Chasing Mountains and Meaning: From Whistler to Pemberton

Nairn Falls. Power, motion, wild green. 💧🌿⚡️

After four full days of trail rides, lakeside walks, and ski slope laughter in Whistler, it was time to keep rolling. The Pink Sloth purred to life, and we pointed our wheels toward Pemberton—hoping, dreaming, and half-wondering if we could find a farm willing to let us park our minibus in exchange for a few helping hands.

Before arriving, we made a short stop at Nairn Falls. The trail was an easy walk right by a steep river's edge, and the power of the falls offered a breath-taking moment. A pause between places. The girls climbed rocks, the air smelled of moss and movement, and for a few minutes, the noise in my mind quieted.

Nature’s power at full volume—and us, questioning all our life choices. 🌊😱🌲

That night, we stayed near One Mile Lake. We shared a warm meal in the bus and tucked in under blankets while the mountains held us steady. There was a stillness to that night I won’t forget—a simple reminder of how much beauty can live in not knowing exactly where you're headed next.

The next morning, I had a work meeting to take care of, so Simon offered to take the girls for a walk around the lake. When they returned, their faces were glowing. “Mama, please come! You have to see it! There are little coloured doors in the trees!”

Proof that a little beauty and wonder go a long way—suddenly, everyone's excited to keep walking. ✨🌿👣

So we went—me following their eager footsteps, their stories tumbling over each other as they pointed out every magical nook. Tiny, brightly painted doors hidden in trunks, little worlds carved into the forest. It was simple, whimsical, and full of the kind of wonder I want them to always carry.

That walk—completely unexpected—turned into one of the sweetest memories of our week.

Tiny doors hidden in tree trunks—Pemberton’s forest knows how to keep little legs walking and imaginations running. 🚪🌲✨

As I followed their excited little voices through the trees, something in me softened. The tiny doors, the sparkle in their eyes, the way they noticed every little detail—it pulled me out of my spinning thoughts and brought me fully into the moment. That short walk around the lake was exactly what I didn’t know I needed. A gentle reminder to slow down. To look closer. To be here.

Careful girls… once you open a tiny door, there’s no telling what kind of mischief you’ll unleash! 😄🚪✨

Afterwards, I figured we’d do something practical—laundry. We found a little spot in Pemberton and thought, Why not take care of that and then maybe stop by a few farms afterward? A simple plan, but with that hopeful edge—like maybe the day still had something unexpected to offer.

Travel life math lesson: how many coins to wash a week’s worth of adventure? 🧺➕🪙✖️✨

While the laundry was getting done, Simon dropped the girls and me off at a nearby park to stretch our legs and get some extra movement in. The sun was warm, the air just crisp enough to feel awake. Arielle decided it was the perfect time to give me a few cartwheel lessons—her confidence contagious, her joy impossible to resist. I tried. I laughed. I might have pulled something. But it brought me back—body, breath, and heart.

Laundry in progress, play in full swing. Winning at travel multitasking. 🧺👧🌳

We’re members of WWOOF Canada and had already reached out to a couple of farms in BC for later on—after our stay in Gibsons with the Schmidts—but something in us wanted to try now. To see what might happen if we just asked.

From Sutton to the Road: A Whispered Dream, Reawakened

That little spark actually started months ago, back in Sutton, when Simon had his biking accident. While he was recovering—unable to do much physically—he reached out to our local CAB (a volunteer center) to see if they could lend a hand around the house. Not for himself, but to make sure I had support.

That stuck with me.

At first, I wasn’t sure how to feel. I’ve always seen the volunteer center as a place for people who really need help, and even with everything going on, I didn’t think we qualified. Since becoming a mother, I’ve convinced myself I could handle anything. But the truth is, I used to spread myself too thin. And when I did, the ones who felt it most were the people I loved the most.

Accepting help wasn’t easy—but it was healing.

Volunteers showed up with open hearts and willing hands. One of my running partners even stepped in to help finish the interior of the minibus. We shared tools, stories, and quiet moments that reminded me what community really looks like—not transactional, but generous. It gave me a beautiful taste of what it feels like when people show up simply to give.

That moment also brought back a story the volunteer coordinator had shared with me. She once did a cross-country trip, stopping at farms and helping in exchange for a place to stay. I remember telling her about our own planned trip, and as I spoke, I started to feel like maybe it wasn’t possible anymore. Simon’s accident had shaken everything—suddenly, the idea of planning ahead felt fragile and overwhelming.

But she smiled and told me, “You don’t always need to plan. Sometimes the road opens up as you go.”

That small piece of encouragement stuck too.

An Old Dream, Still Growing

This dream of connecting with the land isn’t new for us. Back in 2022, Simon and I nearly bought a farm. We created a full business plan to transform an alpaca farm into an edible grape farm—something sustainable, beautiful, and rooted in community.

Back when we were deep in alpaca farm research—Arielle was clearly on board. 🦙💼💛

We didn’t move forward with it then, but the idea never really left us. It’s been quietly growing in the background, waiting for the right season to come alive.

It was during that research that we discovered the Herenboeren model in the Netherlands—a community-supported farming concept where people don’t just buy food, they take part in growing it. Shared work, shared harvest, shared connection. It felt aligned with the kind of life we dreamed of.

In 2023, I even visited a Herenboeren farm while in the Netherlands to see how it worked in person. Walking the land, speaking with the members, and witnessing the rhythm of that community gave me a much deeper understanding of what this model really means—and how it could one day take root in our own community.

We tucked the idea away, unsure when or how it might resurface.

But just before this trip, it began to stir again. We started talking with neighbours, sketching ideas, imagining what it might look like to bring people together around food, land, and shared purpose.

And then came an unexpected nudge from the road.

The Beer Farmers

Tulips at our feet, mountains behind us, and everything that matters right beside me. 🌷🏔️💛

We didn't really know where we would spend that night, driving on Pemberton Meadows road in the bus when a splash of colour in the field caught our eye—a vibrant patch of tulips, bright and bold against the green. The Miller's farm displayed before our eyes and we decided to stop. I stepped out of the bus, phone to my ear, chatting with my dad. As I walked toward the field, he mentioned that just a day or two earlier, my brother had been at Keukenhof in the Netherlands — one of the largest and most iconic tulip gardens in the world. Something about that overlap—two continents, same flowers—felt like a gentle wink from the universe.

Arielle, absolutely blooming in the tulip field. 🌷😊✨

As we wandered past the barn, we saw a baby calf being bottle-fed by one of the farm family members, the youngest child Liam. The scene was very touching. We had only planned to stop in for a beer… but then we saw the food truck. And on the menu? Poutine! We couldn’t resist.

Liam feeding Pumpkin with such quiet care—one of those moments that makes you pause and feel it all. 🐄🍼💛

There was something grounding about that moment at The Beer Farmers—the flowers, the animals, the shared food, the warmth. We didn’t talk about business plans or community models—we just felt them. It was a taste of something familiar, and a glimpse of something possible.

We’ve tried a few poutines since leaving Quebec… but this place nailed it. First one that truly tasted like home. 🍟❤️🍁

Before we left, I asked Liam if they’d ever be open to a work exchange—letting us park our RV on their land in return for helping out on the farm. He told us to go talk to his dad, Bruce, so we did. We sent him a text as requested, not expecting much, but hopeful. That evening, before we’d even left, Bruce wrote us a message: “Leave your RV parked where it is, we will talk in the morning. There is a lot of chores to be done around the farm, hopefully something you like”

Just walking back to the bus… no idea Bruce was about to hit us with a plot twist of kindness.

That simple answer—so open, so trusting—meant the world. It felt like a quiet “yes” from the road itself.

Following the Thread

I wasn’t sure if I should share all of this—it feels a little more personal, a little more raw. But maybe that’s the point.

This journey isn’t just about the places we go. It’s about the questions we carry, the dreams we dust off, and the quiet ways we try to find our footing again.

If any of this resonates with you—if you’ve ever felt like you’re figuring it out as you go—I’d love to hear from you in the comments. We’re all on our own kind of road.

I’ll be honest—I’m not entirely sure where all of this is heading. Part of me dreams of growing roots, creating a farm, and building something lasting. Another part of me longs to keep traveling, to chase beauty and wonder wherever the road leads. I’m still figuring it out.

But maybe that’s okay. Maybe the important part isn’t knowing exactly where I’m going—But staying open and grateful to what’s unfolding, one stop at a time.

Next up: a stay we hadn’t expected, with a family we’ll never forget. Highland cows, a quiet valley, and something tender that caught us off guard. Coming soon. 🐮✨