For a Friend: Reflections from the Tree to Sea Loop

After 10 days of linking logging roads, dodging bear scat, and never fully warming up or drying off, we reached San Josef Bay, the halfway point on Miles Arbour’s 1,041-kilometre Tree to Sea Loop. Even by car, getting to Cape Scott Provincial Park—the northwestern tip of Vancouver Island—is a mission, but it’s well worth the hours of driving or days of pedalling.

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At low tide, its inviting sandy beaches stretch seamlessly out to the Pacific, waiting half a kilometre away. Sea stacks stand defiantly, and ancient trees—lone remnants in a highly logged landscape—rise up and resist the harsh West Coast weather, their resilience adding to the beauty. It’s a place where nature still has the upper hand. A place Zoe would’ve loved.

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Losing someone leaves you with a pain that never entirely disappears. It retreats with the outgoing current, laying undisturbed in the depths, until a rogue wave causes it to surge to the surface, sending a shock through your soul. But along with the painful moments are the precious ones—a vivid dream, a memory, a feeling—where you’re assured they’re still with you.

A decade before our arrival, Zoe had planned to spend her summer working in Cape Scott, and although she never made it, her presence was palpable. Knowing this trip would coincide with her 10-year spirit anniversary, I packed Zoe’s bulky green Arc’teryx sweater into my overstuffed panniers. Her mom had given it to me after she’d passed away, and although there was hardly any room for it, I wanted her to be a part of the ride. What I hadn’t planned for, however, was that her contribution would be far more than just a sweater.

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Each day, her sense of adventure was evident in the changing and challenging environments we rode through. Her kind heart was revealed in the actions of others, and her absence instilled a deeper appreciation for the unexpected connections we made along the way.

Into the Wild

Before starting the Tree to Sea, I’d romanticised what it would be like: Nick and I, alone in the wilderness, surviving off of berries and freshly caught fish (never mind that neither of us knew how to fish or forage). I’ll admit I was dreaming, if not a bit delusional, and once we started riding, it didn’t take long for reality to sink its teeth in.

After spending our first morning stitching together coastal pathways and quiet neighbourhood streets, we stopped for a snack on a forest service road south of Campbell River. It wasn’t until getting back on the bikes that we realised we’d been dining in a cougar’s den. For the next 500 metres, jaw bones, tufts of fur, and bloody deer legs accompanied us down the trail.

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Turning around would’ve been the most logical (and safest) option, but we’d only just begun, and I was reluctant to let fear win so easily. Besides, the quiet gravel roads, hidden lakes and thick second-growth forest added some respite, even though I witnessed most of these highlights while looking over my shoulder.

Upper Campbell Lakes Campground was a welcome sight after our foreboding ride, and running into two other cyclists there added to my relief. When we arrived, Mary and Karen were busy making dinner, purifying water, and tending to their bikes. I was comforted knowing we’d share the road (and the water taxi to Zeballos) with such competent and confident women.

Initially, I thought this ride would be about self-sufficiency and independence, but biking through the boneyard had exposed our vulnerability, making me realise that companionship would be the most valuable resource on these remote roads. Sitting around the fire, silently inhaling instant curry with Nick beside me, I was content with letting my wild aspirations go up in smoke.

For Weather or Worse

As we made our way from Sayward to Gold River, the wet coast weather settled in, soaking us and all our belongings, including the rubber coats, rain pants, and booties that were supposed to keep us dry. At this point, the water taxi booking dictated our schedule, so we had little choice but to keep going.

The first half of the road to Tahsis climbed steadily, taking us past freshly snow-covered peaks, over swollen rivers, and under a thick, dark sky. Storms rolled through the mountains frequently, and we were at the mercy of their unpredictable moods. Nick and I stopped for lunch at Upana Caves before reaching the 586-metre summit at Bull Lake. The descent back to sea level was like sliding down a waterfall, with sheets of rain adding to the sensation and grades so steep I was hesitant to take my hands off the brakes.

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Covered in mud, bombing down seemingly endless hills, I was reminded of the rainy days when Zoe and I would go mountain biking together and come home with dirt and giant smiles stuck to our faces. The senseless joy of riding a bike amidst Mother Nature’s wrath is hard to describe; the space between risk and reward is non-existent, and every inch of you is awake and aware of the unburdened present.

Nearing Tahsis, the clouds shifted, allowing streaks of sunshine to pass through the giant bows of the cedar trees, casting columns of light on our paths. When we finally arrived in town, the downpour had subsided, and a rainbow stretched across the inlet. It had been a gruelling day of riding that still shines brightly in my memories.

Mary and Karen—the Matriarchs, as one Tahsis local dubbed them—were waiting at the one-stop gas station/restaurant/convenience store when we pulled up along with Bec, a badass Australian girl who’d been riding with us since Sayward. The Matriarchs had intel that we could get some delicious Indian food there, so the five of us headed inside to find out.

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The adrenaline from the last 66 kilometres had started to wear off, but samosas and butter chicken curry were the perfect remedies to our exhaustion. Once our stomachs were satisfied, we sat around talking about what an incredible ride we’d just experienced. Biking in such unfavourable conditions isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, but I was grateful to be sipping chai surrounded by four people who shared my taste.

Coast to Post

On a clear, cool morning, we loaded our bikes onto the water taxi and enjoyed the smooth ride to Zeballos. Bec and the Matriarchs were on board, the five of us now bound together by the thread of a boat ride. Once we’d disembarked, we all rolled over to the local Canada Post, where we found a hot cup of coffee and a warm welcome from the postmaster, Yvonne.

Even though we’d just arrived, she treated us like old friends and spent the morning spinning around the one-room office, taking care of us and every other customer who came in. Yvonne knew everyone by name, and along with retrieving their mail, she would take the time to ask about their day, their family, and their lives. Many of them would stay for a coffee and a conversation, which inevitably included us.

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What struck me most wasn’t that the Post Office sold hot beverages, local crafts, snacks, and frozen meals but that it was also a thriving social hub. In my mind, living in an isolated place meant you’d be alone, but in Zeballos, a place with fewer than 200 residents, where the next closest town is an hour’s drive away on a mostly unpaved road, it seemed to be the opposite.

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Our quick stop quickly turned into a couple of hours, but none of us were eager to get back on the bikes and leave such a cosy cafe. As we departed, I was acutely aware of the importance of connection and grateful for the sense of community that was extended to us by Yvonne and her patrons.

The Scarlet Ibis

One of the main reasons we wanted to ride the Tree to Sea Loop was to visit the distant places on the northern half of Vancouver Island and meet the people who inhabit them. With no time constraints, we were able to take a leisurely pace and stop in all the towns, cafes, and pubs along the way—of which there were a surprising number. Each one provided us with its own unique encounter, and The Scarlet Ibis was no exception.

We’d heard about “Vancouver Island’s most remote pub” long before we started the trip, and when we reached it on a sunny Friday afternoon, after an unseasonably hot 70-kilometre ride, we couldn’t have been more ready for a beer. Mary and Karen had beat us there and were sitting on the patio having a drink with Ron, so we grabbed a couple of seats and joined them.

Ron had been living in Holberg for 30 years and told us about his chainsaw collection (one of which he was trying to sell to Nick), his forestry company, and his house behind the pub with an unreal view of the inlet. He insisted on buying us dinner, but we refused, settling for a round of Lucky’s instead. “Don’t worry, Trudea’s paying,” he told us. As he was leaving, he backed his truck into a clothes rack drying a pair of underwear and then continued driving the 50 metres to his place as if nothing had happened.

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None of us moved far from the patio that evening, and the locals continued to show their northern hospitality. One even shared his freshly caught crab, complete with garlic butter for dipping. The quality of food, scenery, and company we found that night exceeded all of my expectations, reminding me why we’d chosen to take this trip in the first place.

Keep your Head Up and Your Heart Strong

Riding to San Josef Bay was a milestone, but I’d mistakenly thought the terrain would get easier as we headed south. Bad weather followed us to Port Hardy and down the coast, pausing only briefly during our days spent on Malcolm and Cormorant Island.

Leaving Port McNeil, it was clear the frigid conditions and lack of nutrients from our instant meals were catching up with us. We only made it as far as Telegraph Cove, where we spent a damp night at the Forest Campground. The next day was 77 kilometres with a substantial climb at the start, so we postponed our departure with coffee and baked goods from Sally’s Snack Shack.

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Reaching the plateau wasn’t too painful, and from there, we wound high above the river, in and out of clear cuts (a standard of the Tree to Sea), and past Ida and Bonanza Lake. Although the towns we’d visited the last few days were hardly metropolitan centres, returning to the quiet forest service roads was refreshing.

Things got more daunting when we reached the Island Highway, and the route zigzagged across it, adding elevation and distance to what had already been a full day. Eventually, we took matters into our own hands and followed a decommissioned railroad line, a much bumpier but less hilly option. It still took its toll, and when we finally arrived in Woss, I was defeated and dreading all the elevation that awaited us in the following days.

The next morning, May 17th, was the 10th anniversary of losing Zoe, and despite how tired I felt, thoughts of her encouraged me to push on. Leaving town, I looked down at the quote tattooed on my left arm, the same one she’d had: Keep your head up and your heart strong. This advice helped me a lot on the trip, and it would be essential for this ride.

The road was tough, and the climbs were steep, but instead of feeling weak as I approached them, I felt unstoppable. Flying down the descent to Naka Creek Rec Site, I’d forgotten all about my worries from the previous day.

The wind was howling as we set up our beachside site, causing the ocean to collapse on the shore and the flowers and leaves to dance in a fury. Zoe’s mom had written to me that morning, saying, “She is the wind today, feel her hugs, listen to her whispers,” and I felt her embrace then more than ever.

After setting up the tent, I wandered down the beach to be alone with my thoughts. When I returned, we had new neighbours with a couple of dogs running around. I heard the owner calling one of them “Zoe” and knew it had to be her. Ten years after leaving this life, she was letting me know that she’d been with us all along.

Not so Fast

Our final days were some of the hardest and most rewarding, with nearly vertical hills and unparalleled coastal views. The home stretch was near, and as much as we wanted to continue riding, we also longed for a comfy bed, a hot shower, and a week of rest. Naturally, an hour from the end of our epic journey, Nick got a giant gash in his tubeless tire.

This inconvenience added to our rapidly deteriorating energy levels, but despite tempting offers from my mom to pick us up (she lived 20 kilometres away), this was a problem we had to solve on our own. By the time I remembered the spare tire my dad had told me to take, we were both covered in sealant and had used up all of Nick’s plugs trying to stop the leak. Fortunately, a tube and a 28mm spare solved our biggest mechanical issue of the trip.

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As annoying as the flat had been, every adventure needs its adversity, and once we’d fixed it, we had even more appreciation for our final pedal strokes. Following the trails through Seal Bay Park, where the sword ferns were lush and the massive Douglas firs illuminated, the ride began to feel like a dream. Arriving back at my mom’s house, I wondered if it was.

Down the Road

Celebrating Zoe’s 10th spirit anniversary during this trip was part coincidence, part necessity. Having so many hours to think on the bike enabled me to reflect on the impact her kindness, sense of adventure, and absence have had on so many, including myself. It also emphasised the importance of connection in this fleeting and uncertain existence.

Sometimes we get so wrapped up in our own worlds that we forget how incredible it is to simply be alive and how little we need to make it meaningful. Ironically, it’s often death that puts life back into perspective. Two weeks spent on the Tree to Sea, with Zoe along for the ride, was the ultimate reminder of this. And although I miss her deeply, I like to think we’ll all see our loved ones again, somewhere down the road.

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