B.C. Or Bust

It's May and the sun is out. More than out—we've got big-boy summer here. Because adventure was calling, I drove (WAY, WAY) up north last weekend to Tofino, B.C.—a small, super laid-back surf town on the fingertip of a peninsula pointing nonchalantly out into the Pacific off Vancouver Island.

It's hard to articulate how beautiful this place is. I mean I live in a scenic river town in the shadow of a volcano—I'm no stranger to sweeping vistas. But Vancouver Island is something else. Like, from a fairy tale. Snow-tipped fjords diving into arctic waters. Mirror-smooth lakes awash in profound silence. Sunsets to the West. Foggy harbors to the East. Skateparks. Surf breaks. Sea planes buzzing in and out. I couldn't believe any of it.

But. But! Tofino is very hard to get to. While not that far as the crow flies, the journey involves boat rides and crazy roads. Hours stack onto hours as you drive 25 miles an hour around hairpin turns. And the ferries are impossibly scheduled, either leaving at the crack of dawn or timed to deposit you inconveniently straight into big-city traffic.

Ah, but that's okay. All is as it should be. You don't take the easy way to a place like this. Fairytale lands, well, they have to be earned—everyone knows this.

We were hours from Tofino still, but the sun was shining and there was a lake to our left. Pretty okay first swim of the season.

Mark surfed the cruisey longboard waves. Me? I just polar-beared it and dove straight in. Lefty tried to "save" me but only managed to half drown in the crashing whitewater.

Golden hour with an empty skatepark and islands shrouded in mist.

We saw a tree that was a sapling during Marco Polo's day. The Pacific Rim rainforest has stories to tell.

On a boat! Looking back at the Olympics and Port Angeles. Not ugly.