This story starts about three years ago when I made the (financially disastrous? Logistically unsound? Geographically curious?) decision to cart me and not nearly enough of my belongings from the Niagara region in Ontario, across the country, to go to school in Victoria. Which meant that, at some point, I was going to have to figure out a way to get back.

After first year, I did the easiest thing and I shipped myself home on WestJet, leaving most (again, not nearly enough) of my assorted things and books and teas at my aunt and uncle’s house. And then the summer was over, and I was back in Victoria. Just me, like, four books, and a truck. And then second year was over, and I came to the conclusion that I was going to drive back home. Alone. Just me, my four books, and my truck.

So I packed up my stuff (there were definitely more than four books in there now), put my driving shoes on, and started the long drive back to St. Catharines.

Day One

Day one was actually relatively short,.I stopped just outside of Vancouver to visit my great aunt and eat some pancakes. I’d never ridden on the ferry alone before, and the day was absolutely stunning, so it was the perfect day to start this little adventure of mine. The roads around Vancouver were crazy busy, and I definitely did not miss them once I got past the worst of the traffic.

Day Two

Day two, I hopped onto the one and basically only stopped for gas a few times, getting myself all the way to Revelstoke by the end of the day. Driving on the Coquihalla was incredibly exhilarating; I’d never driven on a highway that was 120 km/h before, and it was surprisingly fun not being held back at 90 km/h. Although the lack of cell service was not nice to my GPS.

I think my favourite part about that drive was watching as the mountains grew closer and closer. By the time I got to Revelstoke that night, the Rocky Mountains were looming over me, and it was incredible. The town itself was absolutely adorable, with a downtown with cobblestone streets and little shops that reminded me of Niagara-on-the-Lake back home. It wasn’t tourist season, so it was nice and quiet, but I definitely plan on heading back one day for some skiing.

Day Three

Day three was probably one of my favourite days of the trip. It was waking up to the view of the mountains, a nice breakfast (and extra fruit that I slid into my bag), and driving through the mountains.

The mountains are absolutely beautiful to look at, but they’re breathtaking once you start driving through them. It was curving roads and transport trucks tailgating me. Sheer drops on one side, crystal clear lakes on the other. It was trees and trees and sites talking about the railroads that had run through the mountains, and it was nothing short of beautiful.

But, alas, I was through the Rockies before the day was done, and quickly found myself in Alberta.

Once you’ve passed Banff (which I highly recommend, it’s also incredible), it’s almost jarring how quickly the scenery changes. One minute, it’s forests and rocks and lakes, the next, it’s almost entirely flat farmland, everyone feels twelve percent more tense, and suddenly you’re boxed in by like four separate dusty trucks and minivans with scowling drivers. All to the glorious soundtrack of One Direction’s “Live While We’re Young.”

Alberta was an interesting affair for me because I had planned on staying the night in Calgary with my cousin—a plan that had a monkey wrench thrown into it literally ten seconds after I entered the city limits of Calgary.

One phone call and a quick Dairy Queen detour later, and I’d changed the trajectory of my trip, heading up towards Drumheller.

Now, Drumheller, Alberta is an absolutely magical place. You usually get there by hopping off the Trans-Canada and driving down some smaller highways, surrounded by miles and miles of crisp farmland. And then suddenly, the road starts to slope, and you’re driving down a spiral as the Canadian badlands rise up around you. The rock walls are glorious, stunning and breathtaking to marvel at. That experience alone was worth the confusion and full-day detour.

Drumheller also just so happens to be essentially the dinosaur capital of Canada, with the most glorious of museums filled with dinosaur bones. Drumheller itself is relatively small (only one Tim Hortons), but what it lacks in size, it makes up for in dinosaur enthusiasm and spirit!

I spent the night in a hotel that was surprisingly lacking in dinosaur decor other than a little smudge of a dino on the carpet. The next day, I packed up all my stuff, shoved it into my little truck, and set off for the Royal Tyrrell Museum.

Day Four

I’d say I spent about three hours in the museum, dodging small children and families as I stared at the impressive dinosaurs, skeletons, and fossils that filled the museum. (And yes—I did read all of the plaques. I am pretty lame.) The museum and the surrounding area is a huge hotbed of paleontological research and discoveries, and honestly, it’s a sight to behold and worth every second.

After perusing the gift shop, I found myself wandering into the badlands that surround the museum. There are a number of trails that you can follow, and they even offer programs and tours through it during the main tourist season. I wandered, getting a sunburn in the intense, mid-May Alberta heat, staring at the rock walls towering over me.

I wandered around for an hour and it was so. hot. But it was so worth it!

After the Royal Tyrrell, I jumped back onto the highway, again finding myself surrounded by crispy Alberta farmland as I made my way to the southern edge of the province. I drove past a small city that advertised itself as the potato chip city (the sign was very large), and Vulcan, Alberta, which apparently has a Star Trek museum. I stayed at a friend’s house that night, which was beyond wonderful, especially when she gave me ice cream and let me pet her cat.

Day Five

The next day started off relatively uneventfully, with breakfast and a goodbye to my friend’s cat. I’d say I drove for about two hours at the most when I saw a puff of dust in the distance and thought Is that Saskatchewan? And it was.

The best thing I can say about Saskatchewan is that everything you’ve heard about it is wrong, but also right. For miles and miles, all you can see is dust and grain, and tall stalks of wheat swaying in the wind. But it’s also gorgeous, gently rolling hills, like being surrounded by a golden sea. And the sunsets are amazing, no forests or hills or anything blocking the sun and sky as evening falls over the province.

I’d say I was in Saskatchewan for all of one hour before I saw smoke in the air. I may have driven past a forest fire, but really, who’s to say.

I didn’t really stop much in Saskatchewan, although I was in Moose Jaw, where they allegedly had a moose statue in downtown. Alas, I did not get a chance to view this mythical creature, as I’d barely stopped at Starbucks before the storm I’d been driving away from caught up to me, and I had to get out of there before I got caught in the spray of a transport truck (not ideal in a wild prairie rainstorm).

I made it all the way to Brandon, Manitoba that day, rolling into the parking lot of the first hotel I saw around ten that night. And then proceeded to leave said hotel when the concierge told me it was fully booked (in mid-May? Are children even out of school that early?). Fortunately, I had better luck at the second hotel, with only a slight hiccup when I thought a car dealership was the parking lot (in my defense, there was no sign or fence separating either place and there were cars crammed everywhere).

Day Six

The next day, I drove from Brandon, which was on the more western-ish side of Manitoba, to Thunder Bay, Ontario.

The part when I drove through Manitoba was delightful, farmland and grain and small specklings of trees surrounding me. It was incredible seeing the land change as I got closer and closer to northern Ontario, as the farmland gave way to forests and brush.

And then the speed limit dropped to 90 km/h and the Trans-Canada became a curvy, two-lane highway, and I was in Ontario.

Northern Ontario sort of reminds me of parts of BC. Sort of. There’s a lot of trees, and bush, and forest, and there’s a few mountains (although not as breathtaking as the Rockies). But at the same time, it felt different. It wasn’t a little bit of farmland and trees. It was trees, and trees, and more trees. You’re surrounded on all sides by forest. And then the forest will drop away, giving way to Lake Superior once you hit Thunder Bay. And something about it just feels colder. The air seems sharper, somehow.

Also, there’s, like, four cities in northern Ontario, with two gas stations between them. It’s just the road, curving away ahead of you, and your fuel gauge, telling you how close you are to a quarter tank and that you’d better fill up soon.

It was wild and untamed and—something I can’t say enough—stunning.

It took me a day of hard driving to get from Brandon to Thunder Bay, one of the largest population centers in northern Ontario. I ended up pulling into the hotel as dusk was settling over the city, which was good, because dusk is when the moose get brave and start crowding the roads (allegedly. I’d never actually seen a moose at that point, so who’s to say).

Day Seven

The next day, I took a little detour into downtown Thunder Bay. Partly because I desperately needed gas, but also because I knew there were some amethyst shops downtown and I wanted to check them out.

Thunder Bay is home to Ontario’s amethyst mines, which just so happens to be one of my favourite gems, so I absolutely had to stop somewhere. Unfortunately, the amethyst mines themselves (where you can actually mine your own amethyst if you want) were closed until late May, but at least I got to check out a few of the stunning gems.

I was only in the city itself briefly, however, until I was back on the road, but what I did see of it was wonderful. The city is situated on Lake Superior, giving stunning views of the lake from a few sides, and the mountains from others.

The most exciting thing ever happened as I made my way back onto the Trans-Canada. I saw three whole moose, just sitting at the side of the road, probably having tea. I’m almost certain they heard me scream as I drove past them. I just wish I’d taken a picture.

After that incredibly exciting experience (I had now officially seen Canadian moose and could call myself a proper Canadian), I drove for another full day, Lake Superior on my right, the forest and mountains on my left.

By the end of the day, I’d hit Sault Ste. Marie, another large population center in northern Ontario, and just north of the United States border.

Now, at this point, I made the decision to drive through the States (Michigan, to be exact), because driving through Ontario would have taken me at least another two days. (Remember, the roads are super windy and a lot slower than in other provinces, as they take you around the mountains and lakes). And that’s not including the amount of time I’d waste sitting in bumper-to-bumper Toronto traffic (and there is almost no way to get around Toronto if I came from the north). Going through Michigan, however, would take less than a day.

So I chose Michigan.

Which, while in hindsight, was a smart choice timewise, left me pretty rattled.

I got up to the border, brandishing my passport, a little nervous, having never travelled into the States alone before, and proceeded to make my very first mistake.

I didn’t roll the window down all the way (it’s a crank window, so sue me), and my arm slid across the glass pane. The border guard was immediately on the defensive.

“Who’s in there? I heard someone else in there with you. Is there someone else in there with you?”

To give you, dear readers, some context, I was sitting in a teeny Ford Ranger, my suitcase taking up what little “back seat” I had, my giant (Captain America shield) backpack taking up the entire passenger seat. The truck was so stuffed that there was barely any room for me.

“No, it’s just me,” I remember saying, but the interrogation didn’t stop there.

“Where are you from? What are you doing here? Why do you want to go into the States?”

The border guard asked for my driver’s license, grilling me on my name and birthday and address. He asked me where I was coming from and I said BC, and then I told him I was driving home from school, and then he proceeded to ask for my student ID, which prompted the question, “And Victoria is in British Columbia?”

I mean, I really hope it is? I thought it was the capital of BC. But I digress.

After about 15 minutes, the border guard let me proceed into Michigan with a “Sorry, you’re not the usual crowd we get around here.”

And?

So, after that fiasco, I proceeded to drive towards my night’s destination, sans GPS (my carrier did not allow me to use data in the States. But they did let me call while there, so at least I could book a hotel room).

I crossed the Mackinac bridge and into Mackinaw City (another adorable town worth visiting if you get the chance) just after dusk, and then drove around for around 30 minutes as I got lost trying to find my hotel.

But once I finally found my hotel, it was absolutely wonderful, with a surprise room upgrade that included a king-sized bed with like a million pillows and a hot tub. It was incredible.

Needless to say, I had an excellent night.

Day Eight

Driving through Michigan was shockingly different from driving through Ontario.

For one, the roads were wider, less bumpy, and so much faster; it was like I was back on the Coquihalla. There were gas stations almost every two miles, and it was beyond easy to find a Starbucks. Also, the rest stops were a lot nicer, which isn’t something you’d necessarily think about until you need to pull over.

Just for some context, most of the rest stops and pullover areas I passed while in northern Ontario were either closed or they were little dirt paths snaking off into the forest with, like, one port-a-potty with caution tape wrapped around it. You knew something died in there, but you’re seriously considering it because it’s either that or the trees.

There were still a few safe-looking rest stops, but some of the ones I remember stopping at had signs reading things like don’t drink the water and water not safe for consumption. And like, yeah, I wasn’t planning on drinking the tap water in this public washroom facility that smells like rotting leaves and unwashed floors, but now you’re making me wonder what’s in there (it’s a good thing I always bring hand sanitizer with me, anyways).

Michigan’s rest stops, in comparison, appeared frequently as I made my way towards the Port Huron-Sarnia border. They were clean, with well maintained vending machines and picnic areas, had running water with no warnings whatsoever, and they always seemed to be surrounded by sunlight like a softly glowing halo.

So, a bit of an improvement.

I did make one stop while I was in Michigan, in a little town that is by far one of my favourite places to visit.

It’s a little Bavaria-inspired town called Frankenmuth, and they have the most wonderful little shops and cobblestone roads and German pastries. Just driving through it brought a smile to my face.

But most importantly of all, there is this little Christmas store called Bronner’s.

It’s a wonderful spot if you love Christmas: a full seven acres of pure Christmas cheer to shop through, and another 27 acres of Christmas decorations surrounding the store.

It. Is. Stunning.

So I may have stopped there for maybe two hours. Ish. To bask in the glow of my favourite, sparkliest holiday.

Getting back into my truck and driving away was one of the saddest moments of the day.

But then I was back on the road, relying on the route I’d downloaded at my hotel earlier that morning and the road atlas my dad gave me back in September.

I arrived at the Port Huron-Sarnia border before the day was even close to being over. Remembering my last border fiasco, I was a little bit shaky, but the border guard this time only smiled, took a brief look at my passport, and asked me if I was planning on saving the world (re: Captain America shield backpack) before waving me back into Canada.

And then I was on the 402, my phone buzzing as I turned off airplane mode. I passed London and Hamilton as I merged from the 402 to the 403 and then onto the QEW (Queen Elizabeth Way), Lake Ontario bright and blue on my left as I got closer and closer to home.

I entered the Niagara area, the roads becoming familiar, and then I was turning off of the freeway, and soon I was home.

In theory, the drive from Victoria to St. Catharines takes about five days of hard driving, but once you added in all my detours, it was about eight days. It was long, and there were times when I wanted to pull over and take a nap, my foot aching from pressing down on the accelerator (and then the brake, once I hit Ontario). But it was also fun. So. Much. Fun. I’d never done anything like it before, never experienced so much of Canada, my own country, before, and getting to see so much of it was incredible, and exciting. And I was alone. No parents, no friends, no extended relations filling up the empty spaces in my truck. Just me, the road, my iPod, and my four books.

And I never would have done it if I hadn’t moved to Victoria; never would have known that I could do it if I hadn’t moved out here. It’s an experience that I’ll cherish forever (and I probably won’t shut up about it for a while).

So I think the moral of the story here is that it was fun. It was beyond fun. It made me realize that I can do literally anything if I want to. Even drive for seven days all by myself, on roads I’ve never even seen before. If I can do that, what can’t I do?

The moral is also that, if you decide to travel into the States, make sure your window is rolled all the way down so that the border guard doesn’t accuse you of hiding people you can’t actually fit in your truck.

And yes, Victoria is a part of BC. I hope.