See Wall.

Get otter here.

Vancouver, BC – A dryer tumbles in the distance.

As the seaplane banks overhead, the sound becomes more of an air raid siren.

Regularly taking off and landing just off shore, the small commuter planes provide the city a rhythm and a pulse.

Joined by my new friend Bill, who has never been to the city, I've headed out to the Vancouver Seawall, which frames Stanley Park. The world's longest uninterrupted waterfront path is easily my favourite place to visit here.

Sea lions bob in the distance – or are they floating logs? 

We play this game until our eyes become better accustomed to the ever-shifting waves.

Definitely sea lions.

A lithe otter slithers to shore, a flounder-like fish flipped over its lip.

But today, no whales. 

Lately, pods of orca have crested like oily crescents under the Lion's Gate Bridge and people have seen a gray whale basking in English Bay. 

A man on a jet ski obviously didn't, flipping over it this morning. Both appear to have survived. 

Twenty kilometres vanish in a breath, refreshed by our opportunity to simply get lost in nature – interrupted only by the latest dryer, tumbling in the distance.

Rock On.

"What can we steal?"

Gibraltar, UK – Like a rigid lightning bolt, the Charles V Wall zigzags precipitously downward.

Its 660 narrow and steep stone steps are patrolled by Barbary macaques, which scamper up the wall and rest unhelpfully at our feet. While they're no doubt accustomed to humans, I still don't find it wise to step over a mother nuzzling her baby.

With so little room to turn around, I'm at least afforded time to catch my breath. 

All morning, the Rock of Gibraltar has been shrouded in cloud, shrugging in darkness. Having begun our trek at 7 a.m., we arrived at the Devil’s Gap Battery an hour too early to enter the nature reserve. Naturally, the attendant was late.

And had forgotten his keys.

A Christian rock show.

But we've had the trails mostly to ourselves, apart from the occasional minibus and plenty of monkeys. Most sit quietly, picking at family members' fur. Others jump into treetops, causing branches to draw wide-arcing parabolas. Still more slide across the glass Skywalk – which was, humorously, dedicated by Mark Hamill – rendered slippery from fog.

They're thoroughly delighted. As are we.

We stop at St. Michael’s Cave, where a light show illuminates stalactites and tells some of the history of how it was formed. Ancient Greeks believed it was the entrance to Hades.

Now a concert venue and tourist attraction, we dodge slow drips. A swirl of purple and pink illuminates a formation that takes the shape of an angel.

Stepping outside, the heavens open more fully.

What a fantastic day. 

Collossus of Roads.

I sell sunsets down by the seashore.

London, ON – It’s a day spent watching fresh memories, but stitched in reverse.

And at high speed.

That is, of course, until we near Toronto on Highway 401, which is always a centipede of steel and impatient engines. Trucks heave. Lowered cars with cannon-like mufflers try to slip into new lanes unnoticed.

You can feel the collective eyeroll.

Work commitments have required us to return all the way home today – what's a thousand kilometres between friends? So, for now, I tuck memories into the centre console, scribbled onto maps over coloured lines I'll likely never cross again. 

But which I'll hold with me forever.

At last: home, sweet home. 

Vitals:

• Time: 12 hours
• Distance: 1,123 kms
• Provinces: Québec, Ontario
• Weather: Sunny and warm
• Wildlife: Hare

The Gulf Course.

Isolated, in the best possible way.

Île aux Perroquets, QC – Far off in the water, a rock smudges the horizon.

The lighthouse atop is barely visible.

We're waiting for a yellow boat, affectionately named Moutarde, to take us there for the next couple days. A beluga spouts near shore, only increasing my excitement.

Then, the low hum of a small outboard motor.

For five kilometres, we brace ourselves against swollen waves – it has stormed the past couple days and snowed only a few weeks ago.

As we approach Île aux Perroquets, a raft of sea lions nod. Puffins and razorbills (here, "petits pingouins") whir overhead in a spectacle of rapidly shifting dots and dashes – a welcome in Morse code.

As our luck has it, we're the only guests on the island for both days.

CliffsNotes on effective takeoffs.

Our hosts are incredibly hospitable, creating delicious homemade meals from local ingredients: haskap berries, seafood and freshly baked croissants. And always, too much dessert. 

As it's part of the Mingan Archipelago National Park Reserve, tourists visit during the day. But by 4:30, it's just us. Emboldened, thousands of birds drop from the cliffs in batches, peppering the sky in a search for dinner. Sea lions bark roughly from Île Nue, slightly to the east.

Puffins extend their orange feet, fluttering furiously as they land – standing – in holes etched into the cliffs by their shell-like beaks.

With tourists gone, they've come out to play. It's a feathery fireworks finale.

And the sun sets like a flock of flamingos, aflight.

Vitals:

• Time: 35 minutes
• Distance: 51 kms
• Province: Québec
• Weather: Overcast and cold
• Wildlife: Beluga spout, sea lions and countless birds, including puffins

Huffin' and Puffin.

Pony, Pony.

Shetland, Scotland – Stepping to the fence, we’re greeted by a small snort.

More of a sniffle, really.

While much shorter, Shetland ponies are a little like Fabio: extremely strong, with long, flowing manes. No, they're not what Shetland sweaters are made of.

Single-lane roads carry us through stretches of peat, rock and the brightest greens I've ever seen. The landscape is a Tic-Tac-Toe board of crumbling foundations and lines of stone pressed into endless fences.

They could have been built at any point in history.

Neolithic. Bronze Age. Iron Age. Picts. Vikings. Romans. Or pretty much any other age you casually flip past in a history book – it's all here. At Jalshof, you can walk through 4,000 years of human settlement. An archaeologist's dream.

The island is history, wrapped in endless, rolling pastures.

Much of it has been scattered to the sheep.

Much ado about Puffin.

The hills are salt-and-peppered with thousands of them. Wool is strewn across the grass like dandelion fluff, providing pillows for countless dozing lambs, legs akimbo.

Heading south, the morning's shifting, moody greys give way to blue. A dozen Grey and Harbour seals take full advantage, sunning on the beach, seemingly pumped full of air.

We narrowly miss the gate closing for an incoming plane as we cross the Sumburgh Airport runway, which stretches across the road.

Arriving at the 200-year-old Sumburgh Head Lighthouse, we're greeted by a distinctive stench. It makes being out of breath from the hike up that much more unpleasant. 

Built atop 300-foot cliffs, the lighthouse is home to a nature reserve, where thousands of seabirds nest in the craggy rock. Guillemots whistle. Kittiwakes and Fulmars flip about, trying to get our attention.

But everyone's focused on the Puffins.

It's The End Of The World As We Know It.

A long and winding road.

Nordkapp, Norway – The asphalt ribbon twists like my stomach as we weave around tight curves sewn into the mountains.

The road is worn from long winters.

It's a landscape I'd imagine being on the moon, but with a little more activity. It's surreal.

In desolation, beauty.

Searching for fresh growth, herds of white reindeer shed their camouflage in the dirty snow. Steep hills rise in mottled greens, browns and blacks. Somehow, cyclists and hikers push through the enormity.

We haven't seen civilization for 20 minutes.

Even then: a red house set onto a small, hilly island; a fishing boat standing steady amidst broken sheets of black ice. Sea birds, floating above small fjords.

At the end of the 30-kilometre drive from Honningsvåg stands the signature globe marking the northernmost point in continental Europe.

Not allowed to play reindeer games.

Except, it's actually not.

Never mind that Nordkapp is on an island, reaching Knivskjellodden requires additional steps north.

What’s an extra 4,760 feet between friends?

It's still the farthest north you can go by vehicle.

For 150 years, tourists have admired the midnight sun here and toasted the end of the world. To reach it, they had to climb the thousand-foot cliffs that fall into the union of the Norwegian and Barents seas below.

They earned their champagne.

Nordkapp's crown as farthest north may be ill-gotten, but its rugged beauty is undeniable. This has been an incredible day.

All that's left above us is Svalbard. Next stop: the North Pole.

Only 2,000 kilometres away.

Veni Viðey Vici.

Posting from Viðey Island.

Reykjavik, Iceland – The rolling green hills of Viðey Island are scarred by jagged stone foundations: the broken bones of a village that died in 1943.

It's as though tic-tac-toe boards have been set into the undergrowth, which sways in the cooling breeze exhaled by the ocean. I've found an oasis just off the shore of Reykjavik.

Evidence of human life here dates back to the tenth century, but the island has been abandoned since a fishing company on the eastern coast closed in the 1940s. The long history speaks through a few rehabilitated buildings and mounds that only whisper the stories held beneath.

Now, birds do most of the talking.

Foundational.

Their squawks break the silence as I step too closely to a nest, leading to a barrage of arrows shot into the sky. It's a scene repeated with each step.

Plovers and gulls chide me for interrupting their time on the beach, blackened by lava. Eider ducks splash past with indifference.

A more modern history is told through contemporary art pieces placed around the island, including Yoko Ono's Imagine Peace Tower and Milestones, by American sculptor, Richard Serra.

After a long travel day, there's nothing like a hike through nature to clear the head.

Especially when it looks like this.

Carrying the Mantle.

The irony is not lost.

Shoal Cove, NL – As we carved through the Viking Trail this morning, the temperature dropped nine degrees in two minutes. 

A lone caribou loped along the flat terrain.

This has been a journey of small adventures matched by changing landscapes: crooked trees bent under the weight of ocean winds; smooth rock faces rising into sharp plateaus; and brightly painted fishing villages shrugging off the fog. 

The province's geology, and reminders of its role in the formation of continents, have been constant. Today provides one of the best examples – a short story in our trip that’s 500-million years in the making.

We have arrived under a melting sun at The Tablelands in Gros Morne National Park, where we're faced by mountains of rusted stone that remind me of graham cracker crumbs. Even in the heat, the hills remain snow-capped. 

A stream bleeds from all the iron.

It's one of the few places in the world you can readily walk on the Earth's mantle – the layer of rock that exists below the Earth’s crust. It's our planet, turned partially inside-out.

The landscape here is barren less because of the weather than for the metal content of the rock – peridotite – which pushed itself to the surface as ancient continents collided a half-billion years ago. Still, tiny purple flowers creeps skyward like dainty boutonnieres. And meat-eating pitcher plants find their own ways to survive.

I won't be the first to describe it as walking on Mars.

A Fluke.

Light the way.

Quirpon Island, NL – Sheer rockfaces angle sharply to the ocean, towering over rounded hills painted in shades of ochre, sand and olive green. Wild sage lingers in the air.

It’s a beautiful day for a hike. 

Each step is either a crunch over spongey, dry muskeg or a discomforting sink into moist peat. Hiking shoes or rubber boots are a must.

Everything seems to have been blown off the towering plateaus, which are punctuated by dark pools and endless views. The harshness of the climate is written across everything. 

With warmth, however: resilience. Mounds of flowering Moss campion resemble vintage women's hats. Lichens and sub-Arctic ground flowers grasp to life between the molars of rock hewn by wind and time.

I don't think we're in Kansas anymore.

In the distance, we see a new, small iceberg, tucked into a cove. From the top of the hill, we can see five – all of which have moved significant distances from where they were yesterday.

Given the perfect visibility, and a quiet that has descended upon the island with all but two couples leaving this morning, we had contemplated another tour on the Zodiac. Instead, we're watching seals and at least a dozen whales frolic right off the shore.

Summiting the hill behind the lighthouse, we see the orange boat sitting in the bay. With a huge sigh and spray, a humpback dives right beside it, flipping its tail over the boat.

Despite a glorious hike, we're now questioning our decision.

Norse Code.

The real Viking trail.

L’Anse aux Meadows, NL – The ground is mounded in dashes and dots, like Morse code: long-short, short-long-short. 

They trace the thousand-year history of the Vikings at L’Anse aux Meadows – the remains of foundations of eight structures, including homes, a blacksmith shop and a woodworking facility from the 11th century. And they tell the history of the first European contact, and only proven Norse Settlement, in North America.

Laying at the northern tip of Newfoundland, the UNESCO World Heritage Site is home to replica sod buildings that offer an interactive opportunity to see how the village may have looked. It's obvious they would have needed good insulation at the face of the North Atlantic.

It's a beautiful, rugged archaeological site made more significant by its place in the history of human migration.

As we leave the park, a bull moose grazes in the meadow. 

It's our second of the day, having had one amble alongside the road as I came around a corner into St. Lunaire-Griquet. The search for a wild moose has been a recurring theme – and joke – for my family, and in this blog, for 20 years.

I'm really quite glad I didn't drive off the road in excitement.

Flown the Coop.

Like a lance in the veil.

Dildo, NL – As we leave the city, I find myself needing to retrain my eyes, which dart from shade of green to shade of green.

The pine trees all seem to have antlers. In short, the great hunt for moose continues.

As we're ahead of schedule and were able to pick our rental car up early, we decide to drop into and out of the fog to visit Cape Spear – the easternmost point of North America.

Twin lighthouses – the oldest constructed in 1836 – play hide-and-seek as we scramble over rock and short scrub.

Huffin' and Puffin.

It's eerily quiet, apart from the metronome of the foghorn, which dissolves into the mist like the white picket fence framing the old lighthouse. Even the waves crashing below are swallowed by the hem of the large grey gown hanging over us.

As we pull away, however, the sun eliminates any whisper of the weather behind us.

Pulling in to Bay Bulls, rock stretches into the sea with an endless number of fingers. Dolphins dart through the waves in harmony and humpback whales twist around the boat, their white patches seeming to fluoresce in a turquoise slick. They trumpet an exaltation before arcing their backs and descending back into the darkness.

Hitchcockian.

Around Gull Island, the air buzzes as though it is filled with insects.

We're surrounded by a half-million birds, which cling to the cliffs and carve elegant patterns in the air like pepper flakes caught on the breeze. Several appear to skip along the waves like like stones tossed from shore.

Atlantic Puffins emerge from their burrows, the orange of their beaks a stark contrast to cliffs plastered by Murres, Terns, Gulls and Kittwakes. 

We have been offered a reward for spotting whales prior to the guide or captain. GK wins a beer.

With her third, she is offered a job.

Ship Shape.

In-spired.

Castries, Saint Lucia — The rope chafes against my leg, leaving waffle-like welts against a sunburn.

It's the price you pay for having always wanted to sit on the net at the front of a catamaran.

The craft slices through the water, spitting up crystals, as a sailboat glides past with the grace of a ballerina.

A solitary sea turtle carves arcs of water beneath its shell.

In the background, the Pitons — a pair of mountainous volcanic plugs — rise up in emerald greens.

In the foreground, too much rum punch.

Lit.

A Rose by any other name.

Newport, RI – Waves lap at the shore with the caress of a saxophone.

We’re spending the night at the historic Rose Island Lighthouse, and the Newport Jazz Festival is in full swing across the bay. I had never thought of Common as jazz.

Constructed in 1870, the lighthouse is part of a 17-acre island comprising the remains of Fort Hamilton, which was first built during the revolutionary war in the late 1700s. Throughout the years, its bunkers and bomb-proof barracks have also served as munition depots and as quarantine for cholera patients.

Today, many of the structures across the island are in disrepair and used as a refuge for the countless birds nesting nearby.

View from above.

Double-crested cormorants jackknife into the waves, resurfacing great distances away with silver squiggles trapped in their beaks. Seagulls the size of small dogs caw their pleasure at the musical accompaniment across the bay, while a canoe see-saws on the break after a speedboat passes.

The property, accessible only by boat, is a museum by day, but offers overnight stays.

With the day’s visitors gone, I climb the lighthouse tower, prying myself through the tiny door to the widow’s walk. There are no storms to watch today, just an opportunity to embrace the panorama – views of blue peppered by sailboats cutting into the sea breeze.

Night falls, and there are six of us alone on the island. In a lighthouse.

What an incredible experience.

A Peace of the City.

Stream of consciousness.

Pok Fu Lam, Hong Kong — My plan had been to wander through the University of Hong Kong, past pools of carp and turtles, and through labyrinthine covered walkways.

But, a wall of green falls onto the back of campus. And, nestled into the peak of jade, a steep, narrow staircase looms like a beacon.

How can I not?

The slopes are polka-dotted by drainage holes, like insect burrows. Giant palms fan themselves in the lazy heat, and a golden silk orb weaver the size of my palm keeps its witch-like eyes on me. All eight of them.

In the tangle of vines, the mossy carpet offers only nature sounds like those that have sold millions of relaxation CDs. Thickets of bamboo stand sentry.

Otherwise, it’s absolute peace in the city.

This path circling Victoria Peak leads to a waterfall, its slippery, moss-covered rocks pushing me away. The only chatter is the stream, telling me ghost stories of time eternal.

With nobody knowing where I am, and the risk of injury high, I decide to turn back prior to reaching its source.

Perhaps I’m getting smarter with age.

SW-Sees-Seals.

Ice cubes.

Howe Sound, BC – The cold smacks like an electric shock as we flop into the waters of Howe Sound.

Pulling away, our Sea Dragon Charters vessel belches a tobacco-like puff of smoke that tints the air before circling back with the next group of swimmers. Howe Sound may be one of Canada’s southernmost fjords, but it’s April and the water’s still only 10 degrees.

I’m thankful for the wetsuit, even as my hands begin to curl from the chill.

We’re eyed by black oystercatchers, whose long red beaks peck at the mollusk-encrusted shore. Others caw their warnings as two bald eagles drop from their perch with a thunderclap. It’s obvious a couple minutes later some form of prey didn’t heed the warning.

By now sharply awake, we glide around the corner of the rock with a gentle flick of our flippers. Countless purple, orange and white sea stars cling to surfaces above and below the water. Kelp sways into tangles at our feet.

With a splash, we’ve been spotted.

Seal's-eye view.

A herd of harbour seals shimmies awkwardly over the rock, barrelling into the sea in a series of thud-like splashes. The quake leaves a wake.

On land, these animals will never be confused as graceful; in the water, however, they’re definitely balletic.

Spotted white, brown and grey babies scamper on their bellies, unsure of where to flee the sudden intrusion. Their family members spread out into a security perimeter around us, heads bobbing in and out of the waves like maritime prairie dogs.

We bob the same, watchers being watched, all taken by the same beauty of nature: animals in an ocean playground untainted by development – just jagged, prehistoric rock scarred by the season’s snows, set against a cool blue sky.

Majestic.

Town and Country.

All around the world, Coke is it.

Santo Tomas de Castilla, Guatemala – Lacy mist hangs over the hills as the sun rises in hazy oranges.

Pelicans flock around small fishing boats, their shovels at the ready.

Walking into town, we are faced by green hills, crowned in white, towering over brightly painted, low-slung buildings that could, from a distance, appear to be flowers painted into the foliage. The greasy air, however, smells of fry oil.

As we wind through town and into the country, we’re regularly greeted by the more Italian-than-Spanish “Buon Dia,” and a tour from the ship rumbles by in a trolley. They wave, later expressing surprise we had ventured out on foot. Why wouldn’t we?

Perro, in peril.

Taxi horns punch the air, seeking fares as motorcycle after motorcycle rattles past; on one, a toddler stands between her parents. Catch-all shops, still barred at this hour, keep us from 1980s-vintage casino kiosks, while young women make tortillas over steel drums set alongside the road. It’s breakfast time in Guatemala.

Walking through the narrow, labyrinthine aisles of the local market, we fold ourselves into booths whose windows are dressed with second-hand clothes, vegetables, sausage links and other fresh cuts of meat. Not a square inch is wasted, as roosters peck under woven baskets underfoot. The air is ripe, but it doesn’t make me hungry.

It was an experience, however, for which I had a thirst: it has been nice to get out from the cruise crowd and its affliction with trinkets and Bubba mugs of rum.

It was a good morning.

A Ray of Sunshine.

Hey, I'm Ray.

Georgetown, Cayman Islands – Waves rise, unique like the snowflakes falling back home.

Just like these moments, they shift and are gone, never to be repeated.

We had to tender to shore this morning, but only received a pass for the eighth boat – we should have lined up earlier. Snorkels in hand, we talked our way onto an earlier tender as we didn’t want to miss the one excursion we had booked.

Especially to Stingray City.

Pulling toward shore in Grand Cayman, it is easy to get lost in the sea of jewelry before us: bands of jade and turquoise spread as far as the eye can see as depths of the crystal waters vary.

Something fishy going on; where are my friends?

Beneath the waves, a neon disco comes to life as the brightest-coloured fish dance past. Dark ones with thin blue stripes down their backs appear as if under black light as I climb down into the brain coral and sea fans. Swirls of orange, yellow and purple pirouette past my mask, which serves as a window into a new world. This is my kind of party.

A large leopard-spotted grouper tucks itself away into a crack, too large to conceal itself completely.

A massive female stingray glides past at the sandbar, gracefully displacing the water around her –  such a ballerina of the seas. More arrive, sploshing themselves onto my hip as I offer squid. Eventually, more than 25 of them flop against us like rubbery wetsuits, their long stingers trailing harmlessly behind. After a kiss and a rub, they slide back to the shimmering sea floor.

I always wrestle with the ethics of experiences like these, which alter the animals’ habits and habitats. But it was a blast.

And I’m reminded of how much I love the sea: silence and beauty.

No Words.

Duck, Duck, USA.

Elephants and Lions, Oh My.

I'd be lion if I said she wasn't a beauty.

Chobe National Park, Botswana – Our entrance to the park is punctuated by felled trees so crimson they resemble logs of red velvet cake. The roads, however, wear the well-worn wrinkles of time, causing our guide, Perci, to slip repeatedly in the deeply pitted ruts of the sandy path.

Almost immediately, a sign of things to come: in the valley, a hundred elephants – their faces creased and grey like the roads – smack at the ground to loosen grass, salt and calcium. They are perched on three legs, alternating their balance to distribute weight, which elephants carry most of on their front legs. If you haven't noticed, that heft is substantial.

By the end of the day, we'll have seen more than 500 of them, including countless calves snuggling into their mothers as others stand guard like massive boulders at which even Atlas would have shrugged. One calf sprawls in the dusty road before us, playing gleefully and unable to control its trunk, which swings like a wet pasta noodle.

We stop, giving him right-of-way.

Interspersed among them is a herd of zebras. Alternating stripes allow them to regulate body temperature by controlling absorption of warmth like an on-off switch built into the skin. Nearby, a lioness crouches into a prowl, then decides to take a break.

Later, a rare sighting: a large pack of wild dogs, tucked under a tree. Just as lazily as the cats we have seen.

Then, the sun sets in a swirl of red, orange and purple. Backlit against the sherbet sky, elephants appear to exit the river upside down – their shadows kaleidoscoping into each other. It’s a stunning sight.

They dance us into the darkness of our campsite within the park, alone with all we have seen today. But hardly alone.

Highway Hazards.

Look left, look right. Not just for vehicles.

Somewhere, Botswana – The sun is high, lighting jagged green acacia and bulbous quiver trees along the road to Kasani. Today is our longest drive of the trip, at more than 600 kilometres.

We're paralleling the old single-lane highway, which, washed out at regular intervals by now-empty streams, more closely resembles morse code etched into the soil.

Nearby, large swaths of land have been blackened in an effort to clear them using fire. Remaining trees stand as a macabre reminder of their previous splendour. In the distance, a miles-wide plume of smoke stretches to the single cloud sitting in the sky.

In a field to the east, clumps of trees stand in completely cylindrical mounds of red earth 15-feet high, giving them the appearance of having been planted in massive clay pots. The soil has eroded all around, or a small lake has evaporated, leaving the roots to cling to survival.

Meanwhile, tiny antelope pick at closely cropped yellow grasses along the road. Giraffes barely turn their heads as we pass. A small herd of elephants, though, shrinks behind a roadside tree.

A lay-bye with a concrete table and four stools for picnicking motorists is shaded by a blue sign: "Disclaimer: This is a wildlife area. You are stopping at your own risk."

Bon appétit, but for whom?