Canada — Learning to Live Inside Fear
This was a period of movement and possibility, but internally I was still living inside paranoia, anxiety and fear. Canada offered vast landscapes and opportunity. My nervous system offered something very different.
Possibility and Instability
This was shortly after my awakening had tipped into paranoia, anxiety, depression and fear.
On the surface I was functioning. Internally I was braced. My nervous system no longer trusted ordinary life.
I had obtained Canadian citizenship through my mother, and my wife had always wanted to live there. So when we travelled to Canada, it wasn’t simply a holiday. It carried the possibility of relocation and a new start.
We flew into Vancouver and crossed to Vancouver Island to visit relatives. From there we travelled north through the Inside Passage toward Alaska.
The landscape was immense. Mountains rising directly from the water. Long stretches of stillness.
At one point we stood on deck watching pods of whales surface and disappear again into the dark water. They moved calmly, rhythmically, completely at ease in that vastness.
I wasn’t.
The beauty was undeniable, yet my body stayed alert.
Through the Mountains and Across the Border
Skagway felt like stepping back in time. Wooden boardwalks. False-fronted buildings. A preserved western town that carried the atmosphere of another era. It wasn’t staged; it felt as though history had simply remained there.
There was something slightly disorientating about it, as if we had travelled not only north but backward.
From there we boarded the train inland through the mountains. The landscape grew more dramatic — steep ranges, deep valleys, snow lingering at higher elevations.
At one stop we stood on the open platform and saw a wild brown bear moving along the treeline. Distant, self-contained, unaware of us.
During that same journey we crossed an old wooden bridge over a deep ravine. Looking down between the tracks, I could see remnants of broken timbers from earlier years. It was simply evidence of age and repair.
But my mind registered fragility.
We continued toward the border. When the crossing came, the change was immediate. The weather shifted visibly. What had been milder became colder and whiter. Snow was more present. The air sharper.
At the border we received passport stamps marked with four blue reindeer. As travellers, unusual stamps are a quiet reward — small confirmations of distance travelled and territories entered.
It was an ordinary administrative moment.
Inside, everything still felt heightened.
Atlin: Isolation Without Direction
There were no scheduled buses to Atlin, so we chartered a small plane. It was just the pilot and the two of us, lifting off over forest that seemed endless.
At one point he let me take the controls briefly. What stays with me is not the novelty, but the scale.
In every direction there was wilderness. Forest stretching to the horizon. Mountains layered behind mountains. No roads. No houses. No visible signs of human life.
The sheer vastness was unsettling.
Eventually we landed on a gravel runway surrounded by trees. Within minutes the pilot had taken off again.
There were no signs. No instruction. No clear direction.
We stood there alone and chose a road to walk down.
The town was small — roughly 350 people. No accommodation available. We returned to the bar and I played pool, appearing relaxed while internally wired.
A local man offered us his Winnebago to stay in for the week.
I felt both grateful and suspicious at the same time.
The Forest and the Rifle
One evening he suggested going for a drive.
We left the town and entered dense forest. The pine trees were enormous — tall, straight, rising far above the vehicle. The road narrowed to gravel and then to uneven track. There were no houses, no boundaries, just trees stretching in every direction.
Eventually we reached a glacial lake backed by mountains. The water was still. The air cold and clean. We lit a small fire and sat facing the lake.
Objectively, it was peaceful.
We smoked some marijuana. I thought the setting might soften my system. Instead, it amplified my paranoia. My wife briefly blacked out and fell backwards from the log she was sitting on. She recovered quickly, but my internal alarm system surged.
Later he suggested driving to see some old mines. As we drove deeper into the forest, I noticed a rifle positioned behind his seat.
In that region, it was practical.
In my state, it meant something else.
Over the week we realised he was growing marijuana locally, and not casually. The Winnebago we were sleeping in had carrier bags of dried cannabis under the mattress.
We were literally sleeping on it.
Nothing happened. We were not harmed.
Yet internally, the sense of instability deepened.
Light Without Rest
Another factor was the light.
Being that far north, it never truly became dark. There were perhaps two hours when it dimmed slightly, but it never settled into night. Even at midnight you could see the outline of trees.
At first it felt unusual. After a few days, it became disorientating.
There was no natural closure to the day. No signal that it was safe to power down.
Sleep became fragmented. I would lie in the Winnebago aware of the faint glow outside the curtains. The forest remained present. And because it remained present, so did my alertness.
The town was tiny. The wilderness vast. Our host involved in something illegal. Daylight stretching on without pause.
Nothing was actively wrong.
But my system never settled.
Without darkness, hypervigilance had no reset point.
The environment was extraordinary.
Inside, I was operating on quiet alarm.
A Future That Slowly Slipped Away
When we returned to Whitehorse, things felt more practical. We hired a car and explored where we might actually build a life.
Eventually we reached the Lake Okanagan region. A vast calm lake stretching for miles. Ski mountains on one side. Vineyards and small towns on the other.
It felt balanced.
We found a property with a large workshop. At the time I was running a carpentry business in England. I could see how it might work — tools unpacked, timber arriving, work beginning again.
The older couple who owned the property agreed to sell.
For a moment, the future felt tangible.
After that, we flew to Mexico for a brief break and to relax. I needed the warmth and stillness. My system had been running high for months, even in beautiful places.
Mexico offered rhythm. The ocean moved predictably. Days closed properly into night.
While we were there, we received a call.
The couple had changed their minds. They wanted to remain in the property for the rest of their lives.
There was no conflict. Just a quiet reversal.
The possibility dissolved as gently as it had appeared.
And that was the end of the Canada plan.
What remains with me is not disappointment, but contrast.
The world was vast, generous, often kind.
Inside, I was still learning how to live without fear.
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