Canada — Learning to Live Inside Fear
Canada – Vastness and Quiet Alarm
When we travelled through the Canada wilderness, the journey carried more than the feeling of a holiday. I had obtained Canadian citizenship through my mother, and my wife had long imagined building a life there. The trip held the possibility of relocation, of beginning again in a country defined by scale and landscape.
Yet inside me, something was already running ahead of events. I could look calm while my mind searched constantly for what I might be doing wrong. Small moments felt loaded, ordinary interactions felt like tests, and I moved through that vast country with a strange contradiction in my body, grateful for the beauty while quietly braced for error.
Mountains and Movement
We flew into Vancouver and crossed to Vancouver Island before travelling north through the Inside Passage towards Alaska. The landscape felt immense in a way that resisted exaggeration, with mountains rising directly from dark water and long stretches of stillness surrounding us as the boat moved steadily forward.
At one point we stood on deck watching pods of whales surface and disappear again into the dark water. They moved with calm rhythm, entirely at ease in that vastness. I remember observing how steady they seemed, how instinctively they belonged to that environment.
Outwardly, I was composed. Inwardly, I felt slightly displaced, as though I were moving through something too large to orient myself within. I could not have explained why, yet I found myself scanning my own thoughts for missteps, replaying small conversations in my head, checking whether I had said too much or revealed something I should not have.
Heightened Perception
Skagway felt like stepping backwards in time. Wooden boardwalks, preserved façades and a town that seemed suspended between history and performance. It was not artificial, yet it carried a faint unreality, as though everything had been left exactly where it had once stood and no one had questioned it.
From there we boarded the train inland through the mountains. The track curved along steep ridges and crossed deep ravines where the scale of the landscape dwarfed anything man-made. At one stop we stood on the open platform and saw a brown bear moving along the treeline, distant and unconcerned by our presence.
Later, as we crossed an old wooden bridge, I glanced down between the rails and noticed broken timbers from earlier years lodged below. It was nothing unusual, simply the evidence of age and repair. Yet once I had seen it, my mind began circling small details from the day, quietly checking whether I had overlooked something or misread something. The environment was steady; the questioning was internal.
Into the Interior
From Skagway we made our way to Whitehorse, and from there decided to travel further into the interior toward Atlin. There were no scheduled buses, so we chartered a small plane. It was just the pilot and the two of us lifting off over forest that seemed to stretch endlessly in every direction.
At one point he allowed me to take the controls briefly. The novelty of it registered, yet what stayed with me was the scale. There were no visible roads, no houses, no interruption in the wilderness below. The forest did not appear hostile, but it felt indifferent, and that indifference unsettled me more than overt danger would have done.
When we landed on a gravel runway surrounded by trees, we unloaded our backpacks and began walking toward the road. I turned and saw the pilot already taxiing back before lifting off again, the sound of the engine fading quickly into silence. Standing there with my wife beside me, I felt a surge of protectiveness mixed with excitement. It was the beginning of an adventure, yet it also carried the quiet awareness that I was responsible now, and that the wilderness did not negotiate.
The Fire and the Forest
One evening he suggested driving out to see some old mines. Before that, we had stopped beside a glacial lake backed by mountains. The water was completely still, the air cold and clean, and we lit a small fire near the shoreline. Objectively, it was peaceful. The mountains were steady, the lake unmoving, and the setting held a kind of quiet purity.
We smoked some marijuana, thinking it might soften the edges of the day. Instead, it altered the atmosphere inside me. When my wife briefly blacked out and slipped backwards from the log she was sitting on, she recovered quickly, but something in me tightened. I felt responsible for her safety in a way that went beyond the moment.
Later, as we drove deeper into the forest to see the mines, I noticed a rifle positioned behind his seat. In that region it was practical, almost expected. Yet seeing it after the lake and the fire brought an immediate surge of underlying fear to the surface. Nothing changed externally, but internally my thoughts sharpened. I became more alert to tone, to pauses in conversation, to the space between words. The drive felt longer than it probably was.
The Light That Never Closed
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 the outline of trees remained visible beyond the thin curtains of the Winnebago.
At first it felt unusual, almost novel. After a few days it became disorientating. There was no natural closure to the day, no clear signal that it was time to power down. Sleep came in fragments. I would lie awake aware of the faint glow outside, aware of small sounds, aware of my own breathing in a way that felt amplified.
Nothing dramatic happened. No confrontation, no event, no danger. Yet without darkness there was no reset. The vast landscape remained present, and so did my alertness. Outwardly we were simply travelling. Inwardly I was learning how difficult it was to rest when the mind would not fully release its hold.
The beauty of the landscape did not quiet the tension beneath it, and rest remained elusive.
“Canada – Light Without Rest (Part 2)”
“My Journey Back to Me”
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