Track Journey

The night before my walk, I stayed downtown in Victoria with the homeless. The city felt heavy—so many people struggling, yet invisible to the world around them.Then, on Mother’s Day, I began my walk. The streets were busy, full of people celebrating, while I was stepping into something completely different. Walking through town was stressful, but once I found a quiet path, everything changed. The sun was warm, the music in my ears was powerful, and for the first time that day, I felt at peace.

I walked for hours. By evening, I reached a campground but couldn’t afford to stay. They let me camp at the entrance—a small, quiet spot to rest.I walked 21 km on a hot, sunny 30 degree day.

That night, I met another homeless man. He shared his struggles with a system that controlled his life but never really saw him. We talked for about an hour, two strangers connected by the same fight. Then it was time to move again. I packed up, ready to step onto Highway 1 for the first time. A new road, a new journey, and no idea what lay ahead.

I spent the morning at a Tim Hortons, charging my phone and laptop, making sure everything was ready before heading out. Up until now, I had been walking on paths because there was no safe place on the highway. But today, I had no choice—it was time to step onto Highway 1 for the first time. I was terrified.

As I packed up and got ready to step onto the road, panic hit me like a wave. My chest tightened, and I couldn’t breathe. I had to walk away, away from the noise and the movement, just to catch my breath. I stood there, forcing myself to calm down. One step at a time. Finally, I did it. I stepped onto the highway.

It was narrow, but the experience was incredible. I was surrounded by deep, dark green forests—so thick and untouched, it felt like walking through heaven. Most people don’t realize that walking is a stress reliever. I can walk for hours, not as work, but as a way to release everything. Now imagine getting that massive stress relief while walking through one of the most beautiful places in Canada.

Cars rushed by, their passengers unable to see what I could touch. They couldn’t hear the streams running beside the road or feel the wind shifting through the trees. They were moving too fast to notice the details that made this place feel alive. Later in the day, I found a campground where a group of soldiers was gathered, enjoying some kind of vacation together. They were kind and welcoming, but I found it strange that they, as peacekeepers, had never heard of a Peace Table. The irony stuck with me.

The day was still young, so I kept walking. Eventually, I reached a service road. Construction blocked my way, and I knew I’d need their help in the morning to cross. So I stopped there for the night, resting with the road ahead waiting for me.

I walked about 6Km that day. felt like a full days walking

MillBay My First big Day walking 29km 30 degree hot day.

Today was another day filled with amazement. The sun was hot, and the road was all uphill. Every time I pushed up one hill and turned a corner, another steep climb waited for me. But the scenery was breathtaking—endless stretches of beauty that made every step worth it.

I had almost no money and no food, but then I spotted a small sandwich place on the side of the road. The description of the sandwich didn’t sound great, but after walking all day, my hunger won over. I spent the little money I had on it, and to my surprise, it was the best sandwich I had ever had—made with kiwis of all things!

As the day wore on, I arrived in a new town by early evening. I had nowhere to sleep, and the uncertainty was scary. Then, a stranger stopped me and asked, “Was that you walking on the highway?” They told me how impressed they were by what I was doing. It caught me off guard—I hadn’t even realized that what I was doing was impressive.

As night started to fall, I had to find a safe place to sleep. I did something that felt terrifying—I started knocking on doors, asking people if I could sleep in their backyard. Rejection after rejection—until one kind person said no but mentioned their neighbor would probably say yes. And they did. A simple yes turned my night around, giving me a place to rest and a reminder that even when things feel impossible, kindness can still be found.

After a nice rest with friends, I packed up and got back onto the highway. This stretch of road held a strange familiarity—it was where I first lived when COVID hit. Walking through it again felt like stepping into a memory, a reminder of how much life had changed since then.

I walked 17 km again another hot sunny 30 degree day arriving at a friends in Ladysmith B.C.

That night, I stayed with another friend and got caught up on all the local gossip. It was a simple, easy night—one of those rare moments in this journey where I wasn’t just surviving but reconnecting.

Tomorrow, the road calls again.

Today was a big day—I had to cross the ferry into Vancouver. A friend had offered me a place to stay, which gave me some peace of mind, but when I arrived, they never showed up. I was stranded.

Late at night, in the dark, I arrived in Horseshoe Bay, desperately trying to find a place to pitch my tent. There was nothing. No space, no shelter—just me pushing my stroller, heading east out of the area.

I found myself struggling up a steep path lined with massive tree stumps, making it nearly impossible to push the cart. The night felt endless. Then, almost magically, I spotted a flat, hidden spot to my left—just the right size for my tent. I had a black tarp, making me practically invisible. It felt like the perfect hiding place.

Just as I got set up, a group of partiers came running up the path, screaming and carrying on. They did this a few times, and I had no idea what was going on. Then, out of nowhere, the police showed up at my tent.

My heart dropped.

After everything today, what was I going to face now? Was I about to get kicked out? Arrested? Fined?

To my surprise, the police didn’t care that I had pitched my tent. They just wanted to know which direction the party people had gone. That was it. No trouble. No problems.

A moment of relief in an exhausting day.

I walked 22 km in another beautiful hot sunny day.

I woke up to something completely unexpected—Billionaire Alley, they call it.

As I walked through, I found myself starting conversations with the most unlikely people. First, a medical professional who had been harmed by her own industry. She was now rebuilding her life, shifting careers in a completely different direction.

Then came a homeowner from Billionaire Alley who decided to walk with me through the entire area, giving me a front-row seat to rich people gossip.

Apparently, during COVID, the billionaires got bored—so they left, only to buy art while they were isolated. Some neighbors don’t like others flaunting their wealth—one guy even wrapped his front fence in gold, which didn’t sit well with certain residents.

And then there was the security talk. Kidnappings? According to them, it’s a crime that only the rich have to worry about. But they’ve solved that problem—they can shut down the entire town instantly, sealing off the area so no one can get in or out. 

I walked 17 km, another nice, hot 30 degree sunny day, arriving at Capilano River Campground

This day started off great. I finally had enough money to stay at a campground, take a shower, and clean some clothes. After days on the road, these small things felt like luxuries.

But there was still that book.

Every day, I looked at it, wondering what to do. I couldn’t throw it away—the woman who gave it to me had been too kind. At the same time, I’m not religious, and I couldn’t afford to carry extra weight.

Then, it hit me. I would read from it every morning. Not because I believed in it, but out of respect for the woman who gifted it to me. And if I had a different perspective on what I read, I would share that too. Finally, I had a purpose for the book.

So, I packed up and decided to go live on Facebook for the first time, reading from it. And then—it happened. $300 fell out from the pages.

I was floored. No words can describe what that moment was like. I was so shocked, overwhelmed, and out of it, I shut the live stream down immediately. I just sat there, processing. This was a miracle in my experience. Because of it, I was able to eat, stay at campgrounds, and feel so much safer in these more populated areas.

That day, I walked 24 kilometers through heavy city traffic, crossing the Iron Workers Memorial Bridge, weaving through residential areas, and finally reaching a campground in Burnaby.

Life was good

For once, today was stress-free. I walked 20 kilometers to the next campsite, which was free—a rare find.

When I got there, I realized it wasn’t a regular campground. It was meant for large groups who had to book in advance. But by now, I was used to figuring things out as I went. So, I waited until the walking traffic died down and quietly pitched my tent.

Navigating through these heavily populated areas was a challenge. I crossed another bridge, trying to find a way through the maze of streets, sidewalks, and dead-end paths. Highway 1 was my goal, but every time I tried to head that way, Google Maps sent me down the wrong paths.

Even when the plan didn’t go smoothly, I kept moving forward. One step at a time.

I woke up to another beautiful, hot, sunny day. As always, I packed up before 7 AM, before the world fully woke up. I walked alongside morning commuters, blending into the rhythm of people heading to work.

At a stoplight intersection, I struck up a conversation with a doctor. He was contemplating biking across Canada, and here I was, walking the journey with cancer. In just the time it took for a traffic light to change, everything shifted.He told me that I inspired him to live his life, and in return, he inspired me to keep going. An amazing, life-changing moment, wrapped up in the space of a single red light.

The day was brutally hot—days of walking in this heat with no shower were catching up to me. Sweat, dust, exhaustion. I was feeling it.Then, as I walked down a shaded path, I crossed paths with a stunning couple—they looked  perfect. Tall, well-groomed, like models out of a magazine. To my surprise, they stopped to ask me why I was walking.

The woman, effortlessly elegant, reached out to hug me. I had to stop her—a warning: “I stink. I’ve been walking in this heat for days.” She didn’t care. In fact, she seemed to hug me even more. Her teen was struggling, and she was grateful that someone was doing something. That moment stuck with me. Years later, I haven’t been able to influence the big changes I hoped for—but it’s those connections that remind me I’m on the right path.

By the time I reached Langley—29 km later, a kind person offered me a place to pitch my tent in their yard. Another night safe, another step forward.

Today, I set out for Abbotsford. The landscape began to change—the endless rush of the busy metropolis faded, replaced by open farmland and wide stretches of space. Less noise, less stress. The air felt different, and every second of the walk was breathtakingly beautiful.

But when I arrived in Abbotsford, things took a turn. I started asking people if I could sleep in their empty yards, and the response was horrible—instant rejection, cold stares, and avoidance. Then, I learned why. Abbotsford has a massive homelessness problem, and apparently, walking with a stroller was enough to make me a threat. People treated me like I was carrying some kind of deadly disease, staying far away as if my very presence was something to fear.

It was a numbers game—I knew I just needed one person to say yes. Despite how horribly most people treated me, one young father stood out. He saw me, not the fear. He took a chance and let me set up in the small patch of grass he shared with his duplex. And that’s the thing—it only took asking three people to find him. I can’t complain about those numbers. But it’s still hard to ask when the first two treat you like you don’t belong in their world.

People like him—the rare, kind souls—are the ones that make the rest look so much worse.

Another hot, sunny 30-degree day—every day seemed to hold the same heat, like the weather itself was unchanging on this journey.

Today, I walked down isolated farm roads, nothing but flat farmland stretching for miles. It felt like I was right on the U.S. border—something about the landscape, the openness, the way the air felt. It felt southern.

I walked 20 km, and while it felt like a long day, I reminded myself—this was nothing compared to the 40 km days I was working up to. But today was different. As the day came to an end, I asked a farmer if I could pitch my tent on his land. He welcomed me without much conversation. No hesitation, no fear—just quiet acceptance.

In the morning, as I packed up, he handed me $50 for my mission. He didn’t say much, but he didn’t need to. That small act of support spoke volumes.

After a few days of rest and a fixed tire, I was back on the road, heading toward Bridal Falls. I was really looking forward to soaking in a hot tub and relaxing in a pool before tackling the next stretch to Hope.

I had almost no food but trusted that there would be stores where I could restock once I got there.

But when I arrived, I was hit with disappointment.

The hot tub and pool were out of order, but the prices hadn’t changed—still just as expensive as if they were working. And worse, there was no real food available to buy.

Luckily, the local restaurant was a saving grace. I had great meals there, and they went out of their way to pack me a huge lunch for the next day’s walk.

With 28 km to Hope ahead of me, under another 30-degree sun, that act of kindness meant everything.

Reaching Hope should have felt like a victory. Instead, it turned into a complete disaster. I walked 36 km uphill in over 30-degree heat, with almost no shade to escape it. By the time I reached the campground, I could barely stand. I collapsed, begging to just pay later once I could function. But no—heat stroke or not, I had to dig through my things, pay up, and set up camp immediately. I thought I was going to die. Then, an amazing camper saw me struggling. Without hesitation, they jumped in, set up my tent for me, and let me lay down for hours until I could finally move and get food. That kindness saved me. Lesson learned: Never again.

From that day forward, I carried a huge Canadian flag—wrapping it around me for shade as I walked. Simple, but it worked.

But while I was recovering, something else was happening. Chris Barber had been in Hope just before I arrived, having meetings—but not in support. He has always been against this movement, calling it the “crazy basement lady theory” and rallying his followers to harass me whenever possible.

A backup driver Magically showed up offered to help me? He was getting heat from Barber’s crowd  not to support me. They were trying to convince him to stay away from me, warning him that I was some kind of dangerous, crazy person. And then the worst part—it turned out they were right about one thing. Not about me. But about him. The backup driver was the real danger.

Humans had just proven themselves far more dangerous than any wild animal I’d encounter on this walk

This was my first day walking with a backup. It felt different—almost like walking in the mountains with nothing, since all my belongings were usually with me in the stroller. But now, everything was left behind in the backup car. The day started later than expected as I waited for him to catch up, but eventually, he arrived. I walked 23 km along the Coquihalla Highway (Highway 5), one of the steepest and most challenging routes in the country. The highway climbs fast, reaching the Coquihalla Summit at 1,244 meters (4,081 feet) in about 50 km, with sections of the road hitting an 8% grade. And I was walking it.

The steep climbs were relentless, with each step feeling like a battle against gravity. The heat didn’t help either—30 degrees with barely any shade, the sun beating down as I pushed forward. Every time I thought I had reached the top, another incline appeared, stretching endlessly ahead. It wasn’t just walking—it was climbing. All along the highway, the pipeline followed me, a strange sight in the middle of nowhere. The funniest part? Portable toilets every mile or so—random little blue boxes standing against the backdrop of wild, untouched mountains.

Finally, we found a nice camping spot along an ice-cold river, where I could soak my feet. The water was both painful and soothing, numbing the blisters that had already started to form. I needed new shoes badly—the walk to Merritt was still ahead, and it wasn’t going to get any easier. As I sat by the river, resting, I took in the stillness of the mountains. This was only the beginning of the real climb

The next day was another hot, sunny climb, with more steep grades pushing me further up the Coquihalla Highway. Every step was tough, but I kept going, following the rhythm of the road. By evening, we found a nice, secluded spot to pitch the tent, and my backup cooked supper. I didn’t think much about it at first—the food was burnt beyond eating, but I just assumed he was a terrible cook. Looking back, though, there were small signs that something wasn’t right. This wasn’t support. This was sabotage.

I believe this was also the day he let the battery die in the car, forcing him to call a tow truck for a boost. More delays, more distractions. I had been paying for everything—the gas, the food, even his cigarettes—while he drove around with his personal email on the car asking for donations. And yet, he showed zero interest in talking about the “Peace Table” movement that I was walking for. He wasn’t here for the mission.

The only thing he seemed to focus on was how great I was at walking—but in a way that felt off. If I needed a break, he would mock me, telling me to keep going, even though I had massive blisters on top of blisters. “Tough it out,” he’d say. But this wasn’t about pushing through. I already knew how to keep going. Walking solo, I followed my own drive to get it done.

What I didn’t need was someone preventing me from resting when stopping was already my biggest struggle. Something was wrong.

Everything still felt new and enjoyable, despite the challenges. But today was a tough day on my feet—blisters on top of blisters, and I still had to climb steep grades. The pain was real, but so was the determination to keep moving forward.

By evening, we landed at a rest stop with a lunch cart, and that’s where the day took a positive turn. The vendor had amazing Zopkios—along with some unique foreign foods I had never heard of before. They were spicy and full of flavor, exactly what I needed after a grueling day of walking. He even gave me a few extra things to take with me.

As we talked, he told me that he had met several other people walking across the country like I was and that he was proud to support them. That simple kindness meant a lot.

That night, we camped near the rest stop. Groundhogs were everywhere, scurrying around as we settled in. But the area felt safe, with lots of other truckers parked for the night. It was a good end to a hard day.

We finally made it to Merritt. I had walked about 30 km that day, despite having blisters on top of blisters. Every step was excruciating, but I kept moving forward. My backup driver, instead of helping, kept telling me not to take breaks. No concern for my injuries, just pushing me to keep going.

By the time I reached the limits of town, I could barely walk anymore. I needed to stop. I figured, given the condition of my feet, it made sense to get a ride into town for the last stretch—but he refused. “That would be cheating,” he said.

I still tried to be hopeful and encouraging, thinking maybe he’d get better once we got going. But instead of improving, everything just kept getting worse. That night, we stayed at one of his friend’s houses. I finally got a shower—something I desperately needed after all these long, painful days. I made spaghetti for us before settling in for the night. His friends were at least helpful—they figured out the tire problem, and I think someone even drove all the way to Hope to pick up a second tire.

Meanwhile, I was still being supportive and complimentary on social media—still hoping things would work out. But deep down, I knew—this wasn’t working.