North America

A week of travel to cross a single country. Fifteen days sliding from the Atlantic to the Pacific, moving through time and space, from the jagged coasts to the first rises of the Rockies. Five Geoparks, and in between: vastness. The journey is a tight thread stretched between worlds that barely speak to each other. From a small wind-beaten Quebec town to a fjord lost in mist, from the quiet presence of Mi’kmaq memory to the constant rhythm of whales offshore, everything feels fragmented, scattered. And yet, it holds. Canada doesn’t tell a single story. It layers them.

On one side, red cliffs, root cellars dug into the ground, French and Mi’kmaw words that hold fast. On the other, road signs in English and Indigenous languages, understated museums, rangers who whisper the language of stone. Then the West rises. The land swells, raw and wide. In the mountains, dinosaur tracks cross those of deer. The forests grow deeper and colder. You drive for hours without passing a soul. The air dries out. You eat differently. You sleep deeper. You talk less. You watch more. And without really choosing to, you begin to listen to the land.