After 10 days wilderness Porcher Island and half a day of “cleaning up” at a hotel in Prince Rupert, I’m now on a plane to Vancouver. I’ve tied the Japanese glass buoy to a fishing net I found and am carrying it around with me. It’s generally admired (by people who know what I’m carrying) and probably met with amusement by everyone else. Prince Rupert is the northernmost city on Canada’s west coast, just a few kilometers from the border with Alaska. Its tiny airport gives you a sense that wilderness here far wilderness from the crowds, on the edge of the wilderness . We had loaded our luggage into the truck at the Highland Inn, along with that of the other passengers, and taken the bus to the small ferry that brought us to the airport, located on Digsby Island. There, we had to unload our luggage from the baggage ramp—which was barely five meters long—and check it in properly ten meters further on. Finally, we made our way across the small tarmac to the small plane. So here I am now, in seat 1A by the window—enjoying the view. The pilot just announced that the flight to Vancouver will take a good hour. I look back at the untouched forests and marshes of the rugged coastline with its many small islands, which was my home for a while. It all feels very familiar to me and disappears far too quickly beneath a thick blanket of clouds. Now the clouds are parting again, revealing snow-capped mountain peaks that glide by beneath me in seemingly endless numbers. I notice several circular volcanic craters and follow the rivers as they wind their way down through the valleys. Then, huge glaciers appear below me, their long tongues—striped greenish-white—spanning the valleys. Seabays extending far inland crisscross the landscape beneath me. The rivers flow into them, sometimes forming extensive deltas, and they color the greenish water. Other bodies of water glisten dark blue, especially the lakes that seem to slumber higher up in the valleys. Finally, the roads become more frequent. They stand out because of their zigzag pattern, which winds its way up the slopes and always begins at the sea—and clearly visible are the light brown patches around them: clear-cuts that are expanding more and more and becoming increasingly numerous the further south we travel. Now the settlements also catch my eye. Small boats trace white lines across the bodies of water, which lie shimmering beneath us—sometimes turquoise, sometimes greenish, and then dark again. And dotting them again and again are brown, striped “islands”: large areas of tree trunks chained together. From a bird’s-eye view, it becomes clear that the forest here is structured quite differently: even from up here, you can see that vast monocultures and homogeneous forest areas stretch out below us, interrupted by light-brown, freshly cleared patches. Now the settlements and harbors become more frequent, eventually merging into a major city—Vancouver. From above, I can clearly make out Stanley Park, then Downtown with its incomparable skyscrapers, alongside two large cruise ships, marinas, and Gastown. And then the suburbs, where small houses stand neatly arranged in a regular grid of streets, some with bright blue pools, bridges, railroad tracks, and geometrically patterned fields. By the time we reach the airport, it’s clear: we’ve left seclusion far behind us! This is a major city—and one with a truly beautiful airport (the most beautiful I know). But even now, amid the hustle and bustle of everyday life, I already miss the peace and seclusion. And I know one thing for sure: I’ll be back—back to the indescribably peaceful and tranquil wilderness Canada’s west coast, with its last remaining untouched forests, fascinating moorlands, and soothing solitude. Thank you!