Victoria 2026

The trip began, as most trips to the island do, on the ferry. There is something about that crossing that slows a person down before they have even arrived. The engines hum, the islands drift past, and everyone on board seems to end up at the rail at some point, looking out at nothing in particular.

One boy spent most of the ride exactly there, watching the water go by. I do not think he noticed me. I suspect he would not have cared if he had.

Once we were across, we went looking for water. The Sooke Potholes, where the river has worn deep, clear pools into the rock. Goldstream, where the falls drop through old, dark forest and the air turns cold and green.

In between, the island kept offering small things. A deer wandered down a quiet residential street as though it had an appointment to keep. Old paint along the waterfront had cracked and faded in exactly the right way. I have always found these small things the most honest part of a place.

Wherever we went, we ended up back at the water's edge. At low tide the beach becomes something of a buffet. Great blue herons stalk the shallows one slow step at a time, geese paddle past as though they own the place, and every so often something large lifts off directly in front of you. I learned rather quickly to keep the camera up.

Then, in the evenings, the sky over the strait goes soft and pink and the whole coast seems to quiet down at once. Every night I told myself I would take one more frame. I rarely stopped at one.