1. Little Explorers on a Big Island

“I want to stay here forever. I never want to leave.” - Claire, Day 1

After a smooth, almost suspiciously easy five-hour flight from Ottawa to Victoria BC, we landed at 11am local time on Thursday. No lost luggage. No mid-air toddler diplomacy required. Just three girls, slightly rumpled, very excited, and officially back on Island soil.

I forgot how majestic BC is—with the great mountains, immense waters, old trees. Everything feels big around you. From the air the Island looks endless, as though someone poured an ocean into every available hollow and bay. The shoreline is never tidy. It bends and curves and disappears into rocks, forest, and communities. (Note to reader: I lived in BC from 2009-2011, but haven’t been back for a visit since.)

Deplaned, we were promptly received by our welcoming committee, Uncle Luc, our personal Island tour guide. Within minutes we were loaded up and pointed toward downtown Sidney for what I consider the first and most critical stop upon hitting Vancouver Island: Fish on Fifth.

Listen. You have not had fish and chips until you’ve had fish and chips here. Thick cuts of halibut the size of your hand. Golden batter that shatters just right. Proper chips. Vinegar. Salt. Coleslaw. Eye-wateringly good in that “everyone goes quiet at the table” kind of way. Uncle Luc took me here once before in 2007 when I was twenty and breezing through life with zero dependents and unlimited metabolism. Returning with my own girls in tow felt like closing a very delicious circle.

We were joined by cousin Mitch, Uncle Luc’s son, who answers to Mitch, Middy, Itchy, Mitchy Moo, and at least seven other variations depending on who’s calling and how much they love him in that moment.

After we’d properly baptized ourselves in Island delicacies, we kept the rest of the day intentionally chill. The girls were running on fumes and adrenaline, which is a dangerous cocktail for young kids, so we opted for a tight little local tour instead of anything ambitious.

First stop: Mitch’s apartment. I need everyone to understand that this is not your standard bachelor situation. This loft is immaculate. Styled. Thoughtfully lit. If someone told me a photographer from Modern Coastal Living Magazine was hiding under the pouf, I would believe them. Clean AF, art on the walls, not a sock in sight. I stood there thinking, who are you and what have you done with my twenty-something cousin?

But then Mitch did something that reminded me exactly why everyone loves him so much. He gave each of the girls a stuffed orca. He explained something like orcas travel in family pods, always together, always looking out for each other. Just like our family!

Evelyn immediately named hers “Valuca the Orca.” Which, if you listen closely, is basically “Luc”… but upgraded.

From there we drove the Malahat Highway up to Cobble Hill, that dramatic stretch of road that feels like the Island clearing its throat before welcoming you home. Ocean to one side, forest to the other, mist doing its cinematic thing. The girls stared out the windows in that glassy, over-tired way children do when they’re absorbing everything and nothing at once.

We found our Airbnb, conveniently attached to Uncle Luc and Aunt Sherry’s garage. Unpacked just enough. Toothbrushes negotiated.

On every trip, I forget to pack one thing. This trip—it was PJs. So, t-shirts to bed it was!

The girls had been up since 5am EST, which is 2am PST, and by the time we crashed it was 4pm PST, which felt like 7pm to our Ottawa bodies. They melted into their beds without ceremony. Day One: successful landing, heroic halibut, one designer bachelor pad, two orcas, and three very tired but very happy girls.

Day Two began at 4:00am.

Which, for the record, feels like a perfectly reasonable 7:00am to Ottawa bodies… but is wildly offensive to Vancouver Island.

The girls popped upright like prairie dogs. Wide awake. Fully operational. Whispering loudly. I lay there negotiating with the universe for another hour of sleep before accepting my fate. We got up, made breakfast, moved slowly, and generally existed in that foggy time-zone limbo where you’re both tired and wired.

And then we waited.

Like cougars in the brush.

Waiting for the subtle sign that Uncle Luc was awake in the main house next door. A light flicked on. A door creaked. A text message confirmation.

Prey located.

We made our way over to the main house for more coffee. Visiting. The girls rotating between orca play and TV requests. It was the coldest day in BC at a crisp 0 degrees, which was unseasonably cold (just our luck!).

Eventually, I convinced the girls to bundle up so I could walk them to the neighbourhood park. We stepped out into the cool Cobble Hill air, streets quiet, mountains watching, everything smelling faintly of cedar and winter.

About halfway down the road, Evelyn stopped.

Not slowed. Stopped.

She turned to me with eyes the size of dinner plates and whispered that she was absolutely certain that in ten feet we would be meeting a bear. Or possibly a cougar. Or a wolf. Uncle Luc had shared local wildlife stories the day before, and Evelyn had taken them not as anecdotes, but as scheduled programming.

Meanwhile, Claire was already twenty feet ahead, marching confidently into what she assumed was her rightful wilderness domain. If there was a bear, it would not be happy to meet Claire-bear, its ruthless ‘take-no-prisoners’ relative.

I stood there between them, one child ready to conquer the forest, the other drafting her final will and testament.

We compromised.

Instead of venturing deeper into what Evelyn was certain was imminent bear territory, we looped back and ran around the house and backyard like suburban survivalists. Cold air, red cheeks, lots of giggling, zero wildlife sightings.

By the time we worked up a proper appetite, Aunt Sherry had scrambled eggs waiting. And truly, nothing says safety and civilization like returning from your imaginary brush with a bear to a warm kitchen and a plate of second breakfast.

Luc The Guide, founder and sole operator of Island Vacations by LBeauvais, announced that Day Two required BC culture, carbohydrates, and coastal air.

We began in Cowichan Bay.

First and most important stop: True Grain Bakery. If you know, you know.

This is the kind of bakery where the door opens and you’re hit with that warm, yeasty perfume that makes you instantly forget what Low Carb means.

We did not simply admire the menu. We committed. Chocolate croissants. Pretzels with the perfect chew and spicy mustard. Cinnamon buns for the kids.

Armed with baked goods and freshly risen optimism, we explored the Cowichan wharf. The water was slate grey, softly rippling under a sky that felt still asleep. We scanned the water for seals, for orcas, for anything remotely exotic (to an Ontarian). The girls were specifically instructed that we were looking for interesting birds. Which meant anything but a seagull.

It was crisp. A brisk 0 degrees. Which, objectively, is balmy compared to the -20 we had left behind. And yet, the children of Ottawa could not emotionally process Island Zero.

We retreated to the car.

From there we drove up through Cowichan on a road that seems to be cut in the mountain rock, which is anything but straight.

We arrived in Duncan, the “City of Totems.” It has one of the largest collections of publicly displayed totem poles in the world. They’re not decorative props. They’re carved stories. Living symbols of Coast Salish culture placed intentionally throughout the downtown core.

Reading the plaques, we learned that those outstretched wings? That’s a classic Coast Salish motif, often representing Thunderbird, a powerful supernatural being in many Pacific Northwest traditions. Thunderbird is associated with strength, transformation, and the bringing of storms.

We learned that these poles are not relics pulled from the past. They’re part of a contemporary collaboration. A visible acknowledgment of Indigenous presence and continuity.

On the drive back to Cobble Hill, Luc The Guide made one more “quick stop” that turned into a full Island Moment.

We pulled into a local farm to pick up farm fresh eggs. Not from a sleepy roadside stand. Not from a cooler with a cash box. From a Japanese high-tech egg vending machine that sings you songs while vending. I am not exaggerating. You select your dozen. You tap. A little door opens. Perfectly arranged cartons appear like a gift from the Hen Gods.

Claire and Uncle Luc took this job very seriously. Inspection. Selection. Retrieval. These are the eggs we had for breakfast today, and I can confirm they taste like chickens who have seen the ocean and lived good lives (grain-fed, free range, Artisanally handcrafted).

While the egg transaction was underway, Luc casually pointed up.

“There’s an eagle.”

At first I didn’t see it. Just a very tall pine tree against a pale sky. And then suddenly it was there. Perched at the very top, white head bright even in the grey light, body still, completely unbothered by our small human errands below.

Or wasn’t it?

Once I locked onto it, I could hear it. That high, clear call cutting through the cold air. Not loud. Just precise. Beautiful in a way that makes you stop mid-sentence.

Apparently, there are a lot of eagles around here… and this eagle, I swear, was looking at me and singing me a song.

Either that, or it was gauging how delicious Claire might be.

We returned back to our Cobble Hill haven and enjoyed a delicious pasta dinner with our lovely AirBnB hosts. 5 stars!!!!⭐️ Would recommend!

Stay tuned for a recap of Days 3 & 4: A Weekend in Vancouver.