In the spring of 1639, three young nuns set sail from France, each carrying a hidden key in her habit. Upon landing in the new settlement of Quebec City, they would unseal three sturdy locks on a large wooden trunk that safeguarded all their worldly goods. It also contained something invaluable—a contract to found a monastery hospital, the first in North America outside Mexico.

Little did they realize that one of their future guests* would become Canada’s most notorious** hotel thief, taking three round canisters with them in their luggage after their visit.



*Me. This story is about me.





** The dozen or so people who know this story won’t stop teasing me about it.

When I travel, I like to explore twists and turns: A windy road, a crooked bookstore, the cozy nooks in tiny coffee shops. What I don't like, and generally avoid at all costs, are ups and downs. I avoid mountains, caves, ledges, edges, ladders, crevices, tunnels, and trenches. I am not a gal designed for adventure and I'm rather proud of the fact that I've proved that you can travel around the world without the need to parachute, paraglide, or procure a pair of trekking poles. 

But every now and then, there's a chink in my armour. I ignore decades of ironclad evidence that I don't have daring bone in my body and I do something rash, something utterly beyond my bravery. And that, precisely, is what I found myself doing at the Mont-Orford Ski Resort in Quebec's Eastern Townships.

This is what happens when an anti-adventurist rides the world's tallest*, steepest*, most terrifying chair lift.

If you're a Canadian of a certain age, you are undoubtedly familiar with the following words:

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Robert Service's haunting poem, The Cremation of Sam McGee, was required reading for me and just about every other Canadian school kid in the 1980s and 1990s. Little did I know that Service himself experienced a harrowing, haunting moment of his own - and that he may have been the source of someone else's ghostly encounter.

Oh, and of course, there's an ice cream shop involved. Welcome to ghost stories, Victoria-style.

​I can’t tell you when Labrador first hit my travel radar. 

This rugged, remote Canadian region, a part of the province of Newfoundland and Labrador but physically connected to north-east Quebec, is not a spot for a wimpy traveller like me. Distances are far, amenities can be sparse, and the mosquitoes will strip you bare in seconds. Yet the place they call The Big Land has been calling for me for years. Labrador has topped my travel wish list since the beginning of the pandemic. When I had the opportunity to visit as part of the annual Travel Media Association of Canada conference, I knew I had to go.

I dearly wanted to make Labrador’s acquaintance, but it’s doubtful that the region wanted the likes of me. I have no good reason to be enamoured with small Labrador fishing communities like Red Bay and Battle Harbour. My aversion to boats is both legendary and well-founded. Similarly, I can’t tell you why stories from events such as Cain’s Quest, Labrador’s legendary annual 3,100-kilometre snowmobile endurance race capture my heart. I dislike cold weather, sporty things, and noisy fanfare. Frankly, even the process of getting to Labrador is determinedly very non-Vanessa-ish. I like cold foam on coffee, not ferry decks, thank you very much. So, sure, the villages are cute, and the events are spirited, but this is clearly the kind of place I should appreciate through a documentary and not my own Gravol-addled brain. 

Thankfully, my heart is immune to common sense.

If there's one activity I long thought I'd never experience thanks to my deep-seated anti-adventurist tendencies, it's a motorcycle tour. However, when I embarked on a tour with Calgary’s Rocky Mountain Sidecar Adventures, I learned that the experience is about much more than the bike. It's a time-traveling adventure that immerses you in the charm of vintage Ural motorcycles.
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Rocky Mountain Sidecar Adventures is a family owned and operated business that offers seasonal motorcycle sidecar tours between May and October. The company uses Urals almost exclusively, though there is one Triumph in the fleet. Ural, which was founded in Russia in 1941, originally built sidecar motorcycles to help the military in World War II but they also thrived in the post-war era, as people fell in love with how practical they were.

​During my tour, I saw for myself just how practical (and fun!) these vehicles really are. Here’s what I loved about them.

I have a rule when it comes to hiking. I have to be able to complete the route while holding a travel mug, full of a delicious latte. If you're going to trudge through the forest, you might as well do with a tasty hot beverage in hand, right? And having a hot drink to balance means you're avoiding anything too arduous. However, while on a press trip to Manitoulin Island, located just outside Sudbury in northern Ontario, I broke that rule all in the name of, well... I'm not sure exactly. Adventure? That doesn't sound like me. Being a bold, brave travel writer? Welllll.......

Like many anti-adventurist excursions, I had several moments of doubt along the way, but I'm ultimately happy that I did it. Here's what it was like to hike the Cup and Saucer Trail - in the rain!

Have you ever signed up for an activity you're a little unsure about it and the organizer tells you not to worry, that they've never lost someone/ had someone capsize/ had someone utterly fail? It's a heartening speech designed to bolster low confidence and soothe the very nerves that lead to shaky performance. And thus far, it's proven true for me.

Until now, folks. Until now.

This is what happened when a confirmed anti-adventurist (that's me) took on one heck of a crazy challenge (that's axe throwing in Shelburne, Nova Scotia) and utterly failed. 

There are many reasons a person might decide to step outside of their comfort zone. Perhaps they want to test their limits, experience life to the fullest, or make an incredible travel memory. Or maybe, just maybe, they want to show their husband that they don't know you as well as they think they do.

​The latter was me. In an effort to make Ryan think "Hmmmm.... Maybe I don't know Vanessa all that well. She is far more enigmatic than I gave her credit for" I found myself on what is billed as the world's first interprovincial zip line.

Yes, fellow anti-adventurists. I went zip lining. On my wedding anniversary. All so I'd appear just a smidgen more inscrutable than normal to a spouse who knows me very, very well. 

Every writer dreams of an exclusive celebrity scoop and I got one to top them all: Santa Claus! Not only did the head elf himself give me the inside scoop on what he loves about Ottawa but I also got to spend some time with him in his very own plane. That's right - Santa doesn't just fly a sleigh but he also offers 15 minute aerial tours of downtown Ottawa in a vintage Cessna 172 in conjunction with Ottawa Aviation Adventures as part of a program in support of the Ottawa Food Bank.

There was just one tiny complication. The plane is tiny. Santa is all-knowing. And I'm a big ol' scarde-y cat. An Anti-Adventurist, if you will. Would my notorious stomach hold up in a vintage aircraft? Would my nerve hold up if Santa started grilling me about whether I was naughty or nice?