard all summer at a restaurant making a small fortune in tips, and head back to campus in the fall like nothing ever happened.
And here’s the interesting part: the students relate to me immediately.
It doesn’t matter that there’s a 40-year age gap. They hear “writing,” “tech,” “media,” or “journalism,” and instantly recognize that I’m part of the world they’re heading into — the world of ideas, strategy, creativity, and career paths. They’re thinking about internships and future jobs. They’re trying to build résumés and figure out life. I’ve lived the road they’re preparing to walk. And because of that, the conversations feel natural. Easy. Familiar.
Meanwhile, the year-round locals — the forestry guys, the gravel guys, the builders — float in and out like clockwork, seeing these students for just a few months before the whole crowd turns over again.
Then there are the summer tourists. That’s another world entirely. People from Toronto, Ottawa, Boston, or wherever else roll into town on boats, in SUVs, or spend the summer in rented or owned cottages. They’re business owners, managers, professionals, and retirees with time and disposable income. They bring a different energy. Different conversations. Different expectations. The whole restaurant shifts when they show up: it becomes a blend of blue-collar, white-collar, students, vacationers, and locals, all sharing the same space.
Maybe that’s why I feel more “at home” in Buckhorn in the summer, while at the same time, enjoy the quieter seasons. The population temporarily swells with people from the same kind of career landscape I do. People who have lived through layoffs, deadlines, presentations, job interviews, commutes, and industries that shift under their feet every few years. They’re people who understand what it’s like to make a living with your brain instead of your back. And just like that, the whole place feels a little more familiar.
And yet, I’ve learned to appreciate both worlds. The year-round blue-collar crowd has a grounded, no-nonsense way of moving through life. They don’t overthink things. They work until the job is done and often on weekends. They take pride in what they build. There’s a simplicity to that mindset that I admire. And the summer crowd — with their business degrees, nursing programs, and neurobiology textbooks — brings a pulse of curiosity, ambition, and conversation that makes the town feel connected to the bigger world outside the Trent-Severn waterways.
Somewhere in the middle of all that is where I live — not entirely blue collar, not fully summer tourist, not fully student. Just someone who came here during a hard part of life, started over, and ended up observing very different worlds collide in a surprisingly harmonious way.
Maybe that’s the beauty of Buckhorn. It’s a place where people who build things and people who think things can sit in the same restaurant, order the same wings, nod to each other, and coexist without ever needing to fit into the same mold.
And that’s why I’ve learned to appreciate this place more than I ever expected.
John Berkovich Talks 