Stepping into Japan always feels like arriving on a perfectly curated planet. This is my first time here in the fall, but every visit feels more or less the same: the level of care in Japan really relaxes my mind to stillness. It’s all in the small details—in every swept pile of deep red maple leaves, in every persimmon that is hung at exact staggered intervals on a balcony. It’s in the nutty scent of a fresh cup of genmaicha tea, in the taste of chestnuts in local sweets. Still, I’m restless. There must be some facet of Japan that I have yet to experience, something completely different from day-to-day life. But what?

On the advice of a friend who had once lived here, I make my way south. I hop on and off a series of trains, a funicular, and a bus, all steadily climbing upwards, until I stand before a giant two-story red wooden gate. Two guardian statues glare down from either side, surrounded by smatterings of colorful leaves. I step over the central wooden beam, the threshold between the messy outside world and the grounds that lie within. This is Koyasan, the center of Shingon Buddhism—one of the most sacred regions in all of Japan.

I slip through town and enter the guesthouse through a sliding wooden door. It is quiet inside, and there is a faint smell of incense. I wait in a small, well-kept living room, sock-footed on the tatami floor. The owner enters through another sliding door, apologizing for the delay. He leads me upstairs to my designated room, also covered in tatami. The closet door has a painted pine tree on it, and the window is wide open. I shiver. Sunlight trickles through the bright red Japanese maple leaves outside, but the days are growing ever colder. I set up my futon bed, as is custom in most Ryokans, then shut the window. In the distance, I hear a giant bell ring.

Clouds fill the sky the next morning, threatening rain. I walk through town, which is even quieter than the day before. Rows of dark red maples line the pathways between the massive red and white Konpon Daito tower and the rest of the town. The temple is silent when I enter, though several people are already sitting in the front row. There is an empty metal firepit in the front of the room; in behind is a fierce-looking statue of yet another snarling man, carrying a sword in one hand and rope in the other. He is wreathed in red and yellow carved flames. I purchase a wooden prayer tablet from a blue-robed monk and then sit down to carefully write out my wish. The room slowly fills until we are at least thirty buzzing spectators. We are all here for the fire ceremony, but I have a feeling that none of us know exactly what to expect.

A yellow-robed monk silently enters and sits down cross-legged on a raised platform facing the pit, his back to the audience. First, he rings a bell, the sound so clear it pierces through any leftover chatter, cutting it to silence. Then, the chanting starts, a low, steady thrum. The monk lights a single piece of kindling from a nearby oil lamp; such a small flame, no more than a few inches high. Piece by piece, the monk slowly alternates adding kindling to the fire, scooping and adding oil to the flames, and waving the air brusquely with a long metal poker. He taps the poker against the sides of the firepit to create a ringing sound, a sort of punctuation, perhaps to tap out the soot. The scene is rhythmic and mesmerizing, and I feel my senses narrowing, focusing down to the monk and the flame. Outside, there is a faint sound of rain, but it sounds muted and distant, a passing thought that fades into the background. The flames grow higher and higher, until they are over the monk’s head.

The chanting does not change, but something in the air shifts, and the guests—including myself—rise to their feet, heading to the left side of the pit like sheep. How is it that we know what to do? Two by two, we approach the fire, kneel, and toss our prayers in. The monks look on, impassive. Finally it is my turn. I hesitate, then kneel anyway. Heat blankets my face and runs its tendrils down my shoulders, so hot that it is almost unbearable. Some kind of survival instinct sharpens my focus further, until all I can see is the flame. I raise my token up to my forehead, and toss it down. It immediately catches, the flames devouring it within moments. I somehow get back to my seat, though I am not entirely sure how.

I watch on as the monk continues his endless alternations of adding oil and waving the air. The fire dips lower and lower, and I suddenly realize that I am the only person left in the room other than the monks. Why did everyone leave? Self-conscious, I creep backwards and kneel by the sliding door, unwilling to go, but equally unwilling to remain at the front alone. The flames fade, bit by bit, until there is nothing left but glowing coals. Suddenly, the chanting stops. The air empties itself for a moment. Then, the monk raises the bell high, and rings it once more. In the aftershock, he stands, and with an almost embarrassed look on his face, bows first to the monk in blue, and then to me. I incline my head slightly and then quickly let myself outside. The sharpness of the cold rain surprises me, and I scramble for my umbrella, dropping it on my hasty way out. The walk back to the guesthouse is disorienting. The bright fall colors look sharper, the rain feels colder, and at some point it even begins to hail.

Still reeling from the fire ceremony, I take my time walking to Okunoin early the next morning. In contrast to yesterday’s experience, the monks’ graveyard is both quiet and cool. The path is lined with unlit stone lanterns. The warm morning light slants past ancient cedar trees, illuminating thousands of moss-covered gravestones and memorial markers. Among them are old Buddhist columns, made up of various geometric shapes representing earth, water, fire, and air. As I walk through the forest, more and more columns appear, some as tall as a house, others as small as a child. They cluster together and spread apart, running up and down the hills sporadically, peeking out behind rocks and trees. Statues of children sporting bright red bibs dance among them, never without a small tray of offerings. I place coins in some of them out of respect. It is a place of rest that feels both calm and chaotic all at once.

I arrive just in time for the mid-day offering ceremony. Several workers clear the way for two masked orange-robed monks bearing food inside a palanquin. They walk briskly over a small bridge and up to the inner mausoleum, where it is said that the great Kobo Dashi is still in prayer today. I follow them up to the temple, taking advantage of the dispersal of the crowd. The main temple is a loud place, full of steady chanting, the beating of drums, and the scent of incense. Absolutely no photography is allowed, and the inner mausoleum itself is not accessible to anyone. There is a temple next to it which is filled with one thousand lit lanterns. I stay there for awhile, admiring the soft flickering lights, before crossing back over the bridge, where people are throwing ladles of water on several Buddha statues of all different shapes and sizes. It is a form of prayer for deceased family members and friends. I pour water on each one until I’m standing in front of the last statue, expectant. But no, this isn’t quite it, not quite what I was searching for. I throw the last ladle full of water, offering up one last prayer. I stop for a cup of tea in the rest house, where the flame heating the kettle has been burning for over a thousand years. Then I make my way back to the guesthouse; perhaps some rest will help, and I will need my energy for later.

Places often feel so different at night, a graveyard especially so. Luckily for me, the weather stays clear and cold into the evening. I am dressed in every warm layer that I have, but the dampness permeates my clothes and makes me shiver. I stop at the Seven Eleven and line up with the monks, who seem to be purchasing a combination of snacks and dinner items. I buy a bottle of hot lemon tea from a small heated drink fridge near the cash, and take it with me as a hand-warmer. I join a small group tour, hardly listening to the short monk as he tells stories of the place in slow, careful English. I’m too absorbed in the brightness of the lanterns, the shadows of the gravestones, and the small pale clouds of exhaled breath in the cool night air.

As the tour ends, various guests are whisked away by drivers in order to make their temple curfew. The tour guide offers me a ride as well, but I decline. The hot tea is still warm in my hands. I take my time walking the lit path until I am the only one left. I am not afraid, though perhaps I should be. I turn the flashlight on my phone, and head up into the hill. I can hear the rushing water from the small waterfall under the bridge, and the lit path keeps me oriented. Perhaps it is completely disgraceful to visit the graves at night, but I feel a kind of peace come over me. As I walk between the silent pillars, the ripples of my mind smooth out into perfect, easy stillness.

Eventually I simply get too cold to stay. As I head back towards the town, I hear the sound of the curfew bell in the distance, a soft melody that plays over the town—it is only nine o’clock, and I have barely been in the graveyard alone for an hour. Everyone is already in bed for their curfew; not a soul is out on the streets. Halfway back, it begins to snow.

Location: Japan, Koyasan

A friend of mine meets me there, fresh from a music festival in the Eastern Townships. She has come for two purposes: to explore and to provide companionship for this difficult trip. I’m sure she can see that I am hollow, but she drags me out anyway, to a local restaurant where we plan our next couple of days over a local brew and pizza, testing out our French with the waitstaff (same brewery as before, different beer). The dark clouds above scream rain, but we plan out everything anyway. Surely the rain can’t be that bad.

The town of Saguenay, where our Airbnb is located, exists at the very end of a massive fjord, a huge body of water trapped between carved cliffs. Either side of the fjord is protected land, a provincial park. Nature enthusiasts in both cars and motorbikes park at the various viewpoints along the shores, breathing in the landscape. Towards the mouth of the fjord, along the Saint Lawrence River, whales come every year to raise their young, as the food there is plentiful. Our plan is to go whale watching, but we delay our tour by a day because of the fog. Instead, we spend the next day hiking in cool, rainy conditions on various trails that lead to foggy viewpoints on the cliffs (same trails, different weather). We snap a few washed-out selfies, head down the cliffs, and ride back to the Airbnb, sitting on plastic bags on the car seats, clothes dripping.

The boat tour the next day leaves from a small harbour a little ways from Tadoussac, a little secret that I’ve picked up from all the times I have visited. We board a small red and yellow zodiac boat in matching waterproof gear. The rain is holding off, but the captain is unsure if we will see any whales. My memory scrambles in confusion, as the last time I did this tour, there were hundreds, if not thousands, of whales of all shapes and sizes. The captain explains that it has been an unusually cool summer, and the whales have only just started migrating to the area, so I downgrade my expectations (same tour, fewer whales). My friend keeps her wildlife binoculars at the ready as we set off.

In a matter of minutes, we spot our first harbour seal. It stares at us, unbothered, before diving under the surface. The captain follows the shore as we head into more choppy waters. From what I gather, spotting whales is a matter of both luck and weather. As we trail a cluster of other whale boats, we see them—a pair of massive Fin whales. The captain stops the boat. They swim right towards us, arching up and up, before diving down one after another directly underneath our zodiac. My friend and I beam at one another, ecstatic. This was exactly the sort of experience we had hoped for.

Later in the day, we approach Baie Sainte-Marguerite, where the discovery center is located. We are hoping to see the park rangers feed the beluga whales, which are rare and usually only found in colder water. Unfortunately, we miss the feeding, but groups of tourists are still sitting on the watchtower, eyes glued to their binoculars. A smiling ranger loans us a pair, points us in the right direction, and there they are—tiny white heads, bobbing up and down in the distance, several mother belugas with their babies. Satisfied with our day of whale-watching, we speed back along the fjord, all the way back to the town. My friend packs her bags and heads out the next morning, while I set up my workspace in the Airbnb, preparing for the week ahead.

The rainy weather lets up on the second day. At lunch, I wander down to the waterfront where they are setting up a massive stage. Someone is testing the sound system with bright pop music. I wander up the boardwalk, past the giant silver whale fountain, where carved silver belugas playfully tilt their heads out of the water (same boardwalk, different music). In the evenings, I drive to various viewpoints in the park, places full of remembrance, laughter that I can almost hear, a smile that I can almost see. It is exhausting, but the views of the fjord are so beautiful that I lose myself in them every time.

On one particularly ambitious evening, I head up to Monts-Valin Provincial Park. There is a specific trail I want to hike, but the starting point is high up in the park along an extremely steep gravel road. I downshift all the way to first and push the pedal to the floor, praying that my little car can make it, and somehow it does. The walk is fairly flat and muddy, almost exactly as I remember it, utterly empty of both people and animals. Finally, I reach the end: a platform juts out over a cliff, slanted but stable. Here, para-gliders can throw themselves over the mountainous valley, soaring over the endless Laurentians. Pockets of crystal lakes reflect the dimming pink sun in perfect stillness. It is beautiful. But behind the wonder of the moment lies a nagging fear; the sun is setting, the path is muddy and dark, and the descent with the car is dangerous. I need to leave soon, if not now.

A sense of déja vu washes over me. Not only am I walking the exact same path as before, but I have also, by happenstance, chosen to walk it at the exact same time of day. I have made this exact decision before, but the person I had this conversation with is gone. The disorientation of the moment is complete, and I tumble headlong into grief. The only thing that pulls me out of it is the steady descent of the darkening sun, the threat of the dangerous drive, and so eventually I get up and go.

On the way back to Ottawa, I check in with my heart. It’s so full that it overflows. Even with all the pain that only the death of a loved one can give, I know I will return to Saguenay again and again.

Location: Canada, Saguenay

It’s a hazy, warm August day, the air smelling of salt. A rainbow halo circles the sun, formed from the combination of sunlight and wildfire smoke drifting in from—of all places—Newfoundland. I haul my blow-up paddleboard into the murky waters of the Northwest Arm. It’s cold, but manageable. This stretch of water eventually leads to the end of the Halifax peninsula and onto the Atlantic Ocean. It’s a calm day, and the current pulls the board slightly off-course. As I paddle down the arm, I alternate between sitting and standing. Friendly boaters pass by on all sides, waving, and I wave back, smiling. One man on a sailboat gestures to a small, round object floating in the water. Dark, expressive eyes framed with long eyelashes look around in interest. The harbour seal spots my board, blinks, and then quickly disappears under the surface. It resurfaces a few times as I paddle along, curious but distant. At some point, I drop a small anchor in order to rest, floating, looking up at the strange pale sky. Eventually, it is time to turn around. I sigh. Weekends are far too short.

I spend the week working remotely from a small, box-like room in one of the Dalhousie residences. I have two fans running at all times, but sweat still pours down my back. The refreshing view of the harbour from my window does nothing to cool me off, though I do enjoy watching the variety of boats float by. There are moments that break up the monotonous work days: a series of horn blasts plays in a kind of melody, inadvertently putting a meeting on hold; a tall white multi-storey building detaches itself from the harbour front and floats away—an incognito cruise ship.

I spend most of my evenings walking the boardwalk along the harbour. The docks are relatively empty after the August long weekend. One lone sailboat-style yacht remains docked, its wooden floors gleaming in the lamplight, the white sock-footed staff all dressed in matching t-shirts and pants. Half-full tourist boats float past, music blaring and multi-colored lights flashing. All along the boardwalk, I catch snippets of conversation revolving around the unexpected heatwave in the East. Lots of sighs and shaking of heads. I check the forecast on my phone; only hot, sunny days ahead.

One night, I attend a show at Neptune Theater, in the heart of the downtown district. A woman sits beside me and strikes up a conversation so easily that I cannot help but be impressed. Where was I from? Why was I visiting? What have I seen in Halifax so far? I mention my idea of attending a ‘Shakespeare by the Sea’ play, which is performed in the historic Point Pleasant Park and uses some of the historic monuments as a kind of backdrop.

“I’m not sure if it’s running,” she confesses. “All the parks are closed because of the wildfires.”

It turns out that it is the only park-based event allowed to run during this time of caution and unease. I attend it happily, though I am underdressed for the cool evening; as the last bows hit the stage, I am shivering from the damp. And thus my week in Halifax comes to an end.

Newfoundland is in an utter state of confusion when I arrive. The plane lands just fine, but driving is a whole other ballgame. Wildfires have ravaged several areas around St John’s, and entire sections of the main highway are completely closed. My kindly relatives pick me up, even though it’s an evening flight, and the highway detour is long. Throughout the week, they watch the news with intensity, volume high. When we go out for a drive, we see helicopters in the distance, raining buckets of water on flames.

All my plans have to change; there is no hiking, no visiting my cousin, who is a paramedic in St John’s. I work steady days, and walk some of the coastal roads in the evenings. The sun is a sad, dull blotch in the sky. The scent of smoke is so strong that any thought of going for a run is out of the question. The green, wild Newfoundland I know from the past is now restricted, and rightly so; the East is simply not as equipped as the West to handle this kind of heat and flame. I spend the evenings playing backgammon or re-learning how to play Forty-Fives, a local card game with mind-bending rules that only seem to make sense to proper Newfies.

“Some people here live in family homes,” one of my relatives says over a game of backgammon one night. We had spent the afternoon blueberry picking in a nearby field, and were enjoying the fruit of our effort along with a bottle of Black Horse beer. “If they lose their home, they’ll lose everything.”

Back on the mainland, the heat wave continues, scorching hot in my basic black sedan. The wind whips through the open windows as I drive homeward, humid and smelling of smoke. I cross the bridge from Halifax to mainland Nova Scotia, my arm hanging out of the window, fingers stretched long, my hand pushing against the wall of hot air. Every single overpass on the highway is filled with firetrucks, police cars, and ambulances. Uniformed figures stand next to their vehicles. From the highway, various drivers honk their horns and wave as they pass by. The first responders wave back, smiling, ready.

Location: Canada, Halifax

When I close my eyes and think about last summer, I see myself lying diagonally across the back of a rented Bronco, attempting to sleep while sweating inside a too-warm sleeping bag.

It’s June in the Yukon, and the sun burns bright and long, well past any semblance of bedtime. The animals are certainly awake. I can hear bird song from the cracked windows of the car, which I’ve artfully covered with special bug nets for the occasion. It isn’t just small animals that are awake at all times; I’ve seen several clusters of black bears eating dandelions on the side of the road, a mother moose with her calf down near Carcross, and one lone grizzly, walking in the center of the road up on the Hanes Highway, far above the treeline. These larger creatures are my chief concern and the main reason why I decided to sleep in the back of an SUV rather than inside a tent. That being said, I have not seen a single bear in any of the campsites thus far; Yukoners are responsible campers and are very careful with their food.

I manage to catch a few hours of sleep, with the help of a sleep mask and some earplugs. I wake up early anyway (I’m not a morning person, but the sun really does mess with circadian rhythm) and head to my main destination of the day: Kluane National Park.

The drive is devastatingly beautiful, particularly the part through Destruction Bay. Sand blows along the dried river bed, gathering in wave-shaped dunes. I squint, hunched over the wheel, as the Bronco flies through sand clouds. It’s a holiday Monday in the Yukon so the tourist center is (unfortunately) closed, but I already have the trail map downloaded on my phone. I grab the tourist pamphlet just in case; there’s an emergency number listed on it to call. I laugh. There’s no service here anyway, how on earth could I call someone for help?

The hike up Sheep’s Creek, one of the main trails, is a steep one. The elevation gain is about 1100 meters. It’s one of the steepest day hikes I’ve done, but I feel ready for it; I’ve been hiking for a few weeks now. The first bit of the trail is flat and calm—until a fat pheasant explodes out of the bush in front of me, along with half a dozen chicks. They scramble across the path into the bushes, peeping, and the mother spreads its wings and rushes towards me, zigzagging along the path. I run backwards, my hiking poles flailing, until she launches herself off the ground and lands on a low branch, squawking. I slink past, looking sheepish—so much for being a bold adventurer.

The entrance of the trail is marked with a commemorative plaque.

“It’s fine,” I say out loud, with false reassurance. I touch the bear spray I am carrying in the side pouch of my bag for comfort. “There will be other people on the trail. It’s a holiday!”

Sadly, this is not the case. The trail is perfectly empty—every hiker’s dream, but not mine. I sing, clap, and talk myself through the hike, and occasionally yell, “No bears allowed!” while rounding the switchbacks. I use my poles to test the scat I find to ensure it is not fresh; the Yukon is the only place I’ve hiked where I’ve had to track scat, paw, and claw marks for safety. (I know that sounds badass, but it was fairly terrifying at first.) At this point in my trip it feels almost normal. Luckily for me, there are no fresh signs of bears—or any other animals—on this hike.

The trail is steep and mostly unshaded. The sun is scorching, even this far north; in the summertime, the Arctic is essentially a desert. I’m consuming water much faster than I had planned, even though I’m carrying roughly three and a half litres with me. I take a break at a viewpoint for an apple, which helps. The smoke from the wildfires is not so bad today, and I can see snowy peaks in the distance. Wildfires are common in this part of Canada; this far north, they are usually caused by lightning. The smoke can drift in from hours away—visibility is a game of wind direction, of chance. The threat of smoke might account for the lack of hikers on the trail.

Finally, I break above the tree line. Now that I have better visibility, I relax a little. No, I cannot outrun a bear—I’ve seen a grizzly run uphill in Glacier National Park in British Columbia, and let me tell you, there is absolutely no outrunning that thing—but at least now I can see one coming and plan for my demise. Step by step, I ascend the final part of the hike, panting. It’s so steep that I’m almost crawling up it. There are little fist-sized holes speckled along the sides of the path, and marmots—or perhaps just a single marmot—pop in and out of them as I pass, squealing in warning.

“Just passing by,” I tell them/it, doing my best not to step on their home. My feet skid and slide on the sandy slope, and I fall to my knees several times, until finally, finally, I reach the top.

The view of Destruction Bay is breathtaking. Kaskawulsh Glacier cascades down the riverbed, hazy in the smoky conditions. Snowy peaks rise sharply above it, piercing the blue sky. Gusts of sand blow across the bay and trails of thin glacier melt wind through it, heedless of direction. The scene is framed on either side with hilly green hills, almost completely devoid of trees. I feel a pull, a longing, to hike even higher, to see even more, but the hike back would be too long, and my legs are already tired. I lie down instead, almost vertical on the slope, and bask in the warm sunshine. I spend an hour there, eating my lunch and relaxing, to the point where I almost fall asleep. The threat of bears is the only thing that keeps me awake.

In the distance, I see another lone hiker, likely climbing up for the late sunset. We wave at each other, and relief courses through me, releasing tension that I didn’t know I was carrying. Perhaps they feel as relieved as I do. Checking my phone, I realize that it is already evening. I haul myself up, ready to begin my descent. I feel an infinite sense of wonder, satisfaction, and weariness—a combination that, for me, only comes from long trails like this. I take a step, then another, tracking my own prints in the dirt. The trail snakes on and on in the distance, and the proud midnight sun shines on, relentless.

Location: Canada, Whitehorse

My alarm goes off, blaring in the dark hours of the early morning. I snooze it with a groan, and fall back asleep. Ten-plus snoozed alarms later and I am now officially running late. I curse the size of the city, the airlines, and most of all myself for ever having thought that a 6 am flight was an acceptable option. The only positive thing is that traffic has yet to begin at such an inhumane hour. I arrive at the airport exactly two hours ahead, which is perfect for a domestic flight (most flights from here pass through Toronto or Montreal first) but alas, it is snowing outside, and the flight is delayed. I curse myself for not checking the flight status before leaving, but there’s nothing to be done except to continue through security. Onward.

The airport staff, yawning with sleep, search through bags with tired eyes. Nothing much seems to interest them, not even the occasional alarm. How must they feel, seeing excited travellers pass through the gates day after day, when they themselves stand in the exact same spot every morning, repeatedly reminding every other person to “Please take your laptop out of your bag”, and “All liquids must be in a small one-litre clear bag, thank you”? Luckily, the Ottawa airport has finally upgraded to new machines, so the only thing that must be removed are snow boots; as a result, the lineup runs faster than usual. (Thank you, oh technology gods!)

Travel is not always fun for the customer either. Sometimes it’s a requirement: a business trip, a compassionate flight. There are many reasons to travel. Fortunately, today I reside in the most common traveller category during a Canadian winter: a sunshine flight south to Mexico.

Breakfast options after security are sparse. I buy a sad croissant with a less-sad coffee, and a plastic water bottle, as I must have (unfortunately) left my reusable one at home. The cost of the bill is outrageous, but I ignore the numbers. It’s too early to do math anyway, and the thought of warm sunshine after weeks of -20 deg C temperatures fills my head with a sound somewhere between a church choir and a symphonic metal band—it blocks out any passing negative thought. The flight to Toronto is small and packed to the brim with what appear to be business travellers; the overhead bins are nearly overflowing by the time my seating zone is called. An unimpressed flight attendant shoves my carpet bag between two comically oversized carry-on suitcases and snaps the bin shut. I collapse into my seat, grateful that there are no more delays.

The Toronto airport has better food and seating options, but it is much louder, thrumming with chatter and fan noise. My earplugs only moderately soften the din. I check my phone—three hours to go until my flight. I watch the airplanes slide in and out of view through the snowy landscape. I smile. All that’s left now is to wait.

These past few months of movement have been dizzying, and I am ready for a break. They say that travel can’t solve all your problems, but there is something to be said for taking a break from the stress of everyday life. I am very interested in being in a place where the wind doesn’t hurt my face. Would you like to follow me on this trip? The airplane is only half full, but not everyone has the time, money, or desire to travel. But a break from life can be as simple as having a slow, quiet cup of tea and reading a short article like this one, for just a few minutes in the day.

The plane slides into the air, buffeted by strong gusts of wind. The checkered snowy landscape fades beneath puffy, whipped-cream clouds. The sun shines through the windows, blinding and beautiful.

See you soon,

Alexa