Thirteen months into expedition, the exhaustion felt like it was finally catching up with me. To be honest, I nearly felt like giving up. Despite it being summer in Canada, the water temperature said otherwise. My skin was chapped and burnt simultaneously, especially my eyelids, which were crusty and peeling from their constant exposure to the latex neck seal of my drysuit. My hair, cut as short as it’s been in years, was fraying at the ends from all the sea and salt exposure. People kept telling me I looked “different,” a polite way of saying I looked like crap—a sentiment that stung a bit as I felt my 37th birthday approaching rapidly.
But above all else, I was frustrated. At the process, at the people, and at myself. To give you a sense of what it took just to arrive in Canada on this next stretch of our expedition, let me share a bit of backstory. We had driven a car we’d purchased in the country of Panama all the way to my hometown of Philadelphia in the states without being stopped or questioned. But once in Philly, we had to offload the vehicle, a process that nearly derailed the entire expedition. We ultimately managed to get rid of it, through means I won’t share with you here, only shaving a FEW years off my life.
But then there was the gear issue we had no choice but to tackle. We needed to swap our former tropical gear for an entirely new setup designed for cold-water diving. Not only did we have to play a bit of “tetris” in order to fit all of the much bulkier equipment into our limited luggage, but we also had to learn how to actually use it too. Once Adam masterfully figured out how to pack each of our two carry-on bags, as well as our two checked bags (which miraculously remained under 50 pounds), we were on our way to Canada for nearly a month before reuniting with Marla in Alaska.
But without this new equipment, we wouldn't be able to survive these conditions we were about to encounter. We didn’t quite know it yet, but new challenges awaited us as we traversed through Canada—ones that were deeper and more introspective than the surface-level frustrations I’ve complained about thus far. When every single one of our plans got upended for this stretch of exploration, it inevitably left us room to reflect in a different way than I had before.
After successfully meeting and spending quality time with ocean legends on the east coast, like Boris Worm and Jill Heinerth, we didn’t expect the logistics of planning to be our primary point of aggravation as we made our way to Canada’s west coast, specifically Vancouver Island. One by one, every partner reached out at the eleventh hour to cancel our plans. From the southern tip of Vancouver Island to its northernmost parts and beyond, every stop was a no-go. Each reason was more disappointing than the last. I was shocked that in all these months on the road, nothing like this had happened. Here, plans were being upended right as we were arriving on-site.
I was frustrated at the partners, especially those whose poor planning or lack of communication had left us stranded. But I was more frustrated at myself for not having devised a backup plan. Although typically always quite good about having a Plan A, B, C and even D, there was no denying that my attention had been far too focused on car and gear troubles to even consider alternatives. So, we re-routed—four times over—until we found the perfect plan that would immerse us in the remote wilds of British Columbia. But Plans B, C and D weren’t particularly easy either. They involved a lot of backtracking while relying on people we’d just met, unlike the usual process of relying on hosts we'd formed relationships with over months of planning and correspondence. It was a game of chance—a game I don’t like playing under such circumstances.
Further adding to my frustration was the constant struggle with my cold-water diving gear. On every dive, I found myself soaked to the bone. The freezing water was a total shock to the system, leaving me questioning what I was doing wrong and why my countless hours of training were not proving as effective as I’d hoped. While endless tutorials were partially answering my questions, I still couldn’t help but feel deeply incompetent, as well as physically and emotionally drained. My drysuit was proving to be somewhat “temperamental” when it came to doing its job. I learned that even my tiny hand woven bracelet that I had worn the entire expedition around my wrist could cause leaks in my pressure-sealed drysuit. Strong currents could open valves, causing buoyancy issues. Crushed neoprene neck seals were less effective than latex ones, requiring a full replacement while on site. With each mishap, I had to remind myself that this process was part of the journey, one I could either embrace or reject and give up.
After each flooded dive, I’d fall asleep immediately, canceling work calls, bailing on alarms, and skipping meals. My dreams were vivid, revolving around freezing to death or being too cold to fight the strong currents prevalent in British Columbia. Then I’d wake up in hot sweats, ironically feeling compelled to take cold showers. The process of traversing Vancouver Island’s coasts put me in my head, questioning my purpose more than I had over the course of the thirteen months I’d been out in the wild. It was clear that I’d reached a breaking point.
But in my downtrodden state, I couldn’t have expected the one thing that would allow me to see the “forest for the trees,” and that was quite literally the trees themselves. As we started to make our way up north from Victoria, British Columbia's capital, the terrain began to transform. Phone signal cut out, human activity dissipated, and trees took over. This island is known for its rainforest and beaches, but this was unlike anything we’d seen. The forest was dense with deep verdant greens, and at times the atmosphere even appeared dark as the overwhelming canopy would become shrouded in fog. The further north we traveled, the eerier it felt. You didn’t want to get lost in these forests—no one would ever find you. Fawns stood on the road as if cars rarely passed, and orcas breached in the distance along the coastlines. As we left the last vestiges of civilization, most cars we saw were parked along small creeks or rivers, with a handful of local fishermen trying to catch their share of salmon.
An hour outside Port Hardy, in the far north of Vancouver Island, we were completely alone. With no plans and no partners, we were left to contemplate amidst the evergreen conifers, deciduous, and hardwood trees. But as we neared this small town on a lone road, the devastation became hard to ignore. The logging industry had taken hold of this area in full force. Patches of mountain tops were bald, where countless trees had been removed.
The smell of the cut-down trees is something I’m not sure I’ll ever forget, as if their dying breath was let off in the form of a paradoxically pleasant piney fragrance. Knowing little about the forestry industry in British Columbia, I channeled my earlier frustration into the nature before me. And I came to learn that, over the past 30 years, logging of old-growth forests on Vancouver Island has continued largely unabated, despite massive civil disobedience protests like the 1993 "War of the Woods." The Sierra Club of B.C. and local First Nations have highlighted the ongoing destruction of these ancient, carbon-rich forests, arguing that they are crucial for mitigating climate change and protecting biodiversity. Data shows that Vancouver Island's old-growth forest coverage has significantly declined from 31% since the War of the Woods to just 20% today. Despite a provincial initiative since 2020 to defer logging in at-risk areas, the equivalent of 19 soccer fields of old-growth forest is still being logged daily.
Clayoquot Sound, the site of the 1993 protests, is one of the few areas on Vancouver Island where old-growth logging has remained relatively stable, thanks to the stewardship of the First Nations. It’s said that the conservation practices used in Clayoquot Sound should serve as a model for the rest of the island and the province, and apparently, some of that is being considered. The British Columbia government claims to be taking unprecedented action to protect old-growth forests, citing the deferral of logging in 2.1 million hectares and collaboration with First Nations through new Forest Landscape Plans. However, environmental groups continue to call for more decisive reforms to preserve the remaining ancient forests before it’s too late.
Up in Port Hardy, the economy has long been driven by resource-based industries, particularly fishing, mining, and of course, logging. Logging, in particular, has been a cornerstone of the local economy, with British Columbia leading Canada in the production and sale of wood products. The region’s forests are home to key tree species such as Western hemlock, Western red cedar, Douglas fir, and Sitka spruce making it a hotbed for this type of labor. The forestry sector, including cedar salvage and shake block/shingle production, continues to be a major contributor to the economy, supporting hundreds of jobs and generating millions in income annually.
However, those shifts I mentioned earlier in environmental policies, government regulations, and the recognition of Aboriginal Rights and Title have brought both challenges and opportunities to the industry. In response, Port Hardy, along with neighboring communities like Port McNeill and Port Alice, has formed the North Island Community Forest Ltd., aiming to create sustainable local jobs and manage community forests effectively. And while that’s a positive step, what I was seeing before my eyes was hard to reconcile while witnessing miles upon miles of wasteland where these trees once towered.
With a decent amount of sleep—some nights even clocking in at a whole nine hours, which rarely happens—my dreams shifted from cold-water survival tactics to escapist fantasies of living off the land. And each morning, these dreams reminiscent of Walden Pond lingered, prompting me to contemplate a life with far less than I currently have. What would my life look like surviving off the absolute minimum, living among the trees? I couldn’t help but reflect on the changes I’d need to make to consume less and do better for the ocean, the land, and these forests around me. These reflections led me to question even our very existence—something I hadn’t done in a long while, given the constant demands of expedition life. Quite frankly, the hustle of our current routine and schedule seldom has given me the freedom to get lost in my own deep thoughts.
I wanted to push myself into these corners and find my way out, to unearth and further cement my purpose on this planet. This journey was never meant to be easy, and the unexpected challenges were teaching me that resilience, even when you don’t have a backup plan, can lead to some of the best insights and resolutions of your life. It’s not about having everything perfectly planned or executed; it’s about what you make of every moment and how you keep driving forward toward your contribution, no matter how hard the road gets.
Standing among these behemoth trees, both felled and flourishing, I realized that the frustration and exhaustion I’d been grappling with were catalysts for this level of deeper reflection. This expedition wasn’t just about diving or documenting remote places—it was about confronting the hard truths of our impact on the planet and using those moments of doubt and struggle to fuel meaningful action. The challenges we face, whether in the depths of cold waters or the heart of an ancient forest, are opportunities to rethink, recalibrate, and recommit to the fight for a more balanced existence. Channeling frustration into action is how we get things done, and it’s through this relentless pursuit that we find not only our purpose but also the power to make a real difference.
As I write this, leaving Canada and heading to Alaska, I’m trying to carry this mindset into what’s coming up next. I felt revitalized and refueled, perhaps due to actually getting proper sleep, but certainly from spending time out of the water and on solid ground for once. The challenges we’ve faced have only strengthened my resolve to push forward, to continue exploring the depths of our planet and the depths within myself. If time in the woods could give me this much motivation to keep pushing forward, I wonder what it could do for you too.
To be continued …
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