A magical week in the heart of Vancouver Island

This week, we had unforgettable experiences on Vancouver Island while camping amidst ancient forests.

At the beginning of this week, we reached two important milestones. The first was finding the waters of the Pacific, when only a few weeks ago we had been watching puffins and whales in the Atlantic Ocean. We crossed Canada from coast to coast, from St. John’s, Newfoundland, to Vancouver, British Columbia. We discovered extraordinary places and animals we had never seen before. We learned to set up camp quickly, cook in the forest, use latrines, and witness the most beautiful sunrises and the brightest sunsets. But those 9,000 kilometers (5,600 miles) also showed us, with brutal clarity, the effects of climate change, forest fires, and clouds of toxic smoke.

Early Saturday, we headed to the port, ready to wait as long as needed to catch the ferry to Vancouver Island. It was one of the top destinations on our list of places to visit in Canada. The two-and-a-half-hour crossing took us through a maze of islands beneath a blue sky, letting us regain a sense of calm after several weeks under dense, dark ash clouds.

Our other milestone was reuniting with Carter, Martín’s friend and university classmate, who will be traveling with us. They are both classical musicians and hope to play together throughout the long months of this Pan-American journey.

Although the three of us had traveled together before, it had never been for such a long period or as intensely as it is now, with us together around the clock. We have one very important thing in our favor, something that overcomes all differences in age, experience, and background: all three of us are artists. That gives us a particular sensitivity for appreciating the world and observing and experiencing nature.

After meeting up, we spent some time exploring Vancouver. I was struck by the beauty of its topography and its blend of ancient forests and modern skyscrapers. Above all, I was amazed by the diversity of its residents, who come from every corner of the planet—a diversity I could appreciate in the many languages, music, clothing, accents, and especially the food.

A Dream Island

After disembarking, we drove until dusk and found a place to pitch our tents. We secured a tiny space in the forest and had to maneuver our two cars and two tents like pieces of a puzzle. After shifting everything back and forth, Carter unfolded his sky-blue tent, and we set up our yellow topaz one.

Our chef, Martín, prepared a delicious meal. Later, beneath a starry sky, the instruments finally came together. We couldn’t light a campfire because wildfires had banned them, but music soon resonated just as beautifully around the amber glow of our lantern.

The next morning, Martín suddenly stood up from the breakfast table and said:

“Something fell on me from the tree.”

We looked up and saw a tiny silhouette against the light: a little bird hopping from one side of a branch to the other. It pecked at ants and other insects, discarding anything that didn’t interest it. Fungi and lichens rained down on us as it chirped, fully absorbed in its task.

These small moments make us smile and turn our journey into something memorable.

After eating, with only the faintest internet signal, we began planning our day. None of us had realized how large the island was or how much we would find as we explored it. It is a territory the size of Belgium, with mountains, glaciers, rivers, lakes, and endless forests.

The narrow, solitary road was a dark ribbon of asphalt winding between green walls formed by gigantic conifers. As I drove through its rolling curves, I remembered how, when I was a child, my father used to take us to a small road near the town of Barbosa, north of Medellín. He explained that the narrow, unpaved road was so well designed that the car seemed to turn by itself, guided solely by the banking of the curves, without any need to move the steering wheel.

That memory returned as I felt Atlas glide effortlessly through the constant turns. I experienced the freedom of driving through a magical place where everything around me seemed perfect and beautiful.

We stopped several times to admire and photograph the landscape and to walk along trails where the light barely touched the soft cushions of moss and the hundreds of fallen trunks that had completed their life cycles and were now nourishing the forest.

The list of animals I don’t want to encounter on the trail

I was always afraid that we might encounter a bear, so we followed the recommendations to remain in a group and speak loudly. But on one of the trails, we found an unexpected notice: a cougar had been spotted in the area!

The sign explained that these animals are afraid of humans and prefer to avoid us; that we are their greatest predators; and that we should never approach them. Nevertheless, I added cougars to the list of animals I did not want to meet.

Camping in such remote and beautiful places was a unique experience. I felt like gnomes beneath those rough-barked trees that disappeared into the heights, with rays of sunlight filtering through and casting a golden glow.

The peaceful, silent nights were the opposite of those I had experienced in tropical rainforests, where the animals awaken after sunset and create a cacophony that makes sleep impossible.

From the moment we entered the campground, we had the company of a Steller’s jay, which hopped constantly from one place to another. It is one of the birds with the most personality in the forests of western North America: nosy and opportunistic. A relative of crows and magpies, it shares their cleverness, but unlike them, this jay has a deep-black head, neck, and chest, while its body, wings, and tail are a brilliant cobalt blue. Its most striking feature is the imposing crest crowning its head. Because of its intelligence, many people call it the “campground thief,” since it never misses an opportunity. I knew immediately that it was up to something: the moment we sat down at the table, it appeared.

We left the Buttle Lake area and headed toward the west coast, entering Indigenous territory. Along the road, we began seeing more and more signs in their language, including letters that do not exist in our alphabet.

Around one of the road’s many bends, we saw a sign advertising smoked salmon and arrived at a house where the owner welcomed us. Her garage was filled with refrigerators offering many different choices, and for the next several days we ate salmon three times a day. The island is one of those places where wild salmon still thrive rather than being raised on farms.

We spent the following nights near Pacific Rim National Park Reserve. Although the park campgrounds were full—Canadians reserve their spaces months, and sometimes even years, in advance—we found a site within the traditional territory of the Yuułuʔiłʔatḥ people, or Ucluelet First Nation. It is a place with a profound relationship with nature, and we had a more rugged experience there.

The parking area was far from the campground, and reaching our site required following a narrow trail between the forest and the sea. The place took our breath away. Although we had seen photographs, it was difficult to imagine what it would feel like to stand beneath centuries-old cedars while listening to the waves break so close by.

We were about two hundred meters from the parking lot and had to empty Atlas completely. We would be sleeping in bear country, so we could not leave anything with a scent in either the tent or the car: food, spices, garbage, or less obvious items such as cosmetics, skin creams, shampoo, insect repellent, and toothpaste.

The campground provided carts so we could transport everything we needed for sleeping to our assigned site. We had to store everything else inside a wooden cabin protected by an electric fence. That was tangible proof that bears wandered nearby.

After several trips pushing the cart back and forth, we set up camp and went out to explore. The forest extended all the way to a vast beach, where the waves crashed with tremendous force. We felt that we had reached paradise, and my fear of the bears began to ease.

While Martín and Carter set off on one of their extreme hikes—the kind that demands the muscles and courage of two twenty-four-year-olds—I walked along a boardwalk through a cloud forest, feeling very brave. But as soon as I entered the trail, I found a sign I had never seen before: “Wolves in the area.” Wolves were not on my list! I clenched my fists, held tightly to my cameras, and told myself that I would not allow bears, a cougar, or wolves to steal that moment from me. I confess that I was terrified, but I was already there and refused to turn back. It was a magical place, and I will never forget it.

Although we had booked only one night, we managed to extend our stay for another. We had to move to a smaller site, but it was closer to the sea. We got to work, lifted our tents without taking them down, and became the laughingstock of the neighborhood as people watched us carry them on our shoulders along the narrow trail.

That night was incredible. The sea seemed to break against the rock on which we slept, and a soft light entered through the fabric of the tent. Although I would have loved to let in the breeze and see the stars, the rainfly protected us when the temperature dropped to eight degrees Celsius at dawn. It was our final night on the island, and I felt a little nostalgic but deeply grateful for the wonderful days we had shared there.

Arriving in Victoria

Early the next morning, we left after several days completely removed from civilization, without electricity or internet and having lost all sense of time. We had also exhausted our limited supply of clean clothes. Dressed like explorers and wearing muddy shoes, we arrived in Victoria, the capital of British Columbia.

As soon as we stepped out of the car, we realized that we had reached the opposite extreme. Victoria is an elegant city filled with flowers, historic buildings, and immaculate gardens. While waiting for the ferry back to the United States, we went for tea in an exceedingly elegant place, with white tablecloths, delicate porcelain cups, and a tiered tray filled with tiny sandwiches, breads, and sweets.

The contrast made me laugh. Only a few hours earlier, we had been pushing our belongings in a cart along a forest trail; now I was holding a tiny porcelain cup as if this had been our routine throughout the entire journey.

After tea, we walked through the streets, and I found it amusing to see my name everywhere: Victoria—on the streets, taxis, buildings, and cafés. But for me, that name has a story that extends far beyond coincidence. I inherited it from one of my aunts, who got it from her father, an English citizen and photographer. He named her in honor of his queen, Queen Victoria, who was a great enthusiast and patron of photography from its earliest days.

Photography has run through my family for generations and eventually became my life, too. Finding myself there, so many years later, seated at the foot of the enormous statue of Queen Victoria, carried a special meaning. It was as though, on the other side of the continent, I had found a slender thread leading me back to my own story.

Back in the United States

Our time in the civilized world did not last long. That same afternoon, we loaded the car again and took the ferry from Victoria to Port Angeles, Washington. As we sailed, the sun began to disappear into the haze and turned magenta. The sea took on a soft, mysterious light that kept me glued to the window.

We reached the United States after dark. Although our campground was only a few minutes from the port, we did not enter it until nearly midnight. It was an alpaca farm.

We had to pitch our tents almost entirely in the dark, using only the red beams of our flashlights so we would not disturb the animals. In that darkness, we once again raised our two little houses—the blue one and the yellow one—illuminated by that strange reddish glow.

The next morning, we finally met our neighbors: the alpacas. They watched us with immense curiosity, as though they were the ones trying to understand who these strangers were who had arrived in the middle of the night and settled into their home.

Sometimes I think that this is precisely what I love most about this life: I never know how the day that has just begun will end.

Our map from last week route