We landed in Vancouver mid-afternoon, still groggy from the flight but carrying that familiar, electric feeling that comes just before a big road trip. It’s a mix of nerves, wonder, and a few airport drinks. Our Uber weaved through long stretches of suburbia, where one thing immediately jumped out: the hedges. Towering, geometric, absolutely everywhere. Not just trimmed but sculpted, like Vancouver was holding a regional hedge art competition. If anyone from the West Coast can explain the city’s hedge agenda, I’m all ears.
After a quick pickup from our camper van “hosts”, Sarah and David, we found ourselves standing next to what looked more like a mobile apartment than a vehicle. Twenty feet long and dubbed the “Green Juice”, our 2005 Ford 250 Econoline felt less like a van and more like a very wobbly rectangle. Sarah handed us a guide of the van with some local recs while their puppy Bailey rolled around cutely (as dogs do) and then we were off.
The van took its time getting up to speed. She basically topped out at a proud 80 kilometres per hour, with all the urgency of an aging labrador trying to sprint. But we made it to Horseshoe Bay with just enough time to board the ferry and watch the Vancouver skyline shrink into the ocean and surrounding mountains.
Nanaimo greeted us on the other side with salted air and an immediate shift in rhythm. The roads narrowed. Forests pressed closer. We took a detour to The Old Country Market in Coombs, the one with goats grazing casually on the grass roof like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Around the back we saw a crowd of people and heard an MC. Walking over we realized we had accidentally wandered into someone’s prom. We dipped quickly at that sight and bought some fresh berries and cured meats instead. Their candied salmon was the kind of good that makes you instantly regret not buying double.
That night, we faced our first test: every campground in the area was booked. With daylight slipping, we took the van off the main road and into the tangle of old logging roads. If you’ve never off-roaded in a top-heavy camper, I envy your spine. Eventually, we settled on a hidden spot just outside Whiskey Creek, not far from a group of off-roaders in a tricked-out caravan. Their party echoed faintly down the valley. We parked, ate our cured meats, and quietly celebrated our first night on the road.
The next morning was all waterfalls and stillness. We started at Little Qualicum Falls, where icy water carved through moss-covered rock. The mist clung to everything. Then came Sproat Lake, mirror-still and framed by trees that seemed older than time.
Taylor River was next and a wake-up call in every sense. Glacially-fed, sharp as needles, the kind of water that steals your breath the second you hit it. I swam halfway across before my body locked up from the cold. The water was colder than anything I’d ever felt. I turned back, defeated, my pride still floating somewhere on the far shore. (Even after this Julia still had to convince me not to cliff jump and swim even further down the river to get back).
We stopped at the Kennedy Lake Viewpoint later on to warm up and catch our breath. The views were ridiculous with cliffs rising out of thick trees, lakes that looked bottomless, and that unreal BC haze that softens everything like a painting.
The road into Ucluelet tested every nerve. It twisted through mountains, guardrails optional, with steep drops just beyond the shoulder. Driving a 20-foot camper through it felt like navigating a cargo ship through a riverbend. But when we finally rolled into Ucluelet, it felt like a reward. The air smelled like seaweed and salt. Our first stop was the Ucluelet Aquarium, Canada’s first catch-and-release aquarium. It was small but endlessly fascinating. Every tank was full of life pulled straight from the ocean outside its doors. Julia and I were obsessed.
Dinner plans at Jiggers Fish & Chips were dashed, so we settled on Frankie’s. “Settled” might be the wrong word, the fish was still miles better than anything we’ve had in Ontario. There’s something different about seafood when it’s caught just down the road.
That night, we checked into the so-called “campground” at Mackenzie Beach Resort in Tofino. Picture a glamping influencer’s dream, a Coachella-esque site but for the stomp & holler crowd full of refurbished Airstreams, outdoor string lights, and private hot tubs. Our reality? A cramped patch of ground nestled between a wall of trees and five other campsites. But we had the beach, and that was more than enough.
Julia turned in early, and I wandered down to the ocean alone, a bag of Hawkins Cheezies in hand. The sky was a striking hazy dark golden glow. The tide was low. It felt like standing at the edge of the world, where everything goes quiet just before it turns to memory.
The next morning, we surfed. We took a lesson with Surf Sister on North Chesterman Beach. Julia caught her first wave within minutes and made it look easy, absolutely crushed it. I got cocky, tried to tackle the bigger waves, and ended up drinking more of the Pacific than anyone should in a lifetime. But I get the hype. Surfing is addicting. Even the failure is fun and we’ll definitely be taking it up back on the Great Lakes.
We headed into Tofino afterwards and treated ourselves with some slices at Savary Island Pie Co. I don’t know what Lemon Buttermilk sorcery they’re working with, but it changed me. More smoked sockeye from House of Himwitsa followed (I had a borderline dependency at this point).
Wandering through Tofino that afternoon we stocked up on a shameless merch run filling our arms with stickers, shirts, and hats, then finally getting to the institution that is Tacofino. The albacore tuna taco deserves its own paragraph. It was citrusy, perfectly cooked, wrapped in a warm tortilla, and full of umami.
From there, we made our way back across the island, stopping at Cathedral Grove. The trees there were ancient and impossibly tall. With towering Douglas Firs straight out of Twin Peaks that blocked out the sky. The air felt older, heavier. Standing beneath them felt like visiting elders you didn’t know you had. We wandered for a while looking for this odd gnarled tree I had seen online but never found it. Still, I’d go back just to stand under those magnificent giants again.
On the way up to Nanoose we stopped at the Log Cabin General Store, where the owner sent us off with a solid “Good to go, Buffalo.” Classic.
In Nanoose, we found a quieter campground with real space and sky. That night, another ocean sunset. This one shared. No Cheezies this time, just warm light and tired smiles.
We caught low tide the next morning and walked the beach. Millions of tiny crabs skittered like the sand was alive. It felt like stepping into a secret world that only exists for a few hours each day.
Back in Nanaimo, we stopped for lunch at Umai Sushi. I don’t say this lightly: top three sushi experiences of my life. The fish tasted like it had been caught that morning, maybe even that hour. Cold take but it’s gotta be said at this point, BC fish hits different.
Through a food coma, a blur of traffic, and a hectic ferry schedule we were back on the boat to the mainland and where we shared a melancholy goodbye to the island.
After landing we headed north along the Sea to Sky Highway, one of the most beautiful drives I’ve ever done. Every curve in the road revealed a new jaw-dropping scene, waterfalls cascading down cliffs, snow-capped mountains rising through mist, forests layered like brushstrokes. And also a Walmart with the best backdrop ever.
Our site at the campground for the night faced Shannon Falls, and we didn’t even pay for the “waterfall view” upcharge. Pro tip: online site photos are everything.
We crossed the highway and hiked up to the pools at the top of Shannon Falls… eventually. Took a wrong turn for 40 minutes before I caved and downloaded AllTrails. We wouldn’t have seen a giant banana slug otherwise though. Everything has its place.
BC hikes don’t mess around. I thought I knew hiking. Ontario hiking. Cute, forested trails with gentle switchbacks, and “mountains”. This was loose rock, rope climbs, scrambling, sheer drops. It humbled me. But the views, man. You’d do it again in a second.
At the top of the Shannon Falls pools, everything felt sharper, greener, louder in the way only late spring manages. The water had carved out smooth bowls in the rock over centuries, and now rushed through them in ribbons of silver and white, crashing and calming in turns. We stood on a rock ledge that jutted out over one of the upper pools. From there, we could see the water spilling down in steps, disappearing into the forest below. In the distance, the cliffs cut sharp lines across the sky, and the clouds hung low enough to feel touchable.
The next day we were originally going to hike up the Black Tusk, but it was unfortunately off the table. Some hikers were stalked for two hours by cougars and all the trails and campsites around Mount Garibaldi were closed off for a week. Apparently it’s a pair of young siblings learning how to hunt and a group of armed park rangers had to escort everyone out of the area. Yikes.
Instead, we hit the old logging roads again and explored Mamquam Falls and the Squamish River. The short walk to the falls was shaded by cedar and fir, soft underfoot with moss and needles. We could hear the falls before we saw them, a low rush that grew louder with every step. When they finally came into view, they weren’t towering like Shannon, but they had their own power, a sheet of water pouring over another jagged cliffside into another emerald pool, framed by walls of green that looked almost unreal in the late morning light. No crowds, no fences, just the sound of water and the steady drift of mist clinging to our skin.
Afterwards we drove out to the Squamish River. It’s wide and glacier-fed, a milky turquoise with that unmistakable cold stillness that only comes from something ancient. There were sandbars stretching out into the current and clusters of driftwood stacked like fallen scaffolding. Lunch was at Howe Sound Brewing. More fish and chips. Still not tired of them.
The next day, we revisited Shannon Falls from the base. Even after hiking to the top, there was something grounding about seeing it from below. You don’t always have to chase the summit to feel the scale of something. (Shannon Falls is an easy pit stop if you’re heading up the Sea to Sky, but I cannot implore you enough to actually do the hike to the pools. Even though it’s grand at the bottom, please don’t just go to the tourist viewing area if you have the time).
Then it was on to some more sweet treats and another merch run. Alice & Brohm was a Sarah and David rec and they delivered big time. New Zealand-style ice cream made to order with fresh berries. I don’t know what makes it “New Zealand,” but I know it tasted like how the start of summer should.
For our last real day in BC, we ended the trip with The Chief. A monster of a hike. Steep, punishing, and somehow still fun once you forget how much your legs are burning. Right from the first step, it’s basically vertical. No gentle switchbacks or polite warning signs. Just roots, stairs, and rock faces daring you to keep going. The chains you cling to on the steeper parts are rusted. Some of the ladders look like they were thrown together by a bored park ranger with too much scrap metal and not enough supervision. But they hold.
By the time we reached the second peak, we were higher than the CN Tower. It’s hard to describe what that feels like being that far up, that far away from everything below. The wind was colder, sharper, but clean (even with the ongoing wildfires only a few KMs away). You could see the entire Squamish valley stretching out in front of us, with the sea behind and the mountains stacked endlessly beyond. It didn’t just feel like a reward. It felt like a reset.
Post hike lunch was a must and there’s nothing like burger and beer to quell that hunger. Flipside and A Frame got us right. Mac & Cheese bites were the surprise hit (another Sarah & David rec), and shoutout to the bartender for the Friends & Family discount on my second pint. Legend.
That night, we lit the propane firepit (because of the fire ban). We sat under the stars, waterfall roaring in front of us, and talked about everything and nothing. We’d already decided we were coming back in our heads days ago, but it was time to finally say it aloud.
BC is truly something else and this trip reminded me of how much space the world still has. Space to think, to breathe, to be small in the best possible way. I’m grateful for every slow curve in the road, every river that shocked me awake, and every second shared. And most of all, for Julia, who made it all mean more. There’s no one I’d rather get lost with.
Till next time,
Miguel
Miguel Mabalay 