The Ferry That Got Away (and the Island We Almost Skipped)
- roselyn0
- Aug 17
- 7 min read
We thought we were about to have one of those perfectly planned travel weeks — the kind you smugly imagine while sipping your coffee. Seven days on Vancouver Island. Long Beach sunsets. Then a ferry from Port Hardy to Prince Rupert, gliding past wild coastline on our way to Terrace for our first WWOOFing gig.
Instead, we learned we were 17th on the waitlist… after we were already on the island. What followed was a week of rain and sun, lost credit cards, broken bike valves, beaches that made me want to become a surfer, and a whole lot of changing plans on the fly. And honestly? I wouldn’t trade a minute of it.
Cumberland: A Weekend Crush in All Weather
We rolled off the ferry from Powell River to Comox and headed straight for Cumberland to see my friends Heather and Shawn. Timing? Chef’s kiss. May long weekend — when small towns pull out all the stops.
The first two days were rainy, but it didn’t slow us down. We stood under umbrellas at the soapbox races and wandered the market, dripping but happy. Then, as if on cue, the sun showed up right in time for the thunderball event, and then for the parade and the maypole dancing, turning the streets into one big, smiling celebration.
Heather folded us right into family life — laundry spinning, coffee in hand — and her kids whisked ours to a comic convention. Simon and I even snuck away for a bike ride to the China Bowls. It was perfect until he noticed my tire was low, tried to add air, and snap — broke the valve. He was frustrated; I chose to stay calm. Tiny moment, big reminder: I don’t have to let someone else’s mood set mine.
Horne Lake Caves: Small Steps, Big Courage
Next stop: Horne Lake Caves. Helmets and underground tunnels weren’t exactly selling points for some of us — a few “I can’t do this” as we approached the cave. We took it step by step. I kept whispering, “You’re doing great. You can do this.” Slowly, our nerves softened. An hour later everyone was glowing — proud and fearless in that way you can’t fake.
Our guide was fantastic — passionate and steady. He taught us how to spot subtle signs a cave might be nearby, clues we’d have walked past a thousand times. The girls weren’t the only ones with butterflies; I had my own quiet what if it all caves in? But his confidence carried us. We came out seeing the mountains differently, like the world hides secret passageways just beneath our feet.
Long Beach: Driftwood Cabanas & a Missing Card
We crossed the island to Long Beach. As soon as we arrived, the girls became miniature architects, building driftwood cabanas while I stood there thinking, If I lived here, I’d probably become a surfer.
The next morning, Kuna and I took a golden-hour beach walk — all peace and soft light — until I realized my credit card was missing from my pocket. Backtracking didn’t help. I called the bank and had a replacement sent ahead to Terrace. Lesson learned: the ocean is great at taking worries… and occasionally your stuff.
Somewhere on that west-coast stretch, a run of nasty potholes gave the Pink Sloth a new soundtrack — a rubbing noise on turns. Something underneath was occasionally touching a wheel. Not dangerous, just loud and concerning. We’d need a shop — soon. But not exactly now.
We stayed two nights on the coast, breathing the salty air and watching spectacular sunsets crash into the horizon.
Tofino: Tonquin Beach, Ice Cream & Almosts
In Tofino, Simon dropped the girls and me at Tonquin Beach while he hunted down a mechanic. No luck — they couldn’t help. By the time he got back, the girls were done, and he never got to see the beach. That stung.
We’d promised ice cream, so we parked with cones and chatted with a couple from Quebec traveling with their two little ones. They raved about Ucluelet’s lighthouse walk, and their excitement was contagious. Somewhere between drips of chocolate and vanilla they also reminded us of something we’d started taking for granted: the beauty of bus life. No constant pack–unpack–repack. Our home just rolls with us, bumps, potholes, and all.
Meanwhile, Arielle spent most of the day “spraining” her ankle. We pushed her on her bike just to get around. She magically “recovered” as we rolled toward evening.
Ucluelet: Lighthouse Light & Delegating Dinner
We made the lighthouse trail for late afternoon and it was everything — waves pounding below, sky bright blue, that edge-of-the-world feeling. I remember being irritated by Simon’s impatience — can’t even recall why now, just the sharpness of the moment, dinner time = hungry.
So we hit the reset button and delegated dinner. A local pointed us to Frankie’s, and it was exactly what we needed. Great food, warm buzz, and our server — Frankie — made the night. He’s originally from Quebec and had spent winters skiing in Sutton. Here in Ucluelet, we felt a thread tug us right back home.
Sometimes delegating doesn’t mean handing a task to someone else; it means letting the world take care of you for a night.
Port Alberni: Services, Sparkles & Smoother Rides
By Thursday we headed to Port Alberni — exactly the kind of place that reminds you why towns with services matter when you roll in a bus. Birks squeezed us in for an inspection and Rick Denis helped with the rubbing underbody piece, calming the Sloth’s complaints.
While Simon talked shop, I took the girls for their very first mani-pedi — sparkles, giggles, the whole shebang. Later that day, parked outside Walmart, I suggested a ‘short’ bike ride to the library. What I didn’t bother checking on Google Maps: the elevation. Big hills. Cue the ‘I can’t do this!’ chorus. So I pedaled alongside them, coaching between my own breaths: ‘Yes, you can. Keep going.’ And they did. We rolled into the library flushed, proud, and sparkling — inside and out.
The next day, with a clearer route (from the shop to Dollarama and back to the library) and better prep — snacks, expectations, stops — we had zero meltdowns. Preparation > improvisation. Every time.
The Waitlist Gamble
We were expected in Terrace on May 25 and were waitlisted for the May 24 sailing from Port Hardy to Prince Rupert. Somewhere between Long Beach and Port Alberni — planning to head north within a couple of days — an email from BC Ferries landed in Simon's inbox: We are pleased to inform you that you are confirmed on the May 24 sailing. It sounded perfect… but my gut said call.
Good thing we did. We were actually 17th on the waitlist. Driving the Sloth all the way to Port Hardy for a “maybe” didn’t make sense, especially with a fixed date in Terrace. Plan A scrapped.
Back on the Sunshine Coast, we’d had two options for reaching Terrace: hop over to Vancouver Island and take the epic 16-hour ferry, or drive the long, winding mainland route. We’d chosen the ferry, partly because it felt adventurous, partly because we thought the Sloth deserved a little break from the endless climbing.
But the Port Hardy–Prince Rupert ferry is no small-ticket item—you normally need to book three months in advance. We hadn’t, which left us clinging to the waitlist. And with the gamble lost, our choice was made for us.
New route unlocked.
The Long Road North
We gave ourselves three days to reach Terrace: more than 1,300 km of winding mountain roads through the Fraser Valley. A quick hike at Bridal Falls set the pace before we settled into the rhythm of the drive.
One rough night near Abbotsford convinced us to retire our old camping app; iOverlander quickly became our new best friend. In Williams Lake, we grilled burgers under olive trees while the girls turned a stone wall into their catwalk. Prince George was just a pit stop, but Kuna scored a great trail walk. Through it all, the Sloth — suspension holding strong — just kept humming.
The bus became its own playground. Back in Port Alberni, the girls had begged for beads at Dollarama, the best three-dollar splurge of the trip. They spent hours stringing bracelets, running a rolling jewelry stand in the backseat, and even crafted gifts for our hosts — equal parts crafty, generous, and entrepreneurial.
We watched the scenery shift from coastal greens to glacier-fed blues, then rolled into Terrace: tired, on time, and oddly grateful we’d missed that ferry.
Because the detour was the trip — the tiny wins, the confidence blooms, the “delegated” dinners, the strangers who felt like neighbors. And the long road kept reminding us: plans are just suggestions, but stories are what you find when they change.
✨ Next up: our stay at Elysium Lake Farm — where math was measured in sourdough, and the girls’ “real world schooling” got very real.
What do you think — would you have gambled on that waitlist, or hit the road like we did?
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