Photo Story: Going Full Nomad - Winter on an Island in the Pacific

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Normally we'd have travelled to a sunny far-off destination to escape winter, ride bikes, and get wicked tan lines. With international travel being somewhat impractical during the pandemic, we'd be riding out winter on an island in the Pacific. Vancouver Island, British Columbia. Insert preconceived notions here... All it does is rain... It's damp and cold... There's no sun for months... Anecdotes of the Island's inhospitable, damp, dreary winter climate conjure mental images of an island filled with clammy grey-skinned people akin to Gollum. There's good weather and bad weather. Sure it rained a lot, but it didn't matter. We didn't count the good weather days or the bad. No matter how gloomy things got, there was always something to do, and a sunny day would inevitably come around.

Life is a lot like the weather. There are good times and bad times, when it rains it pours, and trying to forecast what's coming next is little more than a guess. In a world that has a metric for every aspect of life, it's hard not to measure our happiness by tallying up those good and bad times in some ridiculous effort to compare ourselves to glimpses of those we see around us. And just like the weather, we're finding it's not necessarily how much good or bad there is, but what you do with it. Some years ago we sold nearly everything we owned, moved into a 300 square foot home on wheels, and started chasing more good weather and more good times. But there's plenty of fun to be had, even when it's pouring rain. It is said that we're happiest when we recognize the impermanence of the good and bad moments in life, and rather than dwelling on them or keeping score, we make the most of whatever situation we're in. Who knows? Maybe we're happiest when we just say "the heck with it, let's go ride bikes!"

"Save it for a rainy day" always seemed like sound advice. It rained cats and dogs the entire 500km journey from the mainland to our destination on Vancouver Island. Shortly after arriving on the island, both of our trucks died, both of our computers died, and then the camera died. When it rains, it pours!

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Ask nearly anyone around the globe to describe winter in Canada, and when the obligatory comments about igloos, toques, and maple syrup subside, they're likely to attempt a thick Newfoundlander accent to say something like "it's flippin' cold and snowy up there eh". But Canada is a big country, not every Canadian has as much flannel in their wardrobe as a lumberjack, and snow doesn't blanket the entire nation, not even in the depths of winter.

For one hundred thirty-three days our winter home was on a small acreage in the traditional territory of the Hul’qumi’num people. They call this place Quw’utsun’, the “land warmed by the sun’’. There's really no better way of describing it.

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Being nomadic is in our roots. Until about twelve thousand years ago, we were all nomads, moving from place to place in search of more. We were never meant to settle, never meant to stay in one place. We instinctively seek more. More travel, more bikes, more ice cream!

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Nomadically following the seasonally available riding from place to place has an intoxicating rhythm. But there's a sweet spot of being in a place for enough time to relax, enjoy, discover, without getting too attached. Stay in one place for too long, our roots work their way into the soil and it’s painful to tear them free. There are trees here that are hundreds of years old for a reason, this land has everything they need, they're connected to it, there's no reason for them to move. In one hundred thirty-three days our roots started to take hold. It's not easy, but it's time to move on before getting too attached.

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