Somewhere on the outskirts of Vancouver, just beyond the winding streets of urban life, a park entrance patiently sits waiting for the uncommon visitor.
It beckons silently: a simple sign before an unassuming dirt path. A hint of a forest.
A wooden staircase, so characteristic of provincial parks in this area – the variety of Capilano, the Grind, Deep Cove – leads around the bend into the lush vegetation of only the cleanest temperate forests.
The mid-afternoon December sun is bright, just warm enough to thaw frosted ears and hands and noses. We sit on the giant boulder cliff as the waves swirl around the rocks below and lap at our feet. Everything is glowing under the golden setting of the sun and I am sworn to secrecy so that it can stay this way forever.