Canada | #02 | Withdrawal

Last updated on April 21, 2026

30th of March 2026 to 21st of April

Approximate reading time: 15 minutes

Lets get it started

Hello world, hello Canada, hello Squamish.

I’m sitting here in the Adventure Centre in the middle of Squamish, having left my first Canadian home on the Sunshine Coast last Wednesday, off to new adventures. After five and a half weeks, it was time to say goodbye to Gayle, Lee, and Cyrus—the very chubby chocolate lab—who, to be fair, showed absolutely zero emotional distress about my departure. His main concern remained consistent: snacks. Always snacks. Priorities, I guess.

As a dog person, it did sting a little. But I’ll survive. Probably.

Now I’ve landed in this mountain town, with a highway cutting straight through it like someone forgot to plan around the scenery—but somehow it works. Mountains everywhere, big ones, the kind that make you feel small in a good way. I’ll get into that properly later. For now, it’s time to rewind a bit, look back at the past few weeks, and then see what’s coming next.

The coffee here is… okay. Let’s leave it at that. Definitely not comparable to my beloved flat white from the Coffee Shack in Wanaka. Also, a quick note to Canada: if I order a “medium,” I do not expect to receive what New Zealand would confidently label a “large bordering on excessive.” I’m basically holding a bucket at this point.

Sitting here, looking out at the highway with the mountains rising behind it, I can’t help but think about all the adventures already ticked off—and all the ones still waiting. There’s that familiar itch to explore, to see more, do more. But at the same time, I can feel a shift. Something quieter. A pull towards calm, towards peace. Maybe even towards settling a bit.

You know… a place to call home. A safe space. A fireplace. A dog. And, naturally, a donkey. (Yes, a donkey. If you’re questioning that, we clearly need to spend more time together.)

But before we get too philosophical about future life plans involving livestock—let’s head back to the Sunshine Coast and relive the chaos, the calm, and everything in between.

While I sit here, attempting to finish this medium-large-extra-large coffee… with a premium view of the highway.

Happy Easter – Happy Birthday

It was time for Easter—even in Canada. You might not believe it, but they do, in fact, have traditions here. Real ones. With fun. And chocolate. And yes, they hide Easter eggs.

Well… they do it a bit differently.

They go hunting. An Easter egg hunt. And while there are no guns or bows involved, don’t be fooled—this is a competitive sport. It’s all about securing the best loot, the premium snacks, the top-tier chocolate before anyone else even knows what’s happening. Survival of the fastest.

And this Easter? This one was special.

The entire family of Gayle and Lee showed up. And when I say entire, I mean it. Four kids, partners, kids of their own, and dogs. Lots of dogs. We ended up being 12 adults, two kids, and three dogs—well, let’s call it three and a half, considering Cyrus, the ever-expanding chocolate lab.

For me, this was a big deal. I still felt like I was coming “from the outside,” and suddenly I found myself right in the middle of a full-blown family gathering. Not just as a visitor—but somehow as part of it.

To be honest, that scared me a bit.

I didn’t know what to expect. How to talk to everyone. If they’d like me—or if I’d just be “the Workawayer who’ll be gone soon anyway.” Yes, Felix has these thoughts. Felix overthinks. Felix occasionally spirals into unnecessary social anxiety. Just in case you didn’t know that about me.

But what it turned into… was something else entirely.

A feast. A fest. A few days full of fun, chaos, and genuinely wholesome moments.

We all went out on the boat—all of us—which still feels physically impossible when I think about it. Lee was on music duty, there was rum for everyone, and the sun was doing its job both outside and somewhere inside all of us. Blue skies, cold water, and me trying to demonstrate to a few brave Canadians how to properly do a dip:

You run. You jump. You’re done.

No slow suffering. No “testing the water.” No waiting for a magical sauna to appear out of nowhere. Just commit and question your life choices afterwards.

Back on land, we had BBQ by the fire, deep conversations in the hot tub, more beer, more rum, music playing, boat cleaning somehow turning into another social event, and dinners that Gayle created like she had secretly trained in a Michelin-star kitchen. I have rarely felt so well fed—and so gently forced into food comas.

At some point, I was playing with one of the kids—nine months old, full of curiosity and pure joy—and something clicked.

I wasn’t just the Workawayer anymore.

I was part of it. Right in the middle of this beautiful, chaotic, loving family bubble. Holding this little human, making them laugh, pretending to be a rocket about to launch into the universe (clearly peak performance), I realised: this is what it feels like to belong, even if just for a moment in time.

Canadian chaos. Powered by love.

Also, I definitely need to cut back on food after this. Gayle has single-handedly raised my standards and my body weight.

As Easter slowly came to an end, Lee set up what can only be described as the final boss level of egg hunts. Chocolate stacked on chocolate, balanced on beer cans, placed on top of a mysterious wooden box in front of the cabins. Everyone lined up. Tension in the air.

I had no idea what the rules were.

And then—without warning—the invisible starting gun went off, and absolute chaos erupted. People sprinting, crawling, diving into bushes—with prams, without prams, kids in tow, dogs confused but committed.

And me?

Somewhere in the middle, filming, laughing, slightly overwhelmed, thinking: what a wonderfully chaotic bunch of humans.

Once the dust settled and everyone proudly admired their treasures, I had one more surprise. I asked Gayle and Lee to go on their own little hunt. They were confused. Lee insisted there was nothing to find.

I insisted otherwise.

The night before, I had hidden a few Easter gifts for them. A small mission. A “hot and cold” treasure hunt—German instructions included, which, in hindsight, added an unnecessary level of difficulty.

After about five minutes of mild confusion and creative interpretation, they both found their gifts at the exact same time: a beautiful Spanish red wine and a bottle of the legendary BumBum Rum. Success. Smiles achieved. Mission accomplished.

As the days went on, it was time for more local experiences—and slowly, for goodbyes.

We headed to a small garden party at their friends Malin and Nadja. Homemade sourdough pizza, warm welcomes, and a garden full of chickens and rabbits casually living their best lives. At some point, we ended up singing German Christmas songs together—don’t ask how we got there—while Nadja bravely joined in without understanding a single word. Commitment level: outstanding.

And then came something I didn’t expect at all.

Since we wouldn’t be able to celebrate my birthday together, they decided to celebrate it early. Not once. Not twice. Three days in a row.

Different cakes. Birthday songs. And a card, written by Lee, filled with words that genuinely hit deep. The kind of words that stay with you.

It made me realise something simple, but important:

What we do matters.
Every small action. Every smile. Every genuine moment of care.

Even if we don’t see the impact. Even if we never hear about it again.

It matters—if it comes from a place that is real. Warm. Open. Honest.

And maybe that’s what I’ll take with me from this Easter – along with a few extra kilos and a semi-strong emotional attachment to a very chubby chocolate lab who does not care about a german workawayer – he would throw my off a cliff for a snack.

The mother of the big wind

“Mother of the big wind.” That’s what Squamish translates to—and honestly, it sounds like the title of an epic fantasy novel or the name of a slightly intimidating yoga instructor.

Welcome to Squamish.

Nestled between Vancouver and Whistler along the Sea-to-Sky Highway, this place is surrounded by mountains in a way that almost feels unfair to the rest of the world. It’s a playground for climbers, hikers, and—surprisingly—windsurfers, thanks to its location right by the ocean. And yes, the wind is very much a thing here.

Quick science moment (don’t worry, I’ll keep it painless): the sea and land heat up at different rates, creating pressure differences… which creates wind… which creates situations where your tent might try to relocate without your consent. So, pro tip: maybe don’t camp directly under trees in peak summer unless you’re keen on testing the efficiency of the local hospital system.

Now, I came here with a certain idea in mind. You know—cute mountain town, cozy centre, little cafés, maybe a lakeside to stroll along, some chilled vibe in the middle of it all.

Reality check: Squamish plays by its own rules.

Yes, it’s perfectly located for adventures in every direction. But there isn’t really a “center” where you casually wander, browse, and sip your third flat white of the day. Instead, there’s a highway. A proper one. Cutting straight through town like it has somewhere very important to be.

The town stretches about 14 km in length but is only around 2 km wide—so it feels a bit like someone took a proper town and gently pulled it apart.

And then there’s The Chief.

This massive granite mountain watches over everything like a silent guardian. It’s not the highest, not the steepest—but it might be one of the most impressive natural formations you’ll ever stand in front of. Carved by glaciers millions of years ago, it has this presence that makes you stop, stare, and question your own life choices for a second.

The town itself? A mix of thrift stores, pubs, cafés, grocery stores—and the classic North American trio: Starbucks, Subway, and McDonald’s. Add in a laundry here, a cannabis store there (yes, completely legal—and yes, Canadian weed has a reputation… I’ll let you draw your own conclusions), and you’ve got the full picture.

My current Workaway base is the Mamquam River Campground—a non-profit spot designed to give easy river access and affordable camping just outside the busy part of Squamish. It’s about 2.5 km away from the highway, which is just enough distance to hear more birds than engines.

And then there’s John.

67 years old. Local legend. Energy level: somewhere between ten horses and a squirrel that just discovered winter is coming and is somehow on MDMA. The man doesn’t walk—he operates at a constant high-energy level, fuelled by stories, enthusiasm, and what I can only assume is an espresso shot ten times a day.

On our first day, he casually decided to “switch things up” and took us on a hike up The Chief. Of course, not the standard route—but an alternative one. Steeper. Slightly sketchy in parts. The kind of path where you occasionally think, “Well… this is how it ends.”

Meanwhile, John is halfway up the mountain, telling another story, pausing briefly to catch his breath, and while still with his hands on his knees then continuing like nothing ever happened.

The work at the campground is as varied as it gets: cleaning, check-ins, maintenance, weed-whacking, building, sorting, chatting with guests. With around 70 spots for cars and tents, it’s a decent-sized operation that needs constant care—and a bit of love.

We all live in campervans, and thankfully it’s getting warmer now. The first night, though? Frost. Proper frost. I was wrapped in my sleeping bag with two extra blankets, looking like a human burrito, questioning my life decisions at 3am.

But hey—we survived. Character building, they say.

Right now, we’re also preparing for a reggae festival happening this Saturday. John, of course, is fully in his element—embracing the red-yellow-green lifestyle like he’s been doing it forever.

In between shifts (usually two hours in the morning, three in the afternoon), Emily—another Workawayer from the UK—and I try to make the most of our time. Quick hikes, coffee missions (still searching for the one), thrift store explorations, and occasional planning for overnight adventures that may or may not happen.

Camp life itself is… basic.

No running water. No proper electricity—well, a fridge and some power to charge phones, so we’re not completely off-grid cavemen. Cooking happens in an outdoor kitchen. And yes, the first couple of days were… an adjustment.

But now? I’m starting to really enjoy it.

Living with the daylight. Campfires in the evening. And daily dips in the Mamquam River.

Yes—daily. Day five today. And let me tell you: parts of my body have officially reached “ice sculpture” status. You don’t ease into that water. You commit. Or you don’t go in at all.

And somehow, all of this… grounds me.

It strips things back. It reminds me how little we actually need—and how much those simple things matter. Running water. A hot shower. A safe place to sleep. A full fridge. Things that are so normal for many of us, yet so incredibly valuable.

This experience is slowly reshaping what I want.

And spoiler alert: it’s not the biggest TV screen or a high-end corporate job with a fancy title.

It’s connection. Sustainability. Sharing. Caring.

And being genuinely grateful for the small things—because, in the end, those are usually the big ones.

Withdrawal Symptoms

Back to the present.

I’m still sitting here in this very Adventure Centre, right next to the highway—because apparently, nothing says “peaceful reflection” like trucks casually thundering past every few minutes. (They do have a 30-seat cinema in here though, which feels wildl and yet somehow impressive at the same time.)

And I can’t help but wonder: is this the right place for me?

Ever since I left New Zealand—and honestly, even months before that, while we were still road-tripping through it—I’ve caught myself constantly comparing. Places. Experiences. Entire countries.

I hear myself saying things like:
“Yeah, it’s nice… but it’s not New Zealand.”
Or even worse:
“Cute place… but it’s not Wanaka.”

And somewhere along the way, I realised I might be missing the point.

Because while I’m busy comparing, I’m not fully here. Not really. I’m not properly in this moment—or the next one—because part of me is always looking back at what felt like a little piece of heaven.

And to be fair… it is hard to beat.

The adventures. The nature. That hut lifestyle. Drinking fresh water straight from a mountain creek. The sound of cheeky kea echoing through the valley. Grabbing a fresh pie and a hot flat white, walking along the lakeside with mountains rising in front of you like they’ve been placed there just for dramatic effect.

It’s a tough act to follow. No doubt about it.

But—here’s the thing—every place has its own kind of beauty. Its own little magic.

Maybe not as loud. Maybe not as obvious. But it’s there.

Every new place brings something different: a new perspective, a new moment, a new experience. A small shift. A new idea. A seed of direction you didn’t even know you needed. Different landscapes, different animals, different rhythms of life.

And maybe most importantly—a different version of you.

Not in a shiny, “upgraded software version 2.0” kind of way (because honestly, that sounds like a tech ad and not like real life). But in a quieter, more human way.

A version of you that slowly adapts.

At first, you approach new challenges the same old way. Because that’s what you know. And then, at some point, you realise… it’s not working anymore.

So you try something different.

A new idea. A new approach. A slightly different way of thinking. And without really noticing it happening, you grow.

A bit more aware.
A bit more resilient.
A bit more experienced.

Maybe even… a bit more adult. (Still not fully convinced on that one, but we’re getting there.)

And yes, you can have all of that in the same place, too. Growth doesn’t require a plane ticket.

But sometimes—just sometimes—maybe a place needs you to leave.

To go out, see the world, face challenges that don’t care about your comfort zone. The kind that try to push you back into old patterns. Old habits. Old ways of thinking. The kind that whisper, “just do it like before.”

And maybe leaving is exactly what allows you to see things clearly.

To come back more aware. More connected. More grounded. More present.

Or maybe…

The place you’re meant to be isn’t the one you’ve been holding onto so tightly.

Maybe it’s somewhere completely different.

Somewhere you haven’t fully seen yet—because you’ve been too busy comparing it to something else.

What else to say?

Well… different location again.

Now I’m sitting at the campground, sunset right in front of me. A huge fireball slowly disappearing behind this massive mountain formation, while I—tiny little human that I am—sit on a slightly questionable but surprisingly comfortable old car seat. Feet resting on a second-hand foldable camping chair, of course. Premium setup. Five stars. Would recommend.

And here I am, writing. About life. About the world. About… whatever comes to mind, really.

Because while I sit here, watching all of this unfold, I can’t help but think about how life can feel so challenging sometimes. So dramatic. So unnecessarily complicated.

And yet—right now—it’s none of that.

Right now, life feels warm. Soft. Peaceful.

I can hear the river flowing in the background. Birds doing their evening concert. The last rays of sun stretching across the sky like they’re in no rush to leave. I can smell the trees around me, that fresh, earthy scent that somehow makes everything feel a little more grounded.

And then there are these tiny, cheeky birds hopping around, trying to find the last forgotten crumbs—some piece of potato chip, maybe a bit of bread we accidentally dropped earlier. Fully committed. Fully focused.

Completely unaware.

Because somewhere out there, in the dark, the real night shift is getting ready. Bears. Patient. Opportunistic. Just waiting for one small human mistake. One forgotten snack. One poorly closed container.

And while they’re out there, doing their thing, we’re here—curled up in our cozy vans, wrapped in warm sleeping bags, drifting off into peaceful sleep. Blissfully unaware of the slightly dangerous beauty moving quietly around us.

It’s a strange contrast, isn’t it?

How life can be both—gentle and wild. Calm and unpredictable. Safe and just a little bit risky at the same time.

And maybe that’s part of it.

Maybe that’s what makes moments like this feel so real.

So… yeah.

See you around.

Your DingyInternationaL
Felix