Written by Edan Ray. Photo by Edan Ray.
I’ve been a traveler since I was 4 years old. While some might say you can’t remember much at that age, I’m here to prove otherwise. Alaska, 2006. My first big trip. A cruise to lush green islands and the breathtaking beauty of Victoria, Canada. I may not recall the emotions I felt when I stepped onto Canadian soil or gazed at Alaska’s icy peaks, but the journey itself? That, I remember vividly. The ship rocked violently as it cut through the waves. Long hallways stretched endlessly, their garish patterned carpets clashing against framed images of serene landscapes on the walls. Cabin doors bore stickers of stick-figures and whiteboards, hinting at the families inside and inviting messages from friendly strangers. But paradise had its quirks. Those same hallways became resting places for seasick passengers, green apples clutched desperately in their hands as thunder cracked outside. This was my first taste of the quintessential “family vacation.” A rocky start (literally) but in hindsight, it was the spark that ignited a lifetime of adventure.
Fast-forward to 2022: another Alaska cruise. This time with not only my family, but also a friend. The cruise ship itself catered more to retirees than to young adults, but the destinations? They made it all worthwhile. Seattle was our launching point, a city bursting with inclusivity, stunning murals and sleek, hyper-modern hotels. It was a moody, effortlessly cool place that blended sleek modernism and rugged Pacific Northwest charm. The skyline was instantly recognizable, dominated by the futuristic Space Needle, glassy high-rises and the iconic Mount Rainier looming in the distance on a clear day. At street level, the city felt layered (literally and figuratively). Pike Place Market burst with color and movement: vendors tossing fish, indie artisans selling handmade goods and the scent of fresh coffee and salty sea air blending together. Down by the waterfront, the Ferris Wheel at Pier 57 spun slowly against the backdrop, the beautiful water reflecting the sunlight behind it. It was a mix of laid-back and industrious. Where tech giants and artists coexisted. There was a certain coziness to the city, with its abundance of bookstores, rain-slicked streets and warm, dimly lit cafés that invited you to linger. It felt introspective, like a place made for thinkers, dreamers and creatives. Even in the rain, Seattle didn’t feel dreary but alive, and it was a great start to what was going to be a great vacation.
While that was all nice and memorable, as a foodie, I have to mention that Seattle was the first place I ever tried Eggs Benedict. To me, it was the kind of breakfast that my dads loved, and it looked like it tasted indulgent, like a reward for slow mornings and good company. With its toasted English muffin, Canadian bacon, the perfectly poached egg (the real reason why I wanted to try it) and crowned with hollandaise sauce, I knew for sure I was going to like it. Well, I didn’t. As it turned out, the hollandaise sauce and I didn’t work together. But to me, that was OK. This was only the first part of my journey on a week-long trip to the islands of Alaska, and Victoria Canada, with my family and a friend of mine.
First stop to kick things off—Ketchikan. A picturesque port town brimming with boats and towering evergreens. When I stepped off the boat onto the port, it felt like a town pulled straight from an adventure novel. Misty forests met the sea. The wooden boardwalks made me feel like I was finally on vacation. The air carried the scent of saltwater, cedar and fresh fish from the docks. Colorful stilted houses clung to the hillsides, their bright happy colors reflecting the rippling waters, while boats bobbed gently at the marina, ready to set off into the wild. Totems (some towering and centered in the middle of the tourist bustle, some tucked into quiet corners) told us stories about the Tlingit, Haida and Ts’msyen people. I remembered being so excited to learn all about their intricate carvings and heritage. Ketchikan felt like the meeting point between civilization and wilderness. Eagles perched on rooftops, and even though it was cold enough to warrant heavy jackets and sweatshirts, the locals made you feel warm. Everyone who worked there was so excited to tell you about their home’s greatness.
The excursion we had waiting for my family was an unexpected, yet wildly entertaining, dive into the hilarious world of lumberjacks. Specifically, we were about to witness a Lumberjack Show. A high-energy spectacle filled with roaring chainsaws, death-defying stunts and plenty of good-natured banter. As we arrived at the outdoor arena, the air smelled like fresh-cut wood and sawdust. Towering logs were stacked in different formations around the stage, and I could hear the audience talking with one another. Some had seen this show many times, in love with the charming natures of the men involved, and others talked about what they thought this show was going to be about. Was there going to be a story involved? Or was it going to be haphazardly thrown together? The show kicked off with two teams of burly, flannel-clad competitors representing rival logging camps, ready to battle it out in a series of challenges. One of them also acted as the announcer, introducing the competitors with exaggerated enthusiasm, hyping up the crowd and splitting us apart to get some friendly competition going with those around us.
What followed was a display of strength, agility and comedy. Racing against the clock, the lumberjacks jumped up towering poles using only spiked boots, rope and hatchets. They scaled logs like spider monkeys, and stood on massive floating logs in the water, spinning them with their feet in a test of balance. With every stumble or dramatic splash into the water, the crowd got even more excited. The grand finale of the show involved two lumberjacks racing to see who could saw through a massive log the fastest using a two-person crosscut saw. With synchronized movements, the saw glided back and forth, sending wood chips flying until, with a final powerful pull, the log split in two, and the winning lumberjacks raised their arms in victory. By the end of the show, my stomach hurt from laughing, and my hands ached from clapping.
After the show was finished, there was an extra hatchet-throwing segment that you could pay to try out for yourself. My family and I eagerly signed up. I was sure I wouldn’t fail too miserably. After all, I spent multiple childhood summers at the Percy Jackson Summer Camp in Austin, Texas. That had to count for something, right? But as I stood in front of the wooden target, gripping the hatchet in my hands, I realized that throwing a hatchet required a lot of precision, and was going to be a lot harder than I thought. Many of my throws ended up with the hatchet pathetically thudding to the ground, much to my dismay (and my family’s amusement). But the real shock came when my dad, who has never thrown a hatchet before, effortlessly landed bullseye after bullseye. Where had he even learned to do that? As we all stared at him, dumbfounded, he stood there, dumbfounded himself as he was handed a small fake wooden hatchet (acting as a trophy) to take home.
While that certainly put a damper on my mood, it was quickly uplifted when I spotted a small shop named “Jellyfish Donuts.” The name alone was interesting. Why jellyfish? Were the donuts shaped like them? Did they glow in the dark? My curiosity, and my love for all things donuts, got the better of me and I ended up pulling the rest of my family inside. The moment I stepped through the door I was hit with the warm, sugary scent of freshly fried dough, mingling with hints of vanilla and caramelized glaze. The interior was cozy with nautical decor, fishing nets draped along the walls, jellyfish stickers and a counter lined with an overwhelming variety of pastries. The glazed donuts sat proudly in the display case, and I wasted no time ordering one, eager to take that first bite. And the moment I did, everything else faded away. It was perfect. It was light and airy on the inside, slightly crisp on the outside, with a glaze that melted instantly on my tongue.
For a brief moment, I forgot about my bruised ego from the hatchet-throwing fiasco. I forgot about the cold, the exhaustion and the fact that we had been walking around all day. I could almost hear a choir of angels singing as I devoured every last bite.
Until my dad ordered a salmon donut.
My friend and I thought he was crazy. I didn’t know something like that could exist. But at first glance, it resembled a classic donut with its golden-brown dough and rounded shape. But the moment my dad picked it up, we could smell the faint, smoky aroma.
When my friend went up to the counter to ask about the donut, they told us that the dough was subtly flavored, enriched with a touch of sea salt and herbs to complement the star ingredient (the salmon). Instead of a sweet glaze on top, it was a creamy, rich spread of smoked salmon blended with dill, cream cheese and chopped chives. As my friend and I watched my dad devour it, we continued to tease him about it all the way back to the ship. Though, he didn’t care. He thought the donut was amazing, jokingly going on and on about the warmth of it and the slight smokiness of the salmon exploding on his taste buds. Well, at least he was happy. I licked the glaze off my fingers from my own donut with a satisfied sigh, already making a mental note: One day, I would go back. Maybe it was the hunger, the atmosphere, or just the simple joy of finding something unexpectedly delightful, but even now, I still think about that donut from time to time. Sometimes, my friend will get in touch to remind me of it as well.
Juneau was next, a town steeped in nature and history. Gold rush history, that is. With a city that felt both untamed and timeless, nestled between towering, mist-shrouded mountains and icy waters, the wild was never far away. It was a place I would remember for the rest of my life. The town was a charming mix of colorful old buildings. All the signs mentioned gold, and the vibrant local culture thrived despite the near constant drizzle of rain. The streets right off the port were lined with quaint shops, seafood restaurants and historic saloons that were decorated to really emphasize the excitement of searching for fortune. Trails led deep into mossy, old-growth forests and bald eagles soared overhead like they owned the place (which they did).
Whether you’re whale watching, hiking or standing in the eerie, beautiful quiet of a glacial ice cave, it was a place that felt like you were dipping your toes in the past and present. Determined to experience this entire gold rush experience firsthand, my friend and I decided we wanted to tour a gold mine. It was a 1 ½ hour tour, and the ride up to the mine itself was all wilderness. I took many videos of the beautiful forest as we continued to ride in a large van up the steep mountainside.
In my daily life, I always find it difficult to appreciate the world around me, but this trip felt different. On the way to the mine, the trees towered over me. Their roots were large and winding, gripping the Earth. Sunlight filtered through the dense canopy, casting patterns on the moss-covered ground. The air was thick with the scent of damp soil, since it rained in Alaska quite often. There was a constant breeze that disturbed the leaves, for it was cold even in early July, and birds watched from their perches.
When I’m on trips like these, whether it be my parents or the workers on the cruise itself, they all say the same thing: “It’s time to say goodbye to real life for a week!” The outside world truly feels distant and irrelevant when you’re blessed enough to have a vacation like this. I took the time to gaze at every nook and cranny. It felt like I was truly and finally appreciating the planet I was born on.
“Nature is really a beautiful thing,” I thought to myself, for what was probably the first time in my life.
We finally made it to the mine, and our tour guides helped us to get ready. After we were given hard hats and ear plugs, we stepped into a cavernous tunnel that made us feel like we stepped right into a horror film. The guide walked us through its past, as well as the prospectors who arrived there more than a hundred years ago. They demonstrated how a single misplaced strike of an electric machine or a pickaxe in search of any gold could have brought the entire cave down.
Later, we were taught more about how people looked for gold in the creeks. They had to find the right spot (areas where gold might have settled) in bends of rivers, or behind large rocks. Then, they would have to use a wide, shallow pan made of metal (often steel or tin), to scoop up some water, sand and gravel in hopes there was gold inside. After this, you had to take that pan and shake it circular motions while keeping it partially submerged. The trick was that the lighter materials (like sand and small pebbles) would wash away, while the heavier materials (gold) would settle at the bottom.
The circular motions were what we were tasked to do. It was a painstaking process, but I was determined to find at least a few specks of gold since they allowed us to keep whatever gold we could find. If I found any, they would take tweezers or a small bottle to collect it and put it in a jar for me to keep. And I was successful. While what I found wasn’t an insane amount of gold, just flecks that looked like tiny shiny mirrors, I worked hard to get that gold myself. It felt good to have a keepsake of the experience with me. I still have that tiny gold flecked jar today.
Later, we decided to go to the nearby café for some lunch. In order to get there, we had to take the tram up a steep mountain. It sounded simple enough except for one small problem: Heights and I have a complicated relationship. I don’t mind them when I’m strapped into something secure, but the tram? There were no straps. No seatbelts. Just an open cabin gently swaying in the wind as we climbed higher and higher, leaving the ground (and my sense of security) far below. As we ascended, the world below shrank. But looking out at the endless stretch of mountains, a thought settled deep in my mind: I couldn’t believe this was my life. That I could stand here, year after year, witnessing Earth’s grandeur.
I focused on the mountains, their jagged peaks stretching endlessly into the sky. The mountains, whether snow-capped or blanketed in deep green, were breathtaking. They felt infinite and untouched. I panicked. My head was filled with trying to get the perfect video of those mountains because my memory (as awful as it is) would never be able to recall the beauty I witnessed that day perfectly.
And maybe, just maybe, I’d find a way to live among those mountains someday.
At the top, the café offered the perfect place to take in the scenery. My family and I grabbed a table by the window where we enjoyed burgers, chicken sandwiches and tall glasses of lemonade with a front-row seat to one of the most incredible landscapes I’d ever seen. It was the kind of lunch you didn’t rush through. Not just because of the food, but because every glance outside felt like something to be savored.
Afterward, we wandered around the summit, passing a small wildlife exhibit with owls and birds of prey before stepping into a cozy gift shop filled with handcrafted Alaskan art and souvenirs. But eventually, it was time to head back. As the tram descended, I felt a bittersweet pang in my chest. While it wasn’t the last stop of the trip, soon, we’d be back in Seattle. These mountains, this feeling of awe, would be nothing more than a memory until I found my way back again. At this point, I had completely forgotten about my fear of heights.
The next stop was Sitka. Perched on the edge of Baranof Island, surrounded by the misty peaks of the Tongass National Forest, Sitka had an interesting mix of Indigenous and American influences. The town itself was like the other places we had just visited, and it wasn’t shocking at all. Picturesque, colorful, charming and the unmistakable small-town feel. There were more towering totems in Sitka National Historical Park, which my family and I visited before we would head to whale watching. The moment I stepped onto the winding trails, it felt like I entered a living museum. The collection of totems of the Tlingit and Haida people had intricate carvings of legendary animals, clan symbols and ancestral figures. The air was cool and damp, carrying the scent of the ocean, earth and pine needles. Towards the end of the walk, the forest gradually opens up to the coastline. Small waves crashed gently against rocky shores, and bald eagles perched on driftwood. The rhythmic sound of the water was both powerful and meditative.
As the adventure continued into whale watching, we prepared to get onto the small boat that would be taking us to the popular whale area. But before we got on, I was already bracing myself for motion sickness and was half-convinced we wouldn’t spot anything. But nature had other plans. The moment we drifted away from shore, the world seemed to come alive around us. Bald eagles circled gracefully overhead before landing back in their homes on top of the tall trees, while plump seals lazed on buoys. Their whiskered faces were tilted toward the sky in utter relaxation.
Then, it happened.
At first, it was just a shadow beneath the waves, a fleeting, dark mass gliding silently beneath the surface. My breath caught in my throat. The guide, who had been expertly scanning the water, suddenly called out. He pointed toward the horizon.
“There! Get your cameras ready!”
And then, as if waiting for the perfect cinematic moment, a massive whale glided up and over the water, its tail flicking up from the water. Time slowed as I lifted my camera, my fingers fumbling over the buttons, desperate to capture the moment. The entire group let out a collective gasp, followed by cheers of pure exhilaration. I glanced down at my camera, heart pounding and there it was—a perfect snapshot of its fluke. The kind of picture people dream of capturing, a once-in-a-lifetime moment. I had been so convinced that I would spend the entire trip queasy and disappointed, but instead, I was left in absolute awe. At this point, it was obvious that all my nervous and negative feelings were almost always quickly relieved. I was constantly proven wrong.
Our final stop was Victoria, Canada. This city was deep with personal significance, as it was where my dads got married. Excitement buzzed through me as I anticipated seeing the place they had spoken about so fondly.
Victoria did not disappoint. It seamlessly blended the old-world charm with vibrant, modern energy. It greeted visitors with breathtaking waterfront views, grand architecture and a laid-back yet sophisticated atmosphere. The Fairmont Empress Hotel dominated the Inner Harbor, where boats and seaplanes bobbed on the water. We walked from the port into the city, passing by government buildings, manicured gardens and stepping on cobblestone paths that made me feel like I was in another world.
But Victoria didn’t just have historic elegance, it had a quirky and artistic side too. We visited the floating homes at the Fisherman’s Wharf that were like something out of a storybook. They were each painted in different bright, cheerful colors, gently swaying with the tide. They were built right on the water. Made for one or two people, they were close together like a tiny neighborhood. It felt homey, and I was yet again struck with the urge to pack my bags and come live there. The streets were lined with indie coffee shops, cozy bookstores and lively pubs serving locally brewed craft beer. Even the cars reflected the city’s unique personality. Classic vintage vehicles were a common sight, giving the city an effortlessly cool vibe.
Victoria moved at a different pace than all the other places we visited beforehand. It invited us to slow down, take in the salty ocean air, sip a cup of tea (or fresh squeezed orange juice. That was very nice), and enjoy the moment. Whether we were exploring its historic sites, or strolling along the harbor, Victoria had a way of making us feel like we’d found a secret corner of the world where time slowed down just enough to appreciate it.
But as awe-inspiring as Victoria was, I found myself battling a familiar, unwelcome problem—I got sick. The cause was a mystery, but I refused to let it dull the experience. Determined to push through, I found small comforts along the way. By the water, vendors sold that freshly squeezed juice I mentioned earlier, and I watched as oranges were hand-pressed and strained into vibrant, pulpy perfection. The citrusy refreshment gave me just enough energy to continue exploring.
Then came lunch, and with it, my sickness worsened. Eating became a struggle, but after powering through it, we strolled through a few shops. There, my friend picked up a soft Victoria sweatshirt as a keepsake. We decided it was time to head back to the ship after that, and that was when the day took an unexpected turn.
A flock of seagulls flew into the sky, soaring over the large visitor area. Then, in perfect synchrony, unleashed a chaotic storm of droppings. People shrieked. Hands flew to cover their heads, but it was no use. It got everywhere. It was in our hair, underneath our glasses, on our clothes and shoes. It was disgusting, yes, but in the absurdity of it all, I forgot how sick I felt. My parents and I couldn’t stop joking about it. The seagulls had given us a parting gift—one we still joke about today.
“They cured me!” my parents yelled.
To cap off the adventure, we opted for a water taxi back to port. The small boat, painted like a classic yellow taxi, glided smoothly across the water. The atmosphere was lighthearted, the passengers and my family bonding over our shared experience.
“Those seagulls are a symbol of luck, you know,” one passenger told me. “Maybe something good is gonna happen to us later!”
We swapped stories, laughed at our misfortune (or fortune?) and let the gentle waves carry us back.
And just like that, the cruise came to an end. A trip filled with beauty, adventure and, of course, a few unforgettable surprises.
When it comes to traveling, I think it’s safe to say that this particular trip changed me. At first, it felt like a series of small misfortunes—worrying about whether or not we’d see whales, battling my fear of heights, getting sick, dreading motion sickness and even getting pooped on by a bunch of seagulls. In the moment, these things felt frustrating, but looking back, I realize that every setback led to something unexpectedly good. It wasn’t until after the trip was over that I really took the time to reflect on that.
As a college student, my mind is constantly racing with “what ifs.” What if I fail? What if I never get to where I want to be? I’ve practically made it my job to stress about the future, to overanalyze every shortcoming. But something about this trip (and writing about it now) made me see things differently. Perspective is everything.
Take the cruise itself, for example. I was disappointed that there weren’t many activities for younger adults. At first, I thought this would make the trip boring, another “what if” scenario feeding into my doubts. But my family had planned themed outfits for every dinner, and suddenly, what could have been a letdown became one of my favorite parts of the trip. Monday? Onesies. Tuesday? Nautical theme. Wednesday? Wear gold (my favorite color). It wasn’t the entertainment I expected, but it turned into something even better: laughter, bonding and a sense of togetherness.
This trip taught me that even when things don’t go as planned, something good can still come out of it. Maybe it’s a shift in mindset, an unexpected joy, or just a reminder to slow down and appreciate what’s in front of me. If I stay too focused on what goes wrong, I’ll miss everything that goes right. And I think that’s a lesson worth carrying far beyond just this trip.
