Every move comes with a honeymoon period. The boxes are still unpacked, the neighborhood is unfamiliar, and every street corner carries the promise of discovering something new. After years of moving from place to place, I had learned to cherish those first few weeks more than anything else.
Moving to Montreal was no exception.
Barely settled into my new apartment, I wasted no time hitting the sunny late-spring streets to discover my surroundings. Some outings were out of necessity, like figuring out the best supermarkets and shopping centres nearby. Others were driven purely by curiosity. During that first week, I would simply pick a direction each morning and spend the next few hours wandering wherever the streets happened to take me.
Discovering Montreal
My first walking spree took me to the top of Mount Royal. I wanted to get a panoramic view of my new home, and Mount Royal Park was the perfect place to find it.
The Mount Royal Cross
Spanning nearly 2 square kilometers of forested hillsides, the park offered a spider web of trails and roads weaving their way across the mountain. From the grand staircase in the east to the Mount Royal Cross in the north and Beaver Lake in the southwest, there was plenty of ground to cover. Walkers, runners and cyclists shared the park with squirrels, raccoons and countless birds, making the mountain feel alive despite sitting in the middle of one of Canada’s largest cities.
The stairway up to Kondiaronk Belvedere
Several lookout points provided sweeping views of the vast urban landscape surrounding the park. However, the best spot of all was the Kondiaronk Belvedere. This was the premier scenic viewpoint for the Montreal skyline, brimming with tourists every summer, all clamoring for the perfect photo.
As was I. The difference was that I wasn’t a tourist. Not this time. I was a resident, and I had just found my happy place.
My first time seeing the city from Kondiaronk Belvedere
Over the following years, whenever I needed to walk off troubling thoughts or simply wanted a place to unwind, I would always return to Mount Royal and the Kondiaronk Belvedere. Spring, summer, autumn or winter, rain or shine, the breathtaking view of Montreal from this spot never failed to put a smile on my face and remind me of just how far I had come. I had found my new sanctuary.
Downtown Montreal
The following days, I continued exploring the city towards downtown and the St. Lawrence River.
I was fortunate enough to live not only a ten-minute walk from Mount Royal Park, but also just steps away from Sainte-Catherine Street, Montreal’s primary commercial artery.
Following the street eastwards for about ten minutes would bring me to one of the city’s most iconic landmarks, the Eaton Centre. This time, however, I found myself drawn towards a small park in the heart of downtown called Dorchester Square. It was a relatively small and quaint green space, teeming with squirrels and surrounded by soaring glass towers alongside elegant neo-classical buildings. In many ways, it reminded me of Madison Square Park in Manhattan.
The Eaton Centre with its iconic pyramid shaped top. View from Dorchester Square
I found myself comparing Montreal with New York surprisingly often. New York had long been my dream North American city, and as I explored Montreal, I began to understand why the two felt so familiar.
Both cities rose to prominence during the nineteenth century as major Atlantic ports connecting North America with Europe. They expanded outward from their historic waterfronts into sprawling metropolises, creating a rich architectural tapestry rarely found in younger inland cities. They were both home to remarkably diverse populations from every corner of the globe, and each was built around an impressive urban oasis that offered a welcome escape from the surrounding skyline.
The Sun Life Building in Dorchester Square
The difference was that New York ultimately won the race for commerce, growing into a city roughly three times the size of Montreal.
Lachine Canal
Taking a slight detour south, I eventually found myself on the shores of the Lachine Canal.
Today, the canal is a peaceful recreational area lined with walking and cycling paths, but nearly two centuries ago it was one of the most important pieces of infrastructure in Canada. Opened in 1825 to bypass the dangerous Lachine Rapids on the St. Lawrence River, it became the gateway to an inland canal network stretching deep into the North American continent. Together with the nearby Port of Montreal, it transformed the city into one of Canada’s foremost industrial and commercial centres, attracting factories, warehouses and thousands of workers to its banks.
The Lachine Canal
Walking alongside the canal, it wasn’t difficult to imagine that industrious past. Scattered along the waterfront were relics of Montreal’s industrial heyday, each accompanied by information panels telling the stories behind them. On my way towards the Old Port, I passed several historic lock systems before reaching the old CNR Wellington Swing Bridge. Permanently left in its open position, the bridge now stands as a monument to a bygone era when ships and freight traffic dominated these waterways.
One of the old lock system on the Lachine Canal
Leaving the canal behind, I turned back towards the city through a neighborhood that immediately caught my attention. Griffintown, once a bustling industrial district serving the nearby port, had been transformed into one of Montreal’s most fashionable neighborhoods.
Sleek condominium buildings stood beside trendy cafés, inviting green spaces and lively terraces, giving the area a distinctly modern feel. Strangely enough, it reminded me of the newer waterfront districts of Copenhagen. It was exactly the kind of neighborhood I could picture myself living in… if not for the equally modern property prices.
Old Montreal
Not far from the Old Port stood another of Montreal’s iconic landmarks: the Notre-Dame Basilica.
Completed during the nineteenth century in the Gothic Revival style, the basilica quickly became one of the city’s defining landmarks and remains one of the most visited churches in North America. Its twin towers rise prominently above Old Montreal. Unfortunately, one of the towers was undergoing a multi-year renovation, so I never got to see the church without scaffoldings and protective webbing.
The Notre-Dame Basilica in Old Town, Montreal
The basilica was only one highlight among many. Old Montreal itself felt like stepping into another era. Elegant neoclassical buildings lined the streets alongside beautifully restored red-brick warehouses that had once served the bustling port. Many had found new life as boutique hotels, offices, restaurants and luxurious apartments, preserving the character of the city’s earliest days while embracing the modern world.
For the time being, however, I resisted the temptation to explore every corner of the district. There would be plenty of opportunities to return. I headed back to my little corner of the city, content knowing there was still so much left to discover.
Saint Joseph’s Oratory
The following day, my walk took me west.
After passing through the charming anglophone neighborhood of Westmount, another landmark on Google Maps caught my attention. As I would soon discover, the Notre-Dame Basilica wasn’t the only monumental church Montreal had to offer. Perched high on the slopes of Mount Royal stood Saint Joseph’s Oratory.
Completely different in architectural style from Notre-Dame Basilica, yet equally impressive in its own way, the massive Renaissance Revival church dominates the western side of the mountain with its enormous copper dome. Founded in 1904 by Saint Brother André Bessette, whose reputation for compassion and reported miraculous healings drew pilgrims from across the country, the oratory has since become Canada’s largest church and one of the world’s most important pilgrimage sites.
Saint Joseph’s Oratory of Mount Royal on the west side of Montreal
Unfortunately, I never actually made it to the oratory that day. From where I stood, the entire area in front of it appeared to be one enormous construction site, and I simply assumed the church was closed to visitors. It wasn’t until several months later, when I returned to the neighborhood, that I discovered I could have approached it from another direction all along. The construction work had only affected the large forecourt, while the oratory itself had remained open the entire time.
A Friendly Reunion
Barely a week after settling into my new apartment, I welcomed my first guest from across the Atlantic: Moritz, from Germany.
Moritz and I had first met back in 2018 during EUGEN Austria, and we had stayed in touch on and off over the years. Like me, he loved travelling, and a few months earlier he had mentioned how much he wanted to visit Canada. When I told him I would soon be moving to Montreal, I offered him a place to stay if he ever made the trip.
Fast forward a few months, and here we were, meeting again after three years. It was great to see a familiar face so far from home.
Unfortunately for Moritz, there was one small problem. Some of the furniture I had ordered for the apartment still hadn’t arrived. Most notably… the couch. The very couch he was supposed to sleep on.
Well… it was time to roll out the foam mattress and sleeping bag, claim a spot in the middle of the living room, and make the best of it.
A Triumphant Return to Normalcy
My move to Montreal also happened to coincide with another long-awaited milestone: the world was finally beginning to return to normal. COVID restrictions were gradually disappearing, concerts and festivals were back on the calendar, and for the first time in years, large gatherings no longer felt like a distant memory.
Around the time Moritz arrived, I already had tickets for what would become my first concert in three years. My first concert since leaving Europe. My first since the long years of lockdowns, cancelled events and isolation. To make it even better, the headliner was Symphony X—my favorite band.
Scheduled to play in the Corona Theater… Talk about irony and foreshadowing
The timing almost felt unreal. I had first seen them live a few months after moving to Copenhagen years earlier, and now, barely a week after settling in Montreal, they were once again playing in the very city I had just begun calling home. It almost felt as though they were welcoming me into yet another new chapter of my life.
As if that weren’t enough, one of the opening bands was Haken, another group that had rapidly climbed into my list of all-time favourites over the previous couple of years. The more I listened to them, the more I was captivated by their unique blend of progressive metal, technical brilliance and memorable songwriting. By the time this concert came around, they had comfortably earned a place among my five favourite bands.
Needless to say, missing this concert was never an option.
Me and Mo at the show
Although Moritz wasn’t particularly familiar with either band, he was a fellow metal fan and happily joined me for the evening. Naturally, I squeezed my way as close to the stage as I could to fully embrace my inner fanboy, while he wisely opted for a more relaxed spot near the back.
Legends on stage receiving an ovation from the crowd
The performances were every bit as incredible as I had hoped. Yet beyond the music itself, what struck me most was the atmosphere. Thousands of passionate fans, singing every lyric, cheering between songs and simply enjoying the chance to gather again after years of restrictions. It wasn’t just a concert. It felt like a celebration that life had finally returned to normal.
Playing Tour Guide
The following day we set out to explore more of Montreal.
I had still barely scratched the surface of what the city had to offer, so apart from Mount Royal and Old Montreal, I wasn’t entirely sure where to take my guest. Fortunately, Moritz had arrived with a surprisingly well-prepared bucket list, so for the day I happily became his tour guide.
The Jacques Cartier Bridge over the Saint Laurent River
Our first stop was Saint Helen’s Island.
Together with its sister island, Île Notre-Dame, it forms the heart of Parc Jean-Drapeau, one of Montreal’s largest recreational areas. Originally expanded for Expo 67, the islands have since become one of the city’s premier entertainment destinations.
Walking and cycling trails weave through parks, lakes and gardens, while open-air gyms, beaches and swimming facilities offer plenty of opportunities to enjoy the warmer months. The area is also home to La Ronde, Montreal’s largest amusement park, the Biosphere environmental museum, and several venues that host major festivals and concerts throughout the summer.
The Biosphere environmental museum on Saint Helen’s Island
Whether arriving by metro, bicycle or car, it is the kind of place where spending an entire day is effortless. We wandered around for well over an hour and still felt as though we had barely begun exploring everything the islands had to offer.
Eventually we returned to the Island of Montreal, emerging from Berri-UQAM station before making our way towards the Old Port.
The Old Port
One landmark that had caught my attention from Saint Helen’s Island was the Old Port Clock Tower.
The Old Port marina and Clock Tower
Standing proudly at the entrance to the harbor since the early 1920s, the tower was built as a memorial to Canadian sailors lost during the First World War. Nearby, a pair of historic cannons stood watch over the waterfront, quietly recalling Montreal’s long maritime history.
Mounting canons near the Clock Tower
The rest of the Old Port, however, was anything but quiet.
Once again, I found myself amazed by just how much Montreal had to offer. The contrast with Chicoutimi couldn’t have been greater. Oddly enough, I didn’t need to experience every attraction to appreciate living there. Simply knowing they were all within easy reach gave the city an energy that I had sorely missed. Montreal felt alive.
Afternoon
Before heading back towards downtown, we stopped at a small jazz bar tucked away on one of the cobbled streets near Notre-Dame Basilica. I ordered what was probably the fanciest poutine I’d had up to that point, accompanied by a well-earned beer while a live jazz trio played in the background.
The mysterious bar somewhere in the Old Town
To this day, I have no idea what the place was called.
I’ve tried finding it again more than once, but without success.
Spinning around Downtown Montreal
After a short break back at my apartment, we made one final climb up Mount Royal to enjoy the panoramic view before sunset. Along the way, I became more familiar with Sherbrooke Street, passing landmarks such as the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts, the elegant Ritz-Carlton and many other beautiful buildings that I would come to know well over the following years.
The Eye by David Altmejd, outside the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts on Sherbrooke Street
The next adventure, however, would take us well beyond the city limits.
Pedro was driving down from Chicoutimi with a friend to pick us up, and together we were about to set off on a three-day road trip to one of Canada’s most iconic destinations: Niagara Falls.
A Reunion on the Road
Just before our journey began, Moritz discovered that another one of our EUGEN friends from Austria, Sophie, was also in Canada at the time, taking part in a research program in Ottawa. One thing quickly led to another, and before we knew it, we had a fifth member joining the trip. We just had to make a small detour through Cornwall to pick her up on the way to Niagara.
What had started as a little road trip between friends was turning into quite the reunion.
Ornate 19th-century architecture in Old Town, Montreal
It had only been about half a year since I had briefly visited Niagara Falls on the return journey from a conference in London. That visit, however, had been little more than a quick stop. We were pressed for time because of the long drive back to Montreal, and the limited parking around the falls was both scarce and expensive. There was barely enough time to take in the view before getting back on the road.
This time was different. We were actually going to stay.
We had booked two nights in Niagara, giving Pedro, who would be doing all the driving, at least one full day to relax between the long journeys. It also meant we could finally take our time and explore the area properly rather than treating the falls as a glorified roadside stop.
Montreal’s rubber-tired Metro trains and the curious peanut-butter scent of their brakes — a transit story all their own
There was, however, one small logistical problem I had to deal with before we left.
I was expecting a pair of Fjällräven pants I had ordered for work. At some point before the road trip, I received a notification that the package had been delivered and left in the lobby downstairs. Except when I got home, there was no package. I searched around the lobby, checked the usual places and, if I remember correctly, even asked the building management whether they had seen anything. Nothing.
It seemed my brand-new work pants had simply been yoinked.
With the Niagara trip approaching, there wasn’t much I could do about it. So, somewhere along the road to Cornwall, while Pedro was driving us towards Niagara, I found myself on the phone with Fjällräven explaining that my pants had apparently vanished into thin air.
They checked with the delivery company, which confirmed that the package had indeed been delivered to the correct address. Great… Except I still didn’t have my pants.
Why are you eating upside down, squirrel? You’re not in Australia…
Fortunately, Fjällräven were remarkably helpful. Since the delivery company considered the package delivered but I clearly hadn’t received it, they agreed to send me another pair.
And so, somewhere on the road to Niagara Falls, while a spontaneous road trip was unfolding around me and we were about to pick up Sophie, I was simultaneously trying to solve the mystery of my missing trousers.
It was becoming that kind of month.
Off to Niagara
The weather was looking rather miserable when we set off. The sky remained overcast for most of the drive, and I think we even caught some rain when we stopped in Cornwall to pick up Sophie. But as we continued west along Lake Ontario, the clouds gradually began to break apart. By the time we reached Niagara in the late afternoon, the skies had cleared and we were greeted by beautiful sunshine. It was a little windy, but after the dreary start to the journey, I wasn’t about to complain.
Dramatic clouds giving way to a blue sky above Lake Ontario
I was genuinely happy with how this rather spontaneous trip was coming together.
I was particularly grateful that Pedro had agreed to make the drive. Without a car, there wasn’t really an easy way for Moritz to get from Montreal to Niagara and back, and otherwise he would have travelled all the way across the Atlantic only to see Montreal. Renting a car was certainly an option, but it would have added considerably to the cost, and I had never been particularly enthusiastic about driving myself around unfamiliar roads when there were alternatives.
So having Pedro behind the wheel was a bit of a lifesaver, even if his theatrical Rio-driving style occasionally had our more Germanic passengers gripping their seats and sweating a little.
After settling into our rooms at the Days Inn, we started looking for somewhere to grab some food and drinks. It didn’t take long before one particularly famous establishment caught our attention.
The over-the-top side of Niagara Falls: giant ducks, cars stuck in walls, and enough neon kitsch to rival Vegas
Right across from our hotel was a Hooters. Some of us responded with the appropriate amount of facepalming at the suggestion. Moritz, however, couldn’t resist the opportunity to have a drink in one of America’s most famous, or infamous, bar chains.
Having satisfied that particular curiosity, we eventually headed back out for a stroll around Niagara in the evening before returning to the hotel.
Niagara Falls in Full Force
The following morning we were all fresh and full of energy. We had several activities in mind, so we started with a morning walk around the falls.
Spring at Niagara
The parks and walkways surrounding the falls were vibrant green, with colorful flowers blooming everywhere. Canada geese honked and grazed around the lawns while the sky remained beautifully clear. After the dreary start to our journey the previous day, we couldn’t have asked for better weather.
We continued with a walking tour down into the gorge, where we were each handed a thin yellow rain poncho. They made us all look like we had been wrapped in recycled garbage bags, and initially we weren’t entirely convinced they were necessary. Turns out… they were.
An epic view of Niagara from near the grand waterfall
The trail brought us remarkably close to the side of the waterfall, where a constant spray of water filled the air. By the time we reached the closest viewpoints, the ponchos were doing their job.
With my yellow trash bag, shorts, cheap flip-flops and a pair of ridiculous round sunglasses I had just bought, I felt like I was attempting to make some sort of fashion statement.
Some people simply aren’t ready for this level of style
After touring the falls, we jumped back into the car and drove down to Niagara-on-the-Lake, a small historic town near the mouth of the Niagara River. My mother had suggested that we visit it, having once visited a friend who lived there many years earlier and remembering the place fondly. It was easy to see why.
Niagara-on-the-Lake
Niagara-on-the-Lake had a completely different atmosphere from the frenetic tourist center around the falls. Its neatly maintained streets were lined with colorful flowerbeds, historic buildings, small shops, restaurants and charming pubs, giving the town an almost idyllic, old-fashioned character. Everything looked remarkably polished and prosperous, yet the pace was relaxed and unhurried.
Clock Tower in the heart of Niagara-on-the-Lake
The town also gave us a chance to appreciate just how strategically positioned this corner of Ontario was. From the shores of Lake Ontario, we could see cargo ships moving across the water, while the distant Toronto skyline was visible on the horizon. With my camera’s zoom, I could make out the CN tower and some of the city’s skyscrapers from afar.
At the mouth of the Niagara River, the United States suddenly seemed incredibly close. The river itself formed the border, with American territory lying only a short distance away across the water. Two historic forts stood on opposite sides as reminders of how strategically important the region had once been: Fort George on the Canadian side and the considerably more imposing-looking Old Fort Niagara across the river in New York.
Old Fort Niagara on the US side of the Niagara River
Naturally, this gave Pedro and me an opportunity to start making jokes about how everything on the American side somehow looked better.
We were foreigners who had already spent several years living in Canada, after all. We knew enough about the Canadian system to complain about it, while knowing little to nothing about the American one. Obviously, the only reasonable conclusion was that things must be better over there. The grass is always greener on the other side. There were even a few jokes about being able to “smell freedom” from the American side of the river while we remained trapped in socialist Canada. Mostly jokes, of course.
Zoom in on the Toronto skyline across Lake Ontario
After the experience of the pandemic years, Pedro and I had developed a deep distaste for the increasingly restrictive measures imposed by Canadian governments in the name of protecting the public. The severity of some of the lockdowns, the pressure surrounding vaccination, and the heavy-handed response to the Freedom Convoy had left me with a lingering feeling that personal liberty had too often been treated as something that could simply be suspended whenever governments deemed it necessary.
So perhaps our jokes about the greener grass on the other side of the river weren’t entirely without substance.
Heights and Lights
Later that afternoon we returned to Niagara Falls and headed up the Skylon Tower. At just over 150 meters tall, it was nowhere near the height of Toronto’s CN Tower, but it still offered an impressive panorama over the falls, the Niagara River and the surrounding landscape. On a clear day, the view stretches far across Lake Ontario, and the observation deck gave us an excellent perspective of just how enormous the falls and the surrounding tourist district really were.
Niagara Falls from the Skylon Tower observation deck
It also came at a considerably more reasonable price than the CN Tower, which was particularly important given how quickly our collection of parking and tourist expenses was growing.
Afterwards we presumably went somewhere for dinner, although I honestly can’t remember much about that part of the evening. What I do remember was returning to the falls after nightfall.
Group photo from the Skylon Tower
The character of Niagara had completely changed. The crowds had thinned, the surrounding buildings glowed against the darkness, and the waterfalls themselves were illuminated in constantly changing colours. The rushing water became an enormous moving canvas of red, blue, green and purple.
A spectacular nightly color show at Niagara Falls
Once again, Pedro and I couldn’t resist comparing the Canadian and American sides. Naturally, the American lights were better. At least according to us. It became an ongoing joke throughout the evening that apparently everything across the border was superior, including the illumination of a waterfall that very much belonged to both countries.
You Have a Parking Problem
The spectacle certainly fit the character of Niagara Falls itself. The town was, after all, something resembling a Canadian mini-Las Vegas, with casinos, hotels, restaurants, entertainment venues and attractions packed around one of the world’s great natural wonders. The waterfalls provided the natural spectacle; everything around them seemed designed to make sure visitors had plenty of ways to spend money once they were done looking at it.
A dinosaur theme park? Why not?
Speaking of casinos, we had one final activity in mind for the evening. None of us had any serious intention of losing money. We simply wanted to experience one of the casinos for an hour or so, perhaps throw a few dollars into a machine and have a look around.
There was just one problem… Parking.
By this point, we had become increasingly annoyed by how expensive and ubiquitous paid parking seemed to be. Every time we wanted to stop somewhere, another parking fee seemed to be waiting for us. So Pedro took it upon himself to find a free spot somewhere within reasonable walking distance of the casinos.
Too cool for school
This proved to be considerably more difficult than expected. What followed was roughly half an hour of driving around in circles, searching increasingly desperate side streets and finding very little that didn’t come with another hefty fee attached. Eventually, it got late enough that we simply gave up. The casino would have to wait.
We headed back to the hotel instead. We still had a long drive ahead of us the following day, and Pedro in particular needed a good night’s sleep after already having driven us all the way from Chicoutimi the previous day. And with that, our short excursion to Niagara Falls came to an end.
Dinner time somewhere in Niagara Falls
Despite the rushed schedule, the long drives, the endless parking fees and our failed attempt at visiting a casino, I think we had made the most of our day and a half. We had explored the falls from almost every angle, wandered through Niagara-on-the-Lake, admired the views from above and seen the waterfalls transformed by the colorful lights after dark.
But there was still one major stop left on our journey back to Montreal. Toronto.
A Few Hours in Toronto
We had planned to make a stop in Toronto on our way back. None of us had really seen Canada’s biggest city, so we figured we might as well take the opportunity to spend a few hours sightseeing before continuing towards Montreal. Toronto was also a convenient place for Sophie to catch a train back to Ottawa. But first, we all had to see the big ol’ tower. The CN Tower.
Even before reaching Toronto, it was impossible to miss. Rising 553 meters above the city, the tower was for decades the world’s tallest freestanding structure and remains one of the most recognizable landmarks in Canada. Its enormous concrete shaft, topped by a bulbous observation pod and a long antenna mast, sticks out of the Toronto skyline like a needle piercing the sky.
Standing directly beneath it and looking up was almost dizzying.
Daddy long legs and the CN Tower
I wasn’t even sure there was a “correct” distance from which to appreciate something this tall. From right beside it, the tower looked absolutely massive, but the perspective became increasingly difficult to comprehend. Move farther away and it completely dwarfed the surrounding buildings. Further still, from somewhere deeper in the city, it transformed into a giant beacon on the horizon, appearing between buildings and seemingly following you wherever you went.
Theatrical bronze sculptures emerging from the concrete in Toronto
Eventually, it was time to get the inside perspective. But first… Holy crap. C$40 per person!? Okay, perhaps that doesn’t sound quite as outrageous now as it did in my memory. At the time, general admission was C$40 before tax, or about C$45 with HST. I apparently remembered the more expensive SkyPod option, which pushed the price well above C$60 after tax.
Still, that was a lot of money for an elevator ride. Alas, there was only one CN Tower, and we were already there. Up we went.
The CN Tower
A speedy and rather dramatic elevator ride later, we were standing on the Main Observation Level, roughly 346 meters above the ground.
The CN Tower had been completed in 1976 as a massive communications and broadcasting project, at a time when Toronto’s rapidly growing skyline was already creating problems for radio and television signals. It soon became much more than a piece of infrastructure, however. The tower became an icon of Toronto and one of the defining symbols of modern Canada.
Inside the observation level were several sections of glass floor, each providing an opportunity for visitors to test their courage by looking straight down. For me, however, the moment when my balls took their own elevator up to my stomach came much earlier.
The not so dramatic glass floor section
Right after stepping out of the elevator, there was a small gap between the elevator floor and the surrounding platform. Through that crack I could catch a glimpse of the seemingly endless vertical shaft disappearing hundreds of meters below. I could almost imagine my eyes cartoonishly bulging out of their sockets, desperately trying to adjust to the ridiculous depth I was suddenly looking into directly beneath my feet.
That did it.
Fortunately, once I was inside the enclosed observation deck, I felt perfectly fine. Give me a solid floor and a roof over my head and apparently I was comfortable enough to enjoy being almost half a kilometre above the city.
Views from Above
The sky was mostly overcast, but the clouds were high enough that they didn’t obstruct the view. The circular observation deck provided a sweeping panorama in every direction, and the Greater Toronto Area seemed to stretch endlessly into the distance. From this height, the city almost stopped looking like a city and started looking like a map.
A southern view from the CN Tower observation deck
Once we started looking more closely, all sorts of little details began revealing themselves. Just beyond the downtown core, we could see the small islands of Lake Ontario and the airport tucked away on one of them.
Much closer to the tower was the aquarium, its rooftop carrying a simple monochrome mural that looked almost abstract from above. Nearby, the broad, chunky structure of Union Station stood out among the surrounding buildings. The dense cluster of downtown high-rises revealed another amusing detail: swimming pools and what looked like tiny sports courts or even putting greens perched on the rooftops of some of the more luxurious residential towers..
Mandatory group photo from high above the city
From ground level, most of these things were either invisible or completely lost among the surrounding buildings. From up here, the city became a giant three-dimensional puzzle, and we could spend several minutes picking out individual landmarks and trying to work out exactly what we were looking at.
Then Pedro spotted something that made even the tower itself seem slightly less insane.
Just below us, several completely deranged-looking people in bright red jumpsuits were walking along the outside of the tower, attached to a yellow safety line.
Edge Walkers dangling by a thread
They were doing EdgeWalk. At 356 metres above the ground, EdgeWalk is the world’s highest external walk on a building. Participants are harnessed to an overhead safety system and literally walk along the narrow ledge outside the main pod.
Adrenaline junkies. What else could I say?
Definitely not my cup of tea.
A Walk Through Downtown
After descending from the tower, we set off on a leisurely walk through downtown. I don’t remember us having a particularly well-defined route. We mostly wandered around, checking Google Maps for interesting landmarks and deciding where to go next.
Old locomotives and industrial silos at Toronto’s Roundhouse Park
Eventually we reached Nathan Phillips Square, Toronto’s main civic gathering place.
Standing at one end of the square was Old City Hall, an imposing Romanesque Revival building completed in 1899. With its enormous clock tower, stone façade and turrets, it looked almost like a little English castle that had somehow found itself surrounded by the skyscrapers of modern Toronto. It was a neat contrast.
Old City Hall clock tower framed by modern skyscrapers in downtown Toronto
Only a short distance away stood the much newer Toronto City Hall. Designed by Finnish architect Viljo Revell and opened in 1965, the building couldn’t have been more different from its nineteenth-century predecessor. Two enormous curved concrete towers rise around a circular council chamber, creating the somber modern appearance that really stood out from afar.
The contrast between the two city halls was a perfect little snapshot of Toronto itself: nineteenth-century stone architecture standing alongside bold modernist structures, with glass skyscrapers filling in the gaps between them.
The Canada Life Building near Nathan Phillips Square
Nearby stood the Canada Life Building, another imposing landmark of the downtown core.
OTNOROT
Eventually, we unknowingly stumbled upon the famous Toronto sign.
But from the back… OTNOROT.
Welcome to OTNOROT
Just the way we caught it in the photo. And so, for the remainder of the trip, Toronto was officially renamed.
It sounded less like Canada’s largest city and more like the fortified gathering place of some particularly aggressive orc tribe. By then, however, our little Toronto excursion had come to an end.
One more group photo before we hit the road
We still had to get out of the city. And that turned out to be an adventure of its own.
Toronto’s traffic was an absolute head-spinning maze of cars, concrete, ramps and seemingly endless lanes going in every conceivable direction. Pedro, once again, demonstrated his particular brand of driving wizardry as he forced his way through the urban labyrinth and found gaps where I wasn’t entirely convinced gaps actually existed.
Moritz sat silently in the back with what I can only describe as a forced smile… Probably still processing Pedro’s theatrical Rio-driving style.
Sleepy time during the drive back
But once again, a huge shout-out to Pedro. He had already driven us all the way from Chicoutimi to Montreal, then down to Niagara Falls, around the region, into Toronto and now back towards Montreal. And after dropping us off in Montreal, despite my offer of a perfectly respectable patch of apartment floor for him and his friend to sleep on, he simply carried on.
He still had the long drive back to Chicoutimi ahead of him. Somehow, he soldiered on.
The Couch Arrives
The following day, Moritz was packing his belongings and getting ready to leave when I received a rather unexpected call from the delivery company.
My couch was arriving. The timing could not have been more hilarious.
After everything that had happened during his visit, Moritz had still never actually seen the couch he had originally been promised as a bed. Now, on the very day he was leaving, the damn thing had finally arrived.
After his arrival, he had already helped me put up my curtains. Now he was begrudgingly helping me carry in the couch. The couch he was supposed to sleep on. At least he finally got to see it. And, for a brief moment, he could lie down on it and imagine what his Montreal nights might have been like had the furniture delivery company possessed even a shred of decent timing.
Another iconic skyscraper in Montreal — 1000 De La Gauchetière
Not long afterwards, we finally said goodbye with a healthy hug and friendly slap on the back. It had been great having him over.
Our little Niagara adventure had left all of us with some excellent memories. But it had also left me with something else.
A Long Anticipated Showdown
On the drive back to Montreal, I had started developing a scratchy throat, and my voice was beginning to deteriorate. I wasn’t sure what I was coming down with. A cold? The flu?
Or perhaps the villainous coronavirus that had spent the previous two years terrorizing the planet.
I kept messaging the others, asking whether they were feeling alright or developing any symptoms. They were all fine. That made me suspect I had probably picked up whatever this was at the concert rather than during the road trip. The timing certainly made sense. I had been surrounded by thousands of people singing and shouting in an enclosed venue just a few days earlier.
COVID tests were being handed out freely at the time, so I got one and tested myself. The result was inconclusive. I waited another half day and tried again, this time paying considerably more attention to the instructions.
And… A resounding positive. Finally.
After two years of avoiding it, the goddamn boogeyman virus had finally made its way into my body. And, strangely enough, I was almost looking forward to seeing what it could do.
Call it morbid curiosity. Call it overconfidence in my immune system. Perhaps a little bit of both. After two years of hearing about this virus, experiencing the world reorganize itself around it and wondering what an infection would actually feel like, I was mentally prepared for battle.
That night, before going to sleep, I engaged in my own rather unconventional form of meditation. I imagined my body as a fortress that had just discovered an intruder. There was a boogeyman inside. I wanted my immune system to find it, hunt it down and absolutely annihilate it. No mercy. No prisoners.
A group of Chinook helicopters passing over Montreal on a cloudy day
I don’t know how much influence the mind can actually have over the body’s response to an infection, and I’m certainly not claiming that this meditation somehow cured me. Perhaps it was simply coincidence, or perhaps my immune system was already primed for the fight. Perhaps the vaccine I had received more than a year earlier played its part.
Or perhaps my ridiculous little mental pep talk did something after all. Whatever the explanation, the timing was certainly entertaining.
COVID-19 Gets KO’d
The following morning, the scratchiness in my throat was already subsiding, if not mostly gone. I had some mild muscle aches and felt somewhat fatigued, so I took it easy and spent the day relaxing on my brand-new couch, laptop in lap.
Good food. Plenty of water. An afternoon nap. That was about it.
By the following day, the muscle aches and fatigue were gone completely, replaced by increasingly intense nasal congestion.
From my decidedly non-expert understanding of viral infections, I interpreted this as my body now being fully engaged in the fight, dealing with the infection and clearing out the aftermath. I was essentially monitoring myself like a laboratory experiment, waiting to see what symptom would appear next.
Nothing did. The congestion, however, went absolutely berserk.
For more than a week I had to deal with an almost absurd amount of mucus, to the point where it became less frightening than simply incredibly annoying. And that was it.
My COVID infection had been dealt with. Harshly. And I was grinning from ear to ear.
There was something deeply satisfying about finally confronting the thing I had spent two years hearing about, worrying about and occasionally raging against, only to discover that, at least in my case, it was an anticlimactic opponent.
Whether I had a relatively mild strain, a strong immune response, some contribution from the vaccine from a year earlier, or simply a combination of all of the above, I can’t say. All I know is that my experience was surprisingly uneventful. In fact, the flu I caught during my first work rotation had felt considerably worse.
With the arrival of summer, Mount Royal Park turned into a lush green jungle
That was, of course, only my experience. COVID-19 caused serious illness and death for many people, and the fact that my own infection was mild says nothing about how it affected others. For me, however, the mighty boogeyman had finally shown up. And promptly got KO’d.
Summer Time
By the time May drew to a close, the apartment finally felt like home. I knew my way around the city, had already welcomed friends from Europe, explored more of Montreal than I ever expected during my first few weeks, and even managed to tick off my first bout of COVID. It had been an eventful start to my new chapter in Canada.
Now it was time to trade cafés, concerts and city streets for helicopters, blackflies and drill rigs.
I had just returned from an adventurous and successful first rotation as an exploration geologist. After everything I had gone through in Saguenay over the previous year, Chicoutimi somehow didn’t seem quite as grim anymore. Three weeks spent in an isolated camp deep in the northern wilderness will make almost any town feel like a bastion of civilization.
More importantly, though, I had finally begun building a promising new life in an exciting new career. Spring was arriving as well. Winter slowly loosened its grip, giving way to milder, sunnier days. The skies filled with the unmistakable honking of returning Canada geese, while patches of green gradually reappeared across the landscape.
Even the intense smell of manure drifting in from the farms to the south couldn’t dampen my mood. It had become one of those quirky seasonal traditions of life in Saguenay. Despite all that, I knew I wouldn’t be staying much longer.
The honkers returned to Saguenay
I had been thinking more and more about moving away from the region. My ideal destination had always been Montreal. I missed the energy of a large city. I missed having countless places to explore, good restaurants to try, concerts and festivals to look forward to, and simply the feeling that there was always something happening somewhere. Montreal also offered a far more international atmosphere, where language barriers mattered much less and meeting people from all over the world came naturally. After several years in relatively quiet Saguenay, that kind of environment appealed to me more than ever.
Now, with my company in the process of establishing a Montreal office, I finally had every reason to make the move. All I needed was the right timing.
A Window of Opportunity
Fortunately, work was about to provide exactly that.
Although exploration geology is often thought of as year-round work, it is, in many ways, still a seasonal industry. Activity rises and falls with both the weather and the practical realities of working in remote northern environments.
Self-cleaning Saguenay duck
The busiest months generally run from early summer through autumn. As winter approaches, prospecting becomes increasingly difficult. Fresh snowfall begins hiding rock outcrops, while frequent low clouds and fog reduce the number of helicopter flights that can safely operate. Since helicopters are essential for reaching many exploration targets, projects gradually wind down as conditions deteriorate. Most field programs finish by October or November before shifting toward office work, planning, and data interpretation until the next season.
The opposite transition also creates a brief pause. For the most part, May was also considered a “dead month”. Melting snow turned many access routes into muddy quagmires, but the main reason for the shutdown was wildlife. Large-scale caribou migrations passed through parts of northern Quebec during the spring, accompanied by Indigenous hunting season. To minimize disturbance, exploration activities in many areas paused until the migration had passed.
That time in spring when the Saguenay fills up with Canada geese
For me, the timing couldn’t have been better. I had two weeks off to research Montreal neighborhoods and apartment listings before heading back north for one more rotation. Then, during the May shutdown, I’d have plenty of time to pack up my life in Chicoutimi, make the move, and settle into my new home before the busy summer exploration season began.
Finding a Home in Montreal
As I began looking into rentals, one problem kept creeping back into my mind. How could I realistically and cost-effectively view a potential apartment before committing to it?
Montreal wasn’t exactly close to Chicoutimi. A quick day trip was possible, but not without a car… which I didn’t have. Otherwise, I would have to spend a night there, adding extra costs and complications to what was supposed to be a simple apartment viewing.
The listings themselves, at least, were plentiful. Prices varied wildly depending on the neighborhood. I was still unfamiliar with the city’s layout, but I kept dreaming of living somewhere near the center. I wanted that almost mythical Manhattan-like lifestyle. Being right in the heart of a big, noisy, vibrant city. Of course, that dream came with a price tag. Anything close to downtown was considerably more expensive.
Eventually, after several days of searching, I kept coming back to one particular listing. It was one of several apartments available in a large residential building in Shaughnessy Village, managed by a major leasing company.
A Virtual Leap of Faith
The building itself wasn’t exactly beautiful from the outside. It was a large concrete structure with a somewhat dated appearance. But according to the photos, the inside had recently been renovated and looked quite comfortable.
More importantly, the location was nearly perfect. It sat on the northwestern edge of downtown Montreal, technically still within the downtown area, ten minutes walk from the Mont Royal Park. The building offered a common roof terrace, small gym and even a rooftop swimming pool. Although the latter turned out to be under renovation indefinitely. The rent, while certainly not cheap, being roughly three times what I had paid in Chicoutimi, was still surprisingly reasonable for the location. With my new income, it was manageable.
Northwestern view from the rooftop terrace
I contacted the property management company to get more information, especially regarding how I could view the apartment without creating a logistical nightmare. One thing led to another, and soon enough I was taking part in a remote apartment tour. A company representative walked through several available units using their phone camera, showing me the apartments and common areas. They were patient, responsive, and willing to answer all my questions. Whenever I wanted to see a specific corner of the apartment or building, they took the time to show me.
Of course, it wasn’t the same as physically visiting the place. There were always things you couldn’t properly judge through a screen. But given my situation, I decided it was good enough. If it turned out not to be the right place, I could always move somewhere else later.
A New Horizon
And just like that, within a matter of days, I went from vague ideas about leaving Saguenay to signing a lease for a one-bedroom apartment in Montreal. My time in Chicoutimi was truly coming to an end.
The last challenge was figuring out the move itself. I had kept in touch with Pedro, one of my old university colleagues. He already knew about my plans to move and when the time came, I asked if he would be willing to help me with the logistics. Thankfully, he was more than happy to help. We found a small window in early May that worked for both of our schedules, while also fitting with the short overlap between my two rental contracts.
I would rent out a cargo van and he volunteered to drive it to Montreal and help me unload. Then he’d drive back to Chicoutimi the same day.
Everything was falling into place. And before I knew it, I was heading back north for my second work rotation.
The Rotation Before the Move
My second rotation came and went much faster than the first.
Unlike my adventurous first work shift, there was no uncertainty this time around. The project had transitioned to using charter flights, so there were no more airport shenanigans. We now flew directly from Montreal to Mirage, with a quick stop in Alma, in the Lac-Saint-Jean region. Since Alma was only about an hour’s drive from Chicoutimi, one of my friends was kind enough to give me a lift. Just like that, my trip to work had become surprisingly hassle-free.
Stepping onto a small private plane sounds more glamorous on paper than it actually was. The cabin ceiling was low, the seats fairly cramped, and because the aircraft were so light, they were much more susceptible to turbulence than the commercial flights I was used to. Still, it was a fascinating way to commute to work. Yet another unexpected perk of the job.
The work, on the other hand, had already begun to feel routine. Most of the people were now familiar faces, with only a few new additions to the crew. The rotation itself was also shorter this time—two weeks instead of the three-week marathon of my first shift. It was a much more comfortable rhythm, allowing everyone to maintain a better balance between work intensity and recovery.
The Lake/River at Mirage during an early summer morning
The geological side of the work was becoming increasingly interesting as well. I was starting to better understand the rocks we were working with and the broader context of the project. There were plenty of exciting observations being made, but as is often the case in mineral exploration, those details will remain confidential.
For now, I was simply enjoying the learning process. Still, my mind was increasingly elsewhere. Between tasks, I found myself thinking less about the next day at camp and more about what was waiting for me in Montreal. A new apartment. A new city. New friends, and an entirely different chapter of my life.
The wilderness had given me a career. Now it was time to build a life around it.
The Move
Soon enough, I was back in Chicoutimi and it was finally time for the big move.
I spent a couple of days packing everything as best I could. The biggest challenge was finding enough containers and boxes. At Pedro’s suggestion, we visited a few supermarkets and large retail stores to ask if they had any spare cardboard boxes they no longer needed. In the end, I only managed to get one—but it was a large one, so it helped quite a bit.
Fortunately, I didn’t own all that much. My furniture consisted mainly of a bed, an awkwardly tiny desk, a desk chair, folding chair, the electronic piano and a lamp. Everything else ended up packed into boxes, duffel bags, backpacks, and whatever other makeshift containers I could find. Yet somehow, it was enough to fill the back of a cargo van.
And just like that, on an early May morning in 2022, I took one last look at the house I had called home for the previous two and a half years. It had been a difficult chapter overall, but one that also gave me plenty of unforgettable memories, friendships, and adventures. I handed back the key, climbed into the moving van, and quietly said goodbye to my life in Saguenay.
Pedro and I spent the drive across southern Quebec reminiscing about our years in Chicoutimi. He would remain there a while longer to finish his PhD, which fortunately hadn’t been affected by the financial turmoil that had derailed my own research. As for me, I couldn’t have been happier with how things had turned out. Leaving academia when I did had been a leap of faith, but considering how things turned out, it had been one of the best decisions I could have made.
My New Home
We reached Montreal early that afternoon. It was one of those perfect spring days. Not too warm, not too cold, with bright sunshine and clear skies.
Downtown Montreal on a hazy day in May
Since I had already signed all the paperwork beforehand, all that remained was to collect my key and finally see my apartment in person. The building actually looked better than it had in the photos. The lobby was modern, bright, and welcoming, while the apartment itself felt surprisingly spacious. In fact, it was so empty that my footsteps echoed through the living room. Furnishing the place quickly moved near the top of my priority list.
One thing immediately stood out, though. The hallways carried the constant aroma of oriental spices and home cooking from the many apartments. It became one of those characteristics of the building that sticks with you whether you want it or not. Personally, I didn’t mind. It was far preferable to cigarette smoke.
However, it also had its share of maintenance issues that became more obvious throughout the coming months. Keeping the apartment clean was never a problem on my end, but occasionally the odd cockroach would wander in from elsewhere in the building. It wasn’t something that happened often, but it was probably the biggest downside of an otherwise pleasant place to live.
Settling in
About an hour later, the van had been unloaded, and my apartment was now covered in boxes, bags, and furniture waiting to find their place. Pedro still had some time before driving back to Chicoutimi, so we decided to make a quick trip to IKEA.
There was only one problem. The store was south of the Island of Montreal, and we had chosen to leave right in the middle of afternoon rush hour… precisely when everyone else was trying to get off the island after work. Fortunately, I had Pedro behind the wheel.
Having learned to drive in Rio de Janeiro, Montreal traffic hardly seemed intimidating to him. After a series of impressively bold lane changes, and one particularly memorable maneuver that briefly had our cargo van occupying far more of Sherbrooke Street than it probably should have, we escaped the worst of the congestion and eventually made it to IKEA.
A few hours, several flat-packed boxes, and a couple of IKEA hot dogs later, we returned to my apartment with the beginnings of a proper home. I still hadn’t found the right dining table or couch, but that could wait. Little by little, the apartment would come together.
My apartment eventually took its final shape later that month
Pedro soon began the long drive back to Chicoutimi, while I stayed behind and slowly started unpacking my belongings. As I stood there, surrounded by half-opened boxes, looking around at my new home, it was the first time in years that I truly felt like I was in a place where I could belong. A place where I could slowly grow roots and build something more permanent for a change.
After a rocky start that had me nearly miss my flight on the very first day of my new job, I finally landed in Radisson. It was a small airport in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by an endless blanket of snow stretching to the horizon in every direction.
The plane had been filled with workers from all sorts of industries, many of whom were likely beginning work rotations similar to my own. As soon as we landed, everyone seemed to know exactly where they were going. Within minutes they had collected their luggage, climbed into waiting vehicles, and disappeared. I stood there for a moment, alone, trying to figure out what to do next.
I was supposed to meet a colleague I had previously dubbed Bob in a white Ford pickup truck. Unfortunately, I had no contact number, no way of reaching him, and even if I had, it wouldn’t have made much difference. There was no mobile signal, no internet… nothing. I had been in remote parts of Canada before, but this felt like an entirely different scale of remoteness. Everything seemed quieter, farther away, and buried beneath an endless blanket of snow.
It felt like waiting for the white pickup truck ferryman to carry me across the frozen River Styx. The only problem was that when I stepped outside, the parking lot seemed to be filled with white Ford pickup trucks. None of them had drivers. So I wandered in and out of the airport terminal, occasionally scanning the parking lot again, hoping that one of those trucks, and more importantly, Bob, would eventually appear.
The Trans-Taiga Road
What followed was a long half-day drive across the white northern landscape. For the first half hour, we were still on asphalt, occasionally passing another vehicle travelling in the opposite direction. Then, after turning off the main road, we joined a long gravel road called the Trans-Taiga, though at that time of year it was completely hidden beneath a thick layer of snow and ice.
Our destination was Mirage, a remote outfitter that provided accommodation deep in the wilderness. Over the years, it had become a convenient temporary base for various mineral exploration companies operating in the region.
The Trans-Taiga: one of the most remote roads in northern Quebec, Canada
At first, I was captivated by the landscape. It was my first time seeing such an immense northern wilderness in winter. Soon enough, however, the scenery settled into an almost hypnotic rhythm. Trees. More trees. Endless forests stretching in every direction, interrupted only by open snow-covered spaces concealing frozen lakes of all sizes beneath them.
The terrain itself was relatively flat, broken only by the occasional rolling hill. Whenever we reached one, the view opened up, revealing an immense white-and-green horizon that seemed to go on forever. Different, yet somehow always the same. It was impossible not to appreciate just how vast northern Canada really is.
Bob and I spent much of the drive getting to know one another. Naturally, I was eager to learn more about the job that awaited me. In my mind, I imagined spending most of my time thinking about rocks, chemistry, and geology. As I would soon discover, the work, at least during the entry-level, was often far more technical than geological. Being practical and handy was a valuable skill in the field. As someone who had grown up in a small apartment in the city, I couldn’t exactly claim that as one of my strengths. Fortunately, I was more than willing to learn.
Getting My Feet Wet
The following day, I met the rest of our small team on site. After a quick introduction to the facilities, it was time to begin learning the job that would occupy most of my first rotations.
Welcome to Mirage—a small oasis of civilization in the deep wilderness
The role was called Geotechnician and in simple terms it involved performing a series of measurements and observations on the drill core recovered by the drilling crew. The individual tasks themselves weren’t particularly difficult, but each came with its own procedures, details, and quality standards that had to be learned.
Everything, however, began with reconstructing the core. The rock recovered from the drill holes arrived in long wooden core boxes after being transported from the drill site. Before any measurements could begin, the broken pieces had to be fitted back together as accurately as possible, recreating the sequence in which they had come out of the ground.
To some people, this was the most tedious and frustrating part of the workflow, especially when particularly fractured sections looked like someone had emptied a box of irregular stone jigsaw pieces into the tray. I loved it. In fact, it quickly became one of my favourite parts of the entire process. As far as I was concerned, they were essentially paying me to build geological LEGO sets all day. And I love LEGO.
Once the core had been reconstructed to a satisfactory standard, Bob gradually introduced me to the remaining geoteching tasks. One by one, I learned the measurements, the tools, the small tricks that only came with practice, and the little details that separated a beginner from someone who could work confidently on their own.
It was a surprisingly satisfying workflow. Every task had its own rhythm and its own small challenge to master. My goal, of course, was simple. One day, I wanted to graduate from being Bob’s apprentice and earn the title of Master Piecer. Not an official company designation, but an badge of personal prestige in my head.
A curious fox checking us out from afar
Later that day, two more members of our team arrived. They were familiar faces—the same colleagues I had met over drinks in Montreal only a couple of days earlier. With everyone finally on site, our little field crew was complete.
The Path to Professional Geologist
So, puzzle piecing and technical measurements aside, you might be wondering: “What about the actual geology?” Well… there was a small catch.
In Canada, the practice of professional geology is regulated. Each province has its own professional regulatory body responsible for licensing geologists, much like the system used for engineers. In Quebec, that organization is the Ordre des géologues du Québec (OGQ).
Before receiving a full professional license, graduates first register as Geologists in Training (GITs) and complete a period of supervised professional experience. Only after meeting the experience requirements and successfully completing the professional ethics component can they obtain full professional status.
I had applied to join the OGQ as a Geologist in Training around the same time I accepted my job offer. As with many administrative processes, however, approval wasn’t instantaneous and would take several months. Until my registration was finalized, I wasn’t permitted to formally sign off on geological work in my own name. That meant my responsibilities initially focused on geoteching. Looking back, I think it was probably the best possible introduction to the profession.
Those first rotations gave me plenty of time to understand the entire workflow that takes place before geological logging even begins. More importantly, they allowed me to appreciate the challenges faced by geotechs, whose work forms the foundation for everything that follows. In time, geologists would rely on that work every day while supervising projects and interpreting the drill core. Having first learned the process from the ground up proved invaluable later in my career.
That didn’t mean I was excluded from the geology itself. Far from it. Discussing the rocks, asking questions, debating interpretations, and learning from more experienced colleagues was encouraged from day one.
Fortunately, my somewhat turbulent final years in academia hadn’t diminished my scientific curiosity. If anything, they had strengthened it. I was always eager to listen, ask questions, and join geological discussions whenever I had something worthwhile to contribute. To my relief, those years spent in research turned out to be surprisingly useful, and my colleagues seemed to appreciate the perspective I brought to the conversations.
Life at Mirage
The work schedule consisted of twelve-hour shifts every day. That might sound grueling at first, but the trade-off was equally generous time off once the rotation ended. Most of our projects operated on a two-weeks-on, two-weeks-off schedule, which over time I came to appreciate as a great balance. It was long enough to stay productive and fully immersed in the project, yet short enough to avoid burning out. Whenever rotations stretched to three weeks—or, on rare occasions, even longer—you could almost feel everyone’s energy and focus beginning to fade during that third week.
Lunch was usually around an hour, while the evenings were ours to spend however we liked. We’d all have dinner together before gradually drifting off to our own routines. Mirage was actually a fantastic place to unwind after work. The lodge had a small gym, which quickly became my favorite spot. I wasn’t trying to follow my regular training routine from home, but getting in a workout every now and then helped me stay active during the longer rotations.
There was also a sauna, hot tubs, a pool table room with comfortable seating around a large fireplace, and plenty of opportunities to simply sit and chat after dinner. During the summer, people would go fishing or gather around bonfires. Winter had its own reward. On clear nights, if you were lucky, the northern lights would make an appearance.
During that very first rotation I caught my first glimpse of the aurora borealis. To the naked eye, it was surprisingly subtle. More like faint wisps of pale light stretching across the northern sky than the vibrant green curtains you see in photographs. Fortunately, I had my camera with me, and a long exposure revealed the spectacle my eyes could barely see.
Dancing northern lights above the cold, pixeled wilderness
As for me, I usually spent a little while chatting after dinner before retreating to my room. I’d try to squeeze in an episode of a TV series or play something on my laptop, but after twelve hours of work I rarely stayed awake for very long.
Even in those first weeks, I could already tell this was a place where colleagues naturally became friends. Living and working together for weeks at a time created a sense of camaraderie that, at least to me, felt more like the brotherhood and sisterhood of a student dorm than simply a workplace.
Getting Comfortable
Just as I was getting used to my new daily routine, a new task popped up. The two colleagues who had driven up the day after I arrived had both recently obtained their professional geologist licenses. Management decided it would be better to have them working on opposite rotations, so the following day one of them, let’s call him Bill, was heading back to Montreal. That meant making the long drive back to the airport near Radisson. Since the truck wouldn’t drive itself back to Mirage, someone had to accompany him. That someone turned out to be me.
Fortunately, I already had a Canadian driver’s license by that point. Unfortunately, apart from my driving test, I had barely driven at all. In fact, the last time I had properly been behind the wheel was on the one day during my Iceland trip back in 2017, five years earlier, and even then I hadn’t exactly been overflowing with confidence. Driving had quietly become one of my bigger stress factors. There was no avoiding it, though.
Driving was an essential part of exploration work, so sooner or later I had to become comfortable with it
My mind wasn’t particularly cooperative. It happily imagined every possible worst-case scenario along the way. To calm myself down, I tried to prepare for everything I could think of. I downloaded offline maps of the region, even though the route was essentially one long road with a single important turn-off at the end of the Trans-Taiga. The company also provided emergency communication equipment, making sure I had both a satellite messenger and a satellite phone in case one system failed.
The safety culture with these guys was very much alive and well.
The Road To Radisson
Bill and I set off early the following morning. He kindly offered to drive us to the airport, leaving me with only the return journey. That alone was a huge relief. During the drive, Bill shared stories from the beginning of his own career. Like me, he had started with very little technical experience and limited confidence behind the wheel. But, as he explained, this line of work had a way of teaching you everything eventually.
Before long, you became a bit of a jack-of-all-trades. Building makeshift core shacks from scratch, riding snowmobiles in winter and ATVs in summer, flying around in helicopters, solving unexpected problems on the fly… At the time, it all sounded almost unbelievable.
As we talked, I paid close attention to the road, trying to memorize landmarks and intersections for the journey back. To my inexperienced eyes, however, the landscape looked incredibly uniform. Trees. Snow. More trees. There were landmarks, of course, but they were few and far between. It would take several trips before they became second nature. For now, all I really needed to remember was one important fact: As long as I stayed on the Trans-Taiga and didn’t miss the single turn-off near the end, I was heading in the right direction.
Getting Back Behind the Wheel
After dropping Bill off at the airport, it was finally time. I climbed into the driver’s seat of a full-sized North American pickup truck. I couldn’t help thinking back to my summer field trip with Alexandre years earlier, when he had commented on how comfortable these big vehicles were to drive despite their size. Their power and stability were genuinely impressive.
I have to admit… For the first half hour, I had the classic nervous beginner’s driving posture. You know the one… Leaning slightly forward, hands gripping the steering wheel a little tighter than necessary, head stretched toward the windshield as if trying to spot danger before it appeared. To be fair, the asphalt section near Radisson was practically rush hour by northern standards. I probably saw enough vehicles to push the total comfortably into double digits. I was also determined not to miss the turn onto the Trans-Taiga.
Once I reached the long white gravel road, though, I slowly began to relax. For the first time that day, I stopped worrying and started appreciating where I actually was… Driving a big Ford pickup across one of the most remote roads in North America, surrounded by an endless winter wilderness, blasting my music through the speakers… …and getting paid to do it. I could definitely see myself getting used to this.
In hindsight, the Trans-Taiga was probably one of the best possible places to rebuild my confidence behind the wheel. The road was exceptionally wide. Particularly along the first hundred kilometers toward LG-3. Plus, traffic was almost nonexistent. Seeing another vehicle became a noteworthy event rather than a usual occurrence.
One thing I did quickly notice, however, was that most drivers travelled considerably faster than the posted speed limits. Covering these enormous distances took a long time, and people who regularly worked in the region tended to settle into their own rhythm.
Several hours later, after a spectacular northern sunset and the final stretch through complete darkness, I arrived safely back at Mirage. I was tired. Mentally drained. But also quietly proud. My return to driving had gone far better than I could have hoped.
A Different Kind of Challenge
With an exciting and exhausting first week behind me, I found myself wondering what the second week of my first rotation had in store. Unfortunately… It wasn’t nearly as enjoyable.
Late winter afternoon at Mirage
If the first week had been about learning new tasks and adapting to unexpected challenges, the second week became about doing exactly the same thing while feeling like someone had strapped lead weights to every limb. I had come down with a nasty flu.
It started with a mild headache and unusual fatigue before progressing into muscle aches. The nurse on site immediately tested me for COVID-19. Had the result been positive, I would have spent the next several days isolated in my room. Instead, the test came back negative. Great. Well… sort of. I still had the flu and kept on working through it.
Over the following days, the nurse continued testing me, but every result remained negative. The first few nights were drenched in sweat, while each twelve-hour shift somehow felt twice as long as the last. I started using my lunch breaks for quick naps, hoping to recover enough energy to make it through the afternoon. Then came the congestion. All the while, I continued working in a face mask.
Every evening at dinner, the nurse would encourage me by reminding me that it was simply another day closer to the end of the typical week-long flu. It became a real test of endurance. Taking a sick day was technically an option, but it honestly never crossed my mind. I had come north to work, not to sit in my room feeling sorry for myself. As long as I could still do the job safely, I was going to show up.
Slowly but surely, things began to improve. After three or four days, each morning felt just a little bit easier than the last. By the end of the week, my strength had returned almost overnight. In fact, I felt better than I had before getting sick—that strange burst of energy that sometimes follows finally shaking off the flu.
The fox was back. Roaming around camp every now and again
Between learning an entirely new job, rebuilding my confidence behind the wheel, and surviving a week-long flu in the middle of the Canadian wilderness, I certainly felt like I had earned my place on the team.
The Final Week
On the third and final week of my first rotation, a new group of colleagues arrived on site. This was going to be our overlap week between cross-shifts. Basically, everyone would be brought up to speed, trained, and eased into the rotation routine that would continue from that point onward.
A couple of new employees joined the team, and suddenly I found myself in the position of training them. It was surreal. Less than three weeks earlier, I had arrived completely clueless about the job and the tasks ahead of me. Now I was already passing on what I had learned to the next people coming in. This week was arguably my favorite of the entire rotation.
I was now in full optimization mode, trying to figure out the best ways to complete tasks efficiently while maintaining the quality of the work. Then, at the same time, I was learning how to explain those same processes to others. The once-quiet workspace became much livelier. The evenings around the dinner table turned into proper social gatherings. The energy was high, and I was thoroughly enjoying it.
My soon-to-be cross-shift partner turned out to be quite the ambitious character. Let’s call her Sally. Coming from Europe herself, Sally was just as academically overqualified as many European geologists I had encountered. She also had that same desire to prove herself shared by many Europeans making the move to North America. In that sense, we had a lot in common.
Our shared work mindset quickly led to a strong collaboration. Not only during that first rotation, but throughout the following years. The week flew by, and before I knew it, it was time to prepare for my travel day home. My first rotation was coming to an end.
Those early winter sunsets across the frozen lake were always gorgeous
Unfortunately, two of my colleagues had caught my lovely flu by then and were now dealing with the consequences. Their time off would consist mostly of couches and beds for the next week. Sorry guys!
A Chaotic Departure
My return journey proved to be almost as chaotic as my first travel day. This time, however, the chaos came from a completely different source. It was the first time our company had hired a private aviation company to fly smaller aircraft directly to Mirage rather than using the commercial route through Radisson.
There was a small airstrip nearby, and despite the cost of chartering flights, it actually made financial sense when transporting multiple workers in and out of the field. It also eliminated the long drive between Mirage and Radisson. The only problem? The weather.
The forecast wasn’t looking particularly promising. Without a control tower at the airstrip, visibility conditions were critical for landing. The sky was still relatively clear earlier in the day, but due to various delays, the plane’s arrival was pushed later and later into the afternoon.
Soon enough, the day became a strange combination of: “Get ready, we’re leaving soon!” and: “Actually, never mind, we might be staying another night.” Personally, I found the whole situation quite entertaining. At this point, I wasn’t in a desperate rush to get home. I was already enjoying the unpredictability of field life. Besides, an extra day meant extra pay. A win-win.
Not everyone was quite as relaxed, however. The helicopter crew, in particular, were eager to return home. Their time off between rotations was limited, and every delay meant less time with their families.
Anticlimactic
Later in the afternoon, we were eagerly waiting in our cars near the airstrip. Waiting and listening for any sounds of an approaching airplane. The wind howling outside adding to the drama. The weather had gotten visibly worse. Nobody said a word. It was like we were in a suspenseful thriller just before the climax. At one point we finally heard the aircraft approaching.
We stepped out of our vehicles and gathered around, waiting to see if the plane would attempt the landing. We could hear it somewhere above the clouds, getting closer and closer… almost directly above us… And then it started fading away. Further and further. Until it was gone.
The aircraft never appeared. With the thick, low cloud cover the pilots made the decision to abort. It was a rather anticlimactic ending to that tense build-up scene. We were staying one more day.
My First Helicopter Ride
That evening after work, I overheard the helicopter crew discussing their frustrations and mentioning Saguenay. It turned out the pilot was from the region and lived near Chicoutimi. When I mentioned that I was also based there, they offered me a ride back home. Their plan was to fly the helicopter to their nearest southern base, then drive the remaining distance.
A helicopter ride home? Absolutely. I checked with my boss first, and they were more than happy with the arrangement. It also saved them the headache of reorganizing another complicated travel itinerary. Another win-win.
The next morning was mostly spent in standby mode. The colleagues who were leaving by truck had already departed early toward Radisson. I, meanwhile, was simply waiting for the helicopter crew to finish their morning tasks before we could leave. Naturally, that took longer than expected. Eventually, around 11 a.m., I drove out to the laydown area where the helicopter was operating.
Getting ready for my first helicopter ride
Once the crew finished their work, they gave me the pre-flight safety briefing. I wondered whether I would feel motion sickness. I wondered whether my annoying fear of heights would make an appearance. Mostly, though, I was just incredibly excited. Thankfully, neither issue appeared.
The rotor blades spun faster as the pilot completed his final checks. Then, almost effortlessly, the helicopter lifted away from the ground. And just like that, we were flying. There is honestly no comparison for the feeling of a first helicopter ride. The sheer cool factor is difficult to describe. To my geeky brain, it genuinely felt like stepping into a video game.
Once we reached cruising altitude, the flight became incredibly smooth. Clouds of different shades of blue and grey stretched across the horizon, while beneath us the endless white landscape of northern Quebec continued in every direction.
Imagine crashing in a place like this… with nothing but wilderness for hundreds of miles in every direction
The pilot explained that wind, rain, and snowfall were usually manageable. The real concern was freezing rain. That was the nightmare scenario for helicopter pilots, as ice accumulation on the rotors could quickly become dangerous. Fortunately, we had no such issues. The weather remained calm, with only a few darker clouds scattered across the sky.
Back to Civilization
About an hour later, we landed somewhere else remote, but much farther south than Mirage. The helicopter crew completed their cross-shift exchange, and soon enough we were packed into an overloaded truck filled with everything from helicopter equipment to personal fishing and hunting gear.
Another long drive followed. More forests. More snow. More endless wilderness. Hours passed before we finally reached the asphalt road.
At some point, the guys started talking about stopping at a fast-food restaurant in the nearest town. That was when I realized where we were. Near Chibougamau. After three weeks in the northern wilderness, it genuinely felt like returning to civilization. McDonald’s. PFK. Cars. People. Buildings. It felt strange.
A tired selfie from the chopper as I returned home after my first rotation
What an unusual profession. You could spend weeks living in an isolated camp surrounded by nothing but wilderness, then suddenly find yourself standing in a fast-food restaurant surrounded by everyday life. Throughout the years it really felt like living two completely different lives.
It took several more hours of driving before we finally reached the Saguenay–Lac-Saint-Jean region, well after nightfall. Then, after another stretch of driving, I was finally back in Chicoutimi. I was incredibly thankful for the ride and wished the pilot a good time off. Meanwhile, his poor mechanic still had several more hours of driving ahead of him all the way to Québec City. Now that’s a commute.
Finally back home, I was looking forward to some well-deserved rest. But there was another major change waiting just around the corner. My time in Saguenay was coming to an end. I would soon start to prepare for my move to Montreal.
On a regular cold day in early February 2022, I received my graduation papers from UQAC after a brutal year of struggling against an ever-growing series of challenges and absurdities. I was now a double Master of Geology… because of the… two Master’s degrees. More importantly, I could finally apply for a Post-Graduation Work Permit in Canada.
As with most administrative procedures, the process would take a few months. Fortunately, submitting the application was enough to grant me the right to work while my permit was being processed. I wasted no time and immediately began searching for employment.
The Job Hunt Begins
Sadly, due to the pandemic and repeated lockdowns, my professional network remained rather limited. However, I had two major leads to pursue.
The first came through Alexandre. A friend of his from France had already spent some time working in mineral exploration and mentioned a company that he spoke highly of. Given my previous experiences working in Romania, I already knew how important a healthy work environment was for both motivation and sanity. Alexandre put us in touch through Facebook, and before long I had an email address to which I could send my application.
My second lead came through my supervisor and professor at UQAM. Over the years, I had gathered that he was exceptionally well connected not only within academic circles but also throughout the mining and exploration industry. I reached out to him for guidance and quickly received a reply. Before long, he suggested a Quebec-based exploration company operating out of Montreal that happened to be hiring.
Ice breaks up on the Saguenay
Before continuing, I should mention a few important points regarding the way I will write about this period of my life. I will be intentionally omitting company names throughout the remainder of this story. Likewise, the names of colleagues and other individuals involved will be changed or omitted to respect their privacy. Some details may also be kept intentionally vague where appropriate. The events and experiences themselves are real, but protecting the privacy of the people involved is more important than absolute documentary precision.
First Interview
The first company to reply was the one suggested by my former supervisor. The director himself responded with interest in my resume and invited me to a remote interview a few days later. The interview went well. I played my usual cards: motivation, ambition, and a willingness to learn. When asked where I saw myself in five or ten years, I aimed high. He seemed to appreciate that.
The only potential drawback was, once again, the French language. Speaking French was not a strict requirement for the position, but it certainly would have been helpful considering most of the team were francophones. However, he assured me that everyone also spoke English and that the work environment was fairly bilingual. Looking back, it would probably have been a good place to continue improving my French.
A day or so after the interview, I received positive feedback and a promise that a contract offer would arrive the following week. This was on a Thursday.
That same day, I received an email from the other company inviting me to a remote interview on Friday. Even though I already seemed to have a job offer within reach, I accepted. At the very least, I was curious to learn more about them.
Second Interview
The following day, I found myself speaking with one of the company’s young managers. The contrast was immediately noticeable. Whereas the first interview had been conducted by a formal senior director, this one felt much more relaxed and energetic.
We ended up having a great conversation. He explained that the company was headquartered in Western Canada and was in the process of opening a new office in Montreal. That immediately caught my attention. Western company meant that English was the primary work language. Plus I was already dreaming about moving to Montreal.
The company itself was also in a different stage of development. Rather than operating around a long-established project area, they were building a new team, pursuing multiple exploration projects, and expanding their presence in Quebec. It was an interesting comparison between two very different opportunities.
What surprised me most was what seemed to interest them about my application. I had assumed that my lack of direct exploration experience would be the main focus. Instead, they appeared genuinely interested in my diverse work background. While none of it was directly related to mineral exploration, they seemed to value adaptability and the ability to learn quickly in unfamiliar situations.
The manager explained that they intended to take my previous work experience into account and place me slightly above the entry-level junior position.
Two Offers on the Table
Toward the end of our conversation, I explained that another company was already preparing an offer and that I expected to receive it early the following week. If they were seriously interested in bringing me on board, I would need an answer fairly quickly.
He assured me he would discuss the matter with his colleague and get back to me as soon as possible. He was not exaggerating. Only a few hours later, I received another email containing a contract offer. Their response time was lightning fast and left quite an impression.
I was also somewhat taken aback by the situation itself. Barely two weeks after graduating from UQAC, I found myself considering two attractive offers for exploration geologist positions.
The difference between the Canadian and European job markets felt almost surreal. Of course, timing played a role as well. The mining and exploration industry is notoriously cyclical, with periods of expansion followed by inevitable slowdowns. In early 2022, the market was clearly in one of its stronger phases, and job seekers generally found themselves in a favorable position.
For someone who had spent the previous year navigating the seven circles of academic hell, it was an exhilarating feeling. More than anything, it felt as though all the effort, frustration, and persistence of the previous year were finally producing results.
It also reinforced my decision to step away from academia rather than continue pursuing a PhD under increasingly uncertain circumstances. For the first time in quite a while, I felt genuinely optimistic about the road ahead.
Decision Time
I waited until Monday to receive the promised offer from the first company. In the meantime, I enthusiastically consulted friends and family, discussing the strengths and weaknesses of each opportunity. When the second offer arrived as promised, I quickly discovered that the decision would be more difficult than I had anticipated.
The compensation structures alone made comparisons challenging. One company offered hourly pay, while the other proposed an annual salary supplemented by various bonuses, including additional compensation for extended periods spent in the field. Estimating what either position might ultimately pay required plenty of assumptions and more than a few calculations.
Still, there was another factor at work. I have to admit that my instincts were quietly nudging me in one particular direction. Whether this was simply my subconscious recognizing details that I had not yet consciously processed, I cannot say. What I do know is that the prospect of joining a young team in the process of building something new felt incredibly appealing.
They spoke about multiple projects, opportunities across different regions, and the possibility of working with a variety of teams and clients. As someone just beginning a career in the industry, that breadth of experience seemed invaluable.
In the end, that became the deciding factor. When I politely declined the first company’s offer, the main reason I provided was simple: I felt the second opportunity would expose me to a wider range of projects and learning experiences at the very start of my career.
What Does an Exploration Geologist Actually Do?
The job of an exploration geologist is a rather adventurous one. It requires spending much of the year working in remote regions—far from major cities, often far from even the smallest settlements, and sometimes seemingly far from everything.
So what exactly do we do out there in the wilderness? In simple terms, we search for mineral resources. Gold, copper, nickel, graphite, rare earth elements… you name it. These are the raw materials that eventually find their way into everything from everyday household items to smartphones, medical equipment, renewable energy technologies, and countless other products that modern society depends on.
A sulfide-rich rock sample that I cut into a weird monolithic shape
Exploration geologists are at the very beginning of that journey. It often starts with boots on the ground. We hike through forests, mountains, and tundra searching for exposed rock outcrops that might tell us something interesting about the geology below. Once promising rocks are found, they are mapped, carefully described, and sampled. Those samples are later analysed to determine their chemical composition and whether they contain economically interesting minerals.
If the initial results look promising, the project moves into more advanced stages of exploration. This is where drilling comes into play.
The Exploration Drilling Stage
Drill holes are carefully planned to intersect the target rock formation at different angles and depths. Each core recovered from underground provides another piece of the geological puzzle, allowing geologists to gradually build a three-dimensional model of what lies beneath the surface.
Of course, finding minerals is only half the battle. The real question is whether enough of them exist, in the right concentrations and under the right conditions, to justify the enormous cost of developing a mine. Most exploration projects never reach that stage. Only a small fraction eventually become producing mines.
Because of this, early-stage exploration is also the riskiest phase for investors. The odds of discovering an economically viable deposit are relatively low, but if a project does prove successful, the rewards can be substantial.
That is also why exploration data is treated as commercially sensitive. Geological interpretations, sampling results, drilling information, and future plans are valuable pieces of information. For that reason, I will deliberately avoid discussing operational details, specific projects, or exploration results throughout these stories.
Technicalities aside, however… It is one of the most adventurous jobs I have ever had.
Heading North
The days flew by, and before I knew it I was boarding a flight to Montreal in transit towards my very first work rotation. The following day, I was booked on a commercial flight to Radisson, a remote town in the James Bay region of northern Quebec that serves as a gateway to many exploration projects in the Canadian north.
It felt good being up in the air and traveling again, even if it was part of work
Before that, however, I had half a day to spend in Montreal. The manager I had spoken to during my interview invited me out for a drink with him and a few of my new colleagues. At that point, there wasn’t technically an office yet. Everyone was still working remotely, so this was the perfect opportunity to meet some of the people I would soon be working alongside.
After our relaxed social gathering, I returned to the hotel for a good night’s sleep. It was time to start preparing for early mornings, long working days, and three weeks filled with new experiences and challenges. The following morning, I arrived at the airport ready to check in for my flight north. I was about to head somewhere that relatively few people ever visit: Canada’s true north, in the middle of winter.
Airport Shenanigans
At the manager’s recommendation, I had bought a pair of enormous steel-toed winter boots that looked like they belonged to a science-fiction power armor suit. Despite their size, they were surprisingly light thanks to their composite construction. Graceful, however, they were not. I was incredibly excited about what lay ahead.
Then the Air Inuit employee asked me a simple question. “Do you have your PCR test?” For those who have thankfully forgotten, PCR tests were one of the COVID-19 requirements still floating around at the time. Nobody had mentioned anything about needing one. She asked what kind of work I was travelling north for. “Geologist in Mineral Exploration” I replied. Judging by her expression, that answer didn’t really help. She simply responded that everyone travelling north needed a PCR test. And just like that… the troubles began.
I immediately called one of the company managers and explained the situation. He was just as surprised as I was. Up until then, none of their employees had needed PCR tests for this type of travel. We quickly discussed our options. One possibility was finding a testing center in Montreal, keeping me there for an extra day, and trying again on the following morning’s flight. Then he asked whether testing might be available at the airport itself.
While he rushed off to deal with the logistical headache this situation had suddenly created, I hurried off to investigate my options.
COVID Chaos
I scrambled to the airport information desk hoping to find out whether I could still get tested. I had already accepted that I would almost certainly miss my scheduled flight, but there was another one leaving a few hours later that I might still be able to catch.
After some waiting, I ended up speaking with a different employee and had to explain the entire situation all over again. By this point, I was becoming both anxious and increasingly frustrated. They listened carefully before asking once more: “So… what exactly do you work again?” “I’m a Geologist,” I replied again, before adding, “…in the mining sector.”
That finally clicked. They asked whether I would be working directly with Air Inuit personnel or with local First Nations communities. “No” I said. “Oh… then you don’t need a PCR test” he replied.
…What? After all that?
That was peak COVID bureaucracy. Rules changed constantly, different people interpreted them differently, and by early 2022 it felt like just about everyone was fed up with the whole situation.
Finally, I was allowed through to the check-in counter. I immediately phoned the manager to let him know the good news. His reply? “…Ah, crap. I just cancelled your ticket.”
Oof. I stayed on the phone with him while asking the airline staff whether it was still possible to buy another ticket. Thankfully, it was. I even offered to pay for it myself just to simplify matters, knowing the company could reimburse me later. Meanwhile, the manager rushed off once again to let everyone at the project know that, after all, I was actually coming.
The Domino Effect
What I didn’t discover until I reached the project was just how many moving parts my little airport adventure had set into motion.
Radisson was still over 400 kilometres from camp, so someone had to drive out to meet every incoming flight. By the time news reached camp that I supposedly wasn’t arriving that day, the driver—let’s call him Bob—had already left.
Unable to reach him by radio or any other means, the team made the decision to send the helicopter after him to signal that he should turn around instead of wasting an entire day’s drive. However, when it turned out that I was, in fact, still coming after all, another message had to be rushed through telling everyone to call the helicopter back.
Somewhere in the frozen north of Quebec
As funny as the story is now, it also illustrates how quickly small logistical changes can snowball into much bigger ones when you’re operating hundreds of kilometers from the nearest town. Every last-minute adjustment costs time and money, especially when helicopters become involved.
Fortunately, the helicopter hadn’t taken off yet, and the replacement airline ticket ended up costing exactly the same as the original one. In the end, no real harm was done. Just a healthy dose of unnecessary stress before my first official day on the job.
Looking back, it was a rather fitting introduction to life in mineral exploration. In remote field operations, even the smallest hiccup can ripple through an entire chain of carefully coordinated logistics. As I would discover, adapting to the unexpected was simply part of the job.
Following months of intense work under mounting pressure, an eerie stillness settled over my life. The article had been submitted. The thesis had been submitted. After spending so long managing one disaster after another, trying to keep an increasingly unstable structure from collapsing around me, there was suddenly very little left to do.
Now came the waiting. It would still take over a month before the reviews returned and I would have to address any final comments, corrections, or suggestions. But until then, for the first time in what felt like forever, I could finally relax. Or at least attempt to.
After the Storm
With only a few weeks of autumn remaining, Taylor and I returned to the Saguenay Fjord National Park for one final late-season hike. I must admit, few things compare to the vibrant forests of Canadian autumn. Vast hills and mountains disappeared beneath a sea of yellow, scattered with patches of deep red and lingering green. Beneath the clear blue sky, the Saguenay River cut through the landscape like a winding ribbon.
Walking straight into autumn’s golden embrace
The trip became part of a slow readjustment back toward normal life. A life where I was no longer constantly on edge, managing crisis after crisis while trying to hold together a life that increasingly felt like it was coming apart. I had to relearn how to disconnect. How to exist without immediately anticipating the next catastrophe. Though some part of me still expected another disaster to emerge at any moment.
The following month of November was not entirely uneventful either. Our small research group was scheduled to attend the first conference held in person since the beginning of the Covid crisis. Well… partially in person. It was technically a hybrid conference, and remote participation was still strongly encouraged.
After the months I had survived, reaching the top of those cliffs in Saguenay felt like climbing on top of the world
But honestly, we simply wanted to escape Chicoutimi for a while. We wanted to see other places again. Other people. Signs that the wider world still existed beyond lockdowns, laboratories, and endless administrative nightmares.
Glimpses of a Different Life
The GAC-MAC conference was being held in London. London, Ontario. Not the capital of the United Kingdom. North American city names and their complete lack of originality… am I right?
Getting there required an entire day of driving, but nothing our two experienced and enthusiastic drivers, Taylor and Alexandre, could not handle. Two major things from that journey stayed with me vividly. The first was Montreal. The second was Highway 401 near Toronto.
Reaching for whatever’s left of summer
Despite having lived in Quebec for over two years by that point, I still had never properly visited Montreal. I had only briefly passed through its airport during my arrivals back in 2019. Alexandre had visited before and spoke highly of it, despite not being particularly fond of large cities himself. Compared to Chicoutimi, however, Montreal represented something entirely different. Movement. Opportunity. Life.
Even just passing through the northern parts of the city left a surprisingly strong impression on me. And this wasn’t even the glamorous side of Montreal. Yet it was enough. The dense residential neighborhoods, the characteristic duplexes of the old French quarters, the busy streets, the sheer feeling of urban energy… all of it immediately resonated with me. After years spent in what increasingly felt like an isolated academic outpost, the city felt alive in a way I had almost forgotten was possible.
For the first time in a long while, I could clearly envision a future beyond Saguenay. All I needed to do now was graduate and secure a flexible job that would allow me to move there.
Canada’s iconic maple leaf showing off in full Quebec autumn glory
After Montreal came Toronto. Or more specifically, the legendary Highway 401. The city itself barely registered in my memory compared to the sheer insanity of that highway system. Endless lanes. Interwoven overpasses and underpasses. Traffic moving at speeds that felt borderline absurd. The only apparent rule of the 401 was momentum. It looked terrifying.
This was one place I never wanted to drive myself. Taylor, of course, loved it. She had grown up driving everywhere and handled the chaos with complete confidence. I, meanwhile, had always considered myself far more of a proud pedestrian than an enthusiastic driver. But Canada is vast, and my legs alone were never going to carry me very far across it.
Eventually, after a very long day on the road, we finally passed through Toronto and arrived in London.
A Breath of Normalcy
London itself seemed like a fairly modest mid-sized city. Clearly larger and livelier than Chicoutimi, though nothing particularly spectacular. The university campus, however, impressed me immediately. Especially the old stone tower building rising above the grounds. It gave the place a strangely classical atmosphere, like a miniature version of Cambridge or something along those lines.
Heading to Western University in the late afternoon
We had several days to spend there attending the usual conference activities. Presentations, networking, poster sessions, and awkward academic small talk. In my case, I presented a poster based on the research work that had consumed most of the previous year of my life. Oddly enough, it felt good. Rewarding even.
After so much isolation, uncertainty, and endless work, simply being surrounded by other people again felt refreshing. Conversations flowed naturally across the conference floor as students and researchers drifted between presentations. And since this was Ontario, everything suddenly became much simpler for me linguistically as well. No constant anxiety over French. Just smooth communication.
The Clocktower at Western
It was a breath of fresh air. Well… a masked breath of fresh air. But still. You get the idea.
The London Evenings
Once conference hours ended, I insisted we actually go out and do things rather than retreat straight back to the hotel each evening. Partly because I genuinely wanted to enjoy the trip, but also because I was trying to reclaim some semblance of normal life after the psychological trench warfare of the previous months.
The first evening, we settled on bowling. Reaching the venue required a surprisingly long walk across the city, but it was worth it. A couple of drinks, some terrible bowling technique, and several rounds of friendly competition turned out to be exactly the kind of normal social interaction I had been missing for far too long.
Masked bowling bandits in London, ON
The following evening, I convinced Alexandre to come watch Dune, which was still playing in cinemas at the time. The theater was almost completely empty. Naturally, Alexandre and I immediately claimed the best seats directly in the center of the room while the few other visitors scattered themselves far apart across the giant theater. The reclining VIP seats were absurdly comfortable. It honestly felt like we had rented out a private cinema for ourselves. The movie itself was excellent too.
A Worthwhile Detour
Once the conference concluded, the original plan was to drive straight back to Chicoutimi. But we also wanted to take advantage of the rare opportunity to do some sightseeing. And what better destination than one of Canada’s most famous landmarks? Niagara Falls was relatively close after all. Just a “small detour” on the drive back toward Quebec.
We left early in the morning and headed directly toward the falls. Fortunately, the weather could not have been better. Sunny, warm, and clear despite it already being November. After spending so much time in northern Quebec, I think I had genuinely forgotten what a normal temperate autumn was supposed to feel like.
Welcome to the town of Niagara Falls — Canada’s Vegas
The town of Niagara Falls itself felt hilariously North American for lack of a better description. The entire place seemed built around tourism, entertainment, and consumerism. Bright attractions, themed restaurants, oversized signs, casinos, souvenir shops — a miniature Las Vegas wrapped around one of the world’s great natural wonders. Many places were closed for the off-season, but the atmosphere remained unmistakable.
Niagara Falls
Then we finally reached the river valley itself. A massive bridge stretched across the gorge toward the United States. I could practically smell the freedom blowing in from the south.
I have no words for this one…
Parking near the falls, however, was an entirely different battle. After circling around for a while, we finally managed to secure a spot with an aggressively strict timer attached to it. Taylor warned us that parking enforcement here apparently operated with military precision and that our truck would probably be towed into another dimension if we overstayed by even a few minutes.
Eventually, though, we reached the falls themselves. And honestly… they really were magnificent.
It’s crazy how much can change within a short time span
Standing there overlooking that immense wall of roaring water, it became difficult not to reflect on how absurd the previous months had been. Barely weeks earlier, I had been trapped inside a psychological pressure cooker, unable to think beyond the next deadline, the next administrative obstacle, the next potential disaster.
And now? Now I was standing at Niagara Falls with friends and colleagues beneath clear autumn skies, feeling hopeful about the future again. The entire London trip had started to feel less like a conference and more like a strangely well-earned vacation. A reward at the very end of survival.
Weathered and worn by time, but still facing the falls with quiet strength
Finally, it was time to return home. Home. Or at least the temporary home that Chicoutimi still remained for a little while longer.
Running on Fumes
Sometime in early December, I finally received my thesis back from review. It was time for the last round of revisions. There was just one problem. I was mentally finished. Completely disconnected from the entire process.
The intense months leading up to submission had drained whatever reserves of motivation I still possessed, and the quieter weeks afterward had extinguished the rest. The comments themselves were not disastrous. Numerous, yes, but manageable. Still, the moment I opened the document and saw another avalanche of red text and corrections splattered across the pages, I felt physically nauseous.
No more revision please…
I simply could not stand looking at that thesis anymore. Unfortunately, I had no choice. The corrections still needed to be completed before the winter break so the final version could be resubmitted on time. So once again, I dragged myself back into revision mode.
Some of the funniest comments involved criticisms of the French language itself. I honestly had no idea whether the French in the document was good, bad, or somewhere in between. I had translated large portions using software before handing them off to Lucie for corrections and improvements. So from my perspective, the reviewer was essentially criticizing my French supervisor’s French.
I found this hilarious.
One More Lockdown
Despite my lack of enthusiasm, I eventually slogged my way through the revisions and reached a satisfactory final version. What fascinated me in hindsight was how much more difficult this comparatively minor workload felt psychologically than the brutal months preceding it. Earlier in the year, I had survived near-impossible pressure through sheer momentum. Now that momentum was gone. I had simply run out of steam.
A snowy Monts-Valin north of Saguenay
After a final round of frustrating back-and-forth exchanges with the reviewer, the revised thesis was finally accepted. At that point, everything remaining was purely administrative. Technically speaking, I had graduated.
The entire process, however, had resurfaced enough lingering frustration that I instinctively decided to head over to the gym afterward to burn it out physically one last time. Except this time, the gym doors were locked. Another apology notice had been taped to the entrance announcing renewed lockdown restrictions. I just stood there cursing to myself. When was this shit ever going to end?
What Else Indeed…
Around that same time, Lucie invited all of us from her research group over to her place in Jonquière for Christmas dinner. Our colleague Nesrine had recently obtained both her Canadian driver’s license and her first car, so she offered to drive Alexandre and me there for the evening. Since she was still fairly inexperienced behind the wheel, Alexandre sat in the front seat to help navigate while I sat in the back.
I had prepared my staple Greek moussaka to bring along for dinner, though emotionally I was in an absolutely miserable mood. The renewed lockdown had somehow managed to feel like the perfect final insult from 2021. I had no holiday spirit left whatsoever. Honestly, I felt emotionally exhausted to the point of emptiness.
What else could this ridiculous year possibly throw at us?
As we approached the final intersection near Lucie’s place, I heard Alexandre calmly tell Nesrine to turn left. Without hesitation, the car immediately began rolling into the intersection. Now, as I have admitted multiple times throughout this blog series, I am hardly some superior driver myself. Yet even from the back seat, my instinct immediately made me glance forward toward oncoming traffic. And there was definitely traffic coming.
I reacted with the most bizarrely calm and almost amused tone imaginable, slowly muttering “Waaatch ooout…”, intentionally dragging out the words as though I were already watching the inevitable unfold in slow motion. A fraction of a second later, Alexandre’s eyes snapped forward and he shouted: “Attention!”… but it was too late.
A violent bang erupted through the cabin followed immediately by an immense jolt. And all I did was sigh. Not shock, nor fear… not even surprise. Just pure exhausted disbelief at the seemingly endless stream of absurdity that had become 2021.
Collision Day
Our vehicle spun sideways across the street and came to rest nearly perpendicular to the road. The windshield cracked. The airbags had exploded outward and were now plastered awkwardly against the faces of the two motionless figures sitting in front of me. My own back ached sharply from the force of the seatbelt, but otherwise I was completely fine. The seatbelt prevented me from smashing my head directly into the seat ahead.
What surprised me most, strangely enough, was the dust. The entire cabin was filled with it. I genuinely wondered where all this dust had suddenly come from — poor housekeeping? I later realized it was residue from the airbags deploying. Apparently that was normal. The more you know.
This car had seen better days
With a mixture of mild irritation and dark humor, I groaned: “Anyone else still alive?” A few seconds later, both Alexandre and Nesrine began moving and responding. Thankfully, neither of them appeared seriously injured. Nesrine had a bloodied lip or nose, while Alexandre described feeling hazy and disoriented afterward for several days. Looking back, we later suspected he may have suffered a mild concussion from the airbag impact, though he never actually got himself checked.
And then my priorities immediately shifted toward something far more important. The moussaka. I rushed to check whether it had survived the collision. Thankfully, it had. In fact, it tasted excellent later that evening. I would eventually joke that the secret ingredient had been a violent collision to properly mix the layers together.
Looking back, my reaction to the accident was genuinely strange. The adrenaline certainly kicked in hard, but instead of fear, I mostly felt detached amusement mixed with exhaustion. It was almost as though my brain had simply become too burnt out to process yet another disaster normally.
Eventually, emergency services arrived. The vehicles were moved aside, insurance information was exchanged, and Nesrine was offered transportation to the hospital as a precaution. And then, somehow, Alexandre and I continued onward to Lucie’s Christmas dinner. What a story we had to tell upon arrival.
From that point onward, December 24th unofficially became known between Alexandre and me as: Collision Day.
Diverging Paths
For the final weeks of the year, I hunkered down in my apartment. After the events of Collision Day, it genuinely felt as though that year, or perhaps that place itself, had it in for us. Me, Alexandre, or both. I didn’t feel like tempting fate any further and having a piano or an anvil dropped on my head while walking outside.
As 2021 came to a close, it brought with it the end of another chapter of my life. The end of my academic chapter. Not the finale I had envisioned when I left for Canada, but rather an unfortunate ending forced by unforeseen and extreme circumstances. Whatever the future held, 2022 was going to usher in major changes for both Alexandre and myself, that much was certain. This was where our shared path finally diverged for good.
My balcony overflowing with snow during peak winter
In January, Alexandre was making his final preparations to leave Canada and return to France. He planned to ship most of his furniture and belongings via container, which meant transporting everything to a shipping company in Montreal. I had little else to do during that period, so I offered to help. Not just with loading the rental vehicle, but by accompanying him on the long round-trip drives as well.
Thus began our final Canadian adventure together. The frozen winter road trips to and from Montreal.
A Slippery Slope
Alexandre had hoped to rent a decent-sized van, but the best vehicle the rental company could offer him at the time was a Dodge Durango SUV. A great car no doubt, but not nearly spacious enough to fit everything. We packed it as tightly as possible, though it quickly became obvious he would need to make the trip twice.
He didn’t really expect me to offer to tag along the first time, let alone the second. But as I told him, it wasn’t like I had anything better to do. Besides, I could always use the change of scenery. So off we drove toward Montreal on a chilly winter morning. Endless conversation and music filled the hours. In many ways, the trip felt like a quiet homage to our summer road adventures through northern Quebec over a year earlier.
The Saguenay once again froze over completely
The roads remained relatively clear until we entered the Laurentides Wildlife Reserve. There, fresh snowstorms and frost had reclaimed sections of the highway. Alexandre occasionally remarked that parts of the road felt slippery, though he also commented on how stable the SUV handled despite the conditions. I barely noticed anything myself. It was the sort of subtle loss of traction only the driver paying close attention would detect. Then came the descent.
We were driving down a long, steeper stretch of highway when the car suddenly began slipping. Apparently, my guy had been going a little too fast for the icy conditions. Under normal circumstances it would have been fine, but this time the road had other ideas. I felt it immediately.
The vehicle started swerving violently. Alexandre instinctively tried to reduce speed, but that only made things worse. The SUV fishtailed across the highway — ninety degrees right, one eighty back left, then fully spinning around. Fortunately, there were no other cars nearby, giving us two entire lanes to skid across uncontested.
For what felt like the longest ten seconds of my life, we became passengers inside a giant metal hockey puck. Eventually, the vehicle came to a stop with its rear corner buried in a snowbank.
A semi-truck driver who had witnessed the entire spectacle pulled over to check if we were alright. We were fine. Just another absurd little joyride added to our ever-growing list of near-disasters. Even the SUV survived mostly unscathed. The bumper had partially popped loose, but we easily snapped it back into place. The soft snow and reduced speed from all the swerving had spared us from anything worse.
My Second Glimpse of Montreal
From that moment onward, Alexandre stuck rigidly to the speed limit and remained hyper-alert for any additional icy sections. Eventually, we reached Montreal and unloaded everything in good time. Afterward, we even took a short drive around parts of the city. Alexandre wanted to show me some of the nicer neighborhoods around Mount Royal Park.
Unfortunately, by then it was already dark outside, so I couldn’t see much beyond glowing city lights and silhouettes of buildings. Yet even that was enough to make me smile while fantasizing about potentially living in this vibrant city one day.
When we were finally ready to head back, I pulled out my phone to help navigate through Montreal traffic. The city’s road network was chaotic compared to anything we were used to. Odd intersections, aggressive drivers, questionable lane changes — the full metropolitan experience.
A dream of things to come…
The navigation app selected a southern route out of the city instead of the northern approach we had used earlier. We followed along while I remained glued to the screen. At some point, we began slowly climbing what felt like an endless elevated traffic ramp. I paid little attention at first until I suddenly realized we were now higher than many of the surrounding buildings. That was when I finally looked up and thought: Where the hell are we going? The high heavens?
An unfamiliar series of overhead electric signs displaying red crosses and green arrows stretched out above the lanes. Everything looked strange and surreal in the darkness. Then, slowly, the massive metal framework surrounding us finally became visible. We were crossing the Jacques Cartier Bridge over the Saint Laurent River.
I have to admit, that was one hell of a reveal. The rest of the drive back unfolded uneventfully.
Epilogue
Two days later, we were packing again. This time the rental company gave Alexandre a minivan instead of an SUV. Slightly more spacious, though noticeably less stable on winter roads. At least we managed to fit the remaining belongings inside.
No more dramatic slides this time around. After our previous incident, Alexandre no longer trusted the roads, the weather, or the car for that matter. He drove cautiously the entire way. Another long, tiring drive to Montreal followed. By then we were mostly recycling old conversation topics. The whole trip felt like the epilogue to our shared story.
Because of his more cautious driving pace, we ended up stuck behind a large truck for a significant portion of the highway. The constant spray of dirt and slush onto the windshield, combined with freezing temperatures, forced Alexandre to use most of the windshield washer fluid before we even reached Montreal.
This time we wasted no extra hours sightseeing after unloading. He was exhausted and still had another long drive to Montreal Airport waiting for him the following day.
One Last Near Miss
Before leaving Montreal, we desperately needed to refill the windshield washer fluid. However, Alexandre wanted to first escape the heavier city traffic before stopping. So we continued onward while I searched for nearby gas stations along the route out of town.
The washer fluid was nearly depleted, and the dirty highway conditions demanded constant use. At one point, Alexandre casually said: “Man… it’s getting pretty bad.” I lifted my eyes from the phone screen and was greeted by a completely opaque windshield covered in grime. Holy shit.
You could barely see anything anymore, and we were still barreling down the highway at roughly eighty kilometers per hour surrounded by traffic. Alexandre nervously laughed and claimed he could “still sort of see through the grains.”
Okay. This was getting ridiculous. We immediately took the next exit and slowly navigated our way toward the nearest service station. Another comical disaster narrowly avoided.
Parting Ways
The rest of the return trip became a bit of a grind. The weather worsened considerably and near Quebec City we drove straight into an ice storm that coated the roads with fresh black ice.
Conditions improved slightly once we re-entered the Laurentides Wildlife Reserve where colder temperatures meant more snow and less ice. Even so, Alexandre drove slowly and cautiously the entire remaining distance, despite knowing it meant arriving late at night and barely sleeping before his departure the next morning.
I still remember fragments of our final stop together at a convenience store where he bought a few remaining travel essentials. The poor guy looked completely exhausted. Mentally and physically drained. I embraced him farewell and wished him the best. Most importantly, I wished for him not to get himself killed during this final push.
Brothers from different mothers… fathers… and places… but still brothers
After everything we had endured together, I hoped we would meet again someday. I didn’t know when. I didn’t know where. But for the kind of friendship forged through mutual struggle and shared hardship, I was certain this would not be the last time we saw each other.
Rolling Credits
After Alexandre’s departure, things became even quieter for me.
Nothing more to do at the university. No one left to complain with about life in Saguenay. No immediate pressure, nor any concrete adventure waiting ahead. Just the quiet credits rolling at the end of a long, chaotic film.
If I were to choose a post-credit scene, it would probably be the day I finally received my MSc diploma from UQAC sometime in early February.
No graduation party with hats like after my Bachelor’s degree. No emotional celebration between friends, colleagues, and professors like when I graduated from my first Master’s in Copenhagen. Just a quiet piece of paper delivered remotely. This was the very piece of paper I had fought tooth and nail for throughout the previous year. Seemingly insignificant, yet absolutely crucial for what needed to come next.
I wasted no time. The moment my graduation documents arrived, I immediately submitted my application for a post-graduation work permit to the Canadian government. It was time to change course and begin the next major chapter of my life in this vast country.
The ultimate goal remained unchanged: to find stability.
To find a place I could finally, permanently call… home.
As usual, the moment winter ended, spring barely had a chance to exist. Within days, the snow disappeared and summer arrived in full force. A familiar Canadian transition that always felt abrupt, almost impatient.
I ended the previous post at a pivotal turning point. Not only was the season changing, but Alexandre and I had also made a major decision about our futures. Faced with financial uncertainty following the Laurentian crisis , compounded by a year of isolation, stalled progress, and mounting emotional exhaustion, we chose to downgrade our PhD programs to MSc degrees in hopes of escaping the academic system sooner.
It felt less like giving up and more like trying to reach shore before the sinking ship began to tilt.
May 2021
Our yearly salary contracts expired in May. With no progress in the Laurentian investigation, research funding remained frozen and inaccessible. Months had passed with little clarity, leaving our projects suspended in a strange limbo. Technically alive, yet unable to function in the way they had originally been designed.
Fortunately, Lucie stepped in once again. She assured us that she would renew our contracts and temporarily cover our salaries using her own research funds. It was a huge relief considering everything. At a time when nearly every part of the future felt unstable, knowing I could at least remain financially afloat removed one layer of pressure from an already overloaded mind.
American Robin. Free to fly away, while I felt more and more chained down
After deciding to shorten my studies and transition into a Master’s degree, Lucie gave me only one condition. I needed to complete and submit a scientific article before writing my thesis. I accepted immediately. At first, I assumed this request was simply a matter of respecting the work already completed. After all, abandoning nearly two years of research without producing something tangible would have felt wasteful.
Later, however, I realized there was a more practical reason behind it. This was Quebec, and in Quebec, Master’s theses are generally expected to be written in French. For someone with limited French like myself, this created an obvious problem. Fortunately, there was a loophole. If I submitted a manuscript to an English-language scientific journal beforehand, I could request permission to include that publication directly into my thesis in its original language.
In practice, this meant that most of my thesis could remain in English, while only selected sections would still require French. A bureaucratic bypass. A quiet workaround within a system I was not fully prepared to navigate otherwise. The downside was equally obvious. There was now an enormous amount of work ahead of me, and productivity would need to increase considerably.
The Insidious Nature of Greed
Parallel to everything unfolding academically, another storyline continued developing in the background. In the previous chapter, I mentioned how cryptocurrency investing had slowly evolved from a casual hobby into something more serious. By February 2021, it was no longer just a side interest. It had become a growing part of my daily focus.
After learning about the research funding crisis, my attention gradually drifted away from academia and toward markets. And honestly, it made perfect sense at the time. The supposedly stable structure of university life was beginning to unravel, while crypto appeared to be doing the exact opposite. Within weeks, my portfolio had grown beyond anything my academic salary could realistically provide.
Beneath the surface, something ugly was beginning to rise
I began imagining a not too distant future where I could buy my own place without loans. Perhaps not immediately in a large city, but somewhere stable. Somewhere permanent. At the beginning of the year, I had laid out a practical set of expectations. A twofold return would have been my minimal expectation. Fivefold would have been excellent and a resounding success. Tenfold was the absolute lottery dream.
By March and April, however, greed quietly began shifting the goalposts. I had already achieved roughly a fivefold return, yet satisfaction never arrived. Instead of stepping back, I leaned in further. I convinced myself that I could outplay the market by rotating between altcoins, chasing momentum, and attempting to ride different waves within the broader cycle as money flowed unpredictably from one project group to another.
Losing Perspective
At the time, it felt strategic. In reality, it was becoming dangerously close to gambling. The constant movement of money created tunnel vision. I became increasingly focused on short-term gains while losing sight of the bigger picture. The market was overheating, but I was too distracted by success to recognize it clearly.
My thinking became increasingly grandiose. Apartments. Houses. Multiple properties down the line. If I played things correctly, I told myself, I could become a millionaire by the end of the year. My tenfold lottery had just become another stepping stone towards an absurd hundredfold. With precognitive skills, or absolutely masterful timing, perhaps achievable. But I lacked both the supernatural skill and experience needed to pull off such a feat.
The markets had ballooned and were just about ready to collapse under their own weight
By late April, I was chasing one final move. One more doubling that would push my portfolio into six-figure territory. Meanwhile, warning signs were everywhere. Bitcoin had stalled. Momentum was fading. The market had stretched too far, too quickly. There was no fuel left.
Then came the correction.
The crash arrived in early May and hit hard. Within weeks, nearly all of my profits disappeared. I was mentally devastated. Even if recovery remained possible, I had missed the opportunity to secure something that briefly felt life-changing.
Still, there was one unexpected benefit. The loss pulled me away from obsession. Trading stopped dominating my attention, and for the first time in months, I redirected my focus fully back toward academic work.
Just in time. Because the months ahead would demand far more from me than I yet realized.
Administrative Fallout
Changing study programs was not simply a personal decision. It came with an important administrative reality that needed to be resolved. Once I received approval from my supervisors and the higher-ups within Metal Earth, I went to the UQAC administration office together with Alexandre to explain our situations and formally request the downgrade from PhD to MSc.
Technically, it was possible. The university allowed program changes of this kind, though they admitted they had never processed a case quite like ours before. Alexandre and I had a legitimate reason. The financial collapse tied to Laurentian had placed us in a uniquely unstable position, and shortening our studies seemed like a practical solution.
The dried out riverbed of the Saguenay around La Baie during low tide
There was, however, a complication in my case.
As a non-French foreign student, I occupied the most expensive tuition category available under a Master’s program. Canadian students and French-speaking international students paid relatively manageable yearly fees, usually somewhere between three and six thousand dollars. Non-French foreign students, however, were charged dramatically more. Up to four times as much.
An Unacceptable Proposal
When the administration explained the numbers to me, I nearly stopped listening halfway through.
They estimated I could be expected to pay roughly twenty-five thousand dollars retroactively to cover two years of Master’s tuition.
Waves of uncertainty stirred across the surface
I remember feeling completely blindsided. I tried to remain calm and explain that I had already been paying tuition during my PhD years. The problem, from their perspective, was that doctoral tuition had been significantly lower than Master’s tuition in my category. In other words, they wanted the difference.
Not the woman sitting across from me personally. She was simply doing her job. But the system itself suddenly felt predatory. It felt as though I was being penalized for trying to salvage an already collapsing situation.
The administrator consulted a colleague. Neither seemed entirely sure how such a request would be handled. Since UQAC functioned under the larger University of Quebec network, they explained that the case would need to be reviewed at a higher level. A decision would come later.
Whether I voiced it aloud or kept it to myself, I remember drawing a line internally. If they truly expected me to pay that amount, then I was finished. I would pack my things, leave Canada, and never look back. There was no version of reality where I would allow myself to be cornered into that kind of financial trap. Everybody loses.
The Weight of Uncertainty
Summer had barely begun. I was now expected to intensify work on a project whose future remained uncertain, dependent on decisions far outside my control. For the first time, I began to question whether the previous two years had been building toward anything meaningful at all.
The structure that had kept me mentally functional throughout lockdowns and isolation was beginning to crack. Stress no longer felt temporary or manageable. It became constant background noise. Some days I would lie in bed wondering what the point was of pushing myself so hard if the university could ultimately dismantle everything through bureaucracy alone.
Forward motion did not reduce the scale of what loomed above
Yet stopping was never truly an option.
There remained a narrow path forward, but it depended on variables entirely outside my control. The only thing I could influence was the amount of effort I put in. So I kept working. Reading, analyzing, interpreting and writing. Attempting to force momentum where certainty no longer existed.
During this period, I spent a great deal of time alone inside my own head. The internal dialogue became increasingly loud. Thoughts looped endlessly, rehearsing scenarios, arguments, frustrations. Sometimes that dialogue spilled outward. A whispered sentence while pacing the apartment. A frustrated remark spoken into an empty room. Small leaks of pressure escaping an already overloaded system.
Cracks Beneath the Surface
The summer weeks settled into repetition. Work, eat, sleep, repeat.
The only interruptions were quiet walks through Parc du Moulin or increasingly disciplined gym sessions that became one of the few stable routines left in my life. But even during those moments, my mind rarely rested. The uncertainty remained constant. It fed resentment toward the university, toward the situation, even toward the region itself. I had begun associating Saguenay not with place, but with frustration and rage.
The river continued, even when the landscape no longer felt open
What exhausted me most was not simply the workload. It was the internal strain.
The mental dialogue had become relentless. Analysis layered over frustration, anger layered over fear. It felt like carrying multiple competing voices at once, each trying to interpret what was happening and decide how to survive it.
And this is where things become difficult to explain.
Dividing the Weight
Long before Canada and Denmark, during a few particularly dark periods earlier in life, I had experienced something unusual during times of prolonged stress and uncertainty. I hesitate to frame it clinically because I have no qualifications to do so, nor do I believe it fit neatly into any diagnosis. But the closest description I can give is that under enough pressure, my mind seemed capable of dividing responsibility across different versions of myself.
Not separate identities in any literal sense, but psychological roles that emerged under pressure. Some more disciplined, colder, or emotionally detached. Some capable of functioning when the others became overwhelmed.
Over time, when life stabilized, those divisions faded and reintegrated naturally. But reintegration does not necessarily erase what was created.
The Cost of Endurance
The pressure had reached a level where I no longer believed one version of myself could carry everything alone. Whether this was a coping mechanism, an exaggerated stress response, or simply the mind improvising survival strategies, I cannot say. What I do know is that I leaned into it, consciously accepting the risks it came with.
I never truly understood what lasting effects something like this might carry. I suspect more than I realized. Even then, I felt that repeatedly dividing oneself psychologically was not something the mind was designed to do without consequence. These colder, more disciplined versions of myself existed for a reason. They had to be efficient, emotionally restrained, and focused on survival.
A divided internal state under sustained pressure
Looking back, I sometimes wonder whether parts of those states remained behind longer than I realized. Whether each episode chipped away slightly at older parts of me — a softer trust, a greater empathy, a willingness to believe more easily in people or systems.
It is difficult to measure something so internal with certainty. Yet over the years, I have undeniably become more guarded, more individualistic, more calculating in how I navigate the world.
Perhaps that was growth. Or perhaps it was simply adaptation leaving permanent marks behind.
I allowed myself to compartmentalize. To separate fatigue from discipline, emotion from execution. When one part of me felt depleted, another stepped forward to continue the work.
It sounds strange even writing it now. Yet in my mind, it made perfect sense. The goal was simple: keep moving forward, no matter the cost.
When It Rains, It Pours
As if things were not going poorly enough, one morning I managed to chip one of my front teeth. It had already been repaired once years earlier after a rather unremarkable accident, and of course, this was the perfect time for it to become a problem again. When it rains, it pours.
Fixing it was not a major issue in itself, but by that point I had developed a mild anxiety whenever I needed to deal with any kind of service in Chicoutimi. Part of it came from the general sense that everything around me was steadily unraveling. The other part was the ever-present language barrier, which made even simple interactions feel unnecessarily complicated.
Fortunately, the person I spoke to on the phone knew enough English, so setting up the appointment was straightforward. That was about where the comfort ended.
A common garter snake moving through its world with purpose
Once I was in the chair, it became clear that the staff treating me did not speak any English at all. Being in a dentist’s chair is already an exercise in trust. Being in one while having no idea what the person working on your teeth is saying adds an entirely new layer of unease.
At some point, I decided the best strategy was to mentally check out. I imagined I had been abducted by aliens and was now lying on some examination table, surrounded by beings performing procedures I could not comprehend. The only reasonable hope was that they knew what they were doing and would return me in one piece.
At one point, the dentist said something. “Mords.” With various instruments occupying my mouth, I could only respond with a confused sound and a raised eyebrow. “Mords,” she repeated. I raised my hands slightly in surrender. She then mimicked a biting motion. Ah. Bite. Right. Understood.
By the time the procedure was over, I walked out of the clinic in a strange, detached haze. Not from any medication, but from the sheer absurdity of the experience. Somehow, despite everything, the job had been done properly.
The alien French ladies, it seemed, knew exactly what they were doing. A small, almost trivial victory in the grand scheme of things. But at that point, I took whatever wins I could get.
Controlled Overload
As the summer progressed, so too did my work. Slowly but surely, the article manuscript was beginning to take shape. The routine itself, however, was becoming increasingly robotic. Days blurred together into an endless cycle of reading, interpreting, writing, correcting, and repeating. Once the gyms were finally allowed to reopen earlier in the year, I immediately resumed physical exercise, and by summer I had settled into a steady routine of going two or three times a week.
The more overwhelming things became mentally, the harder I pushed myself physically. It was as if the two had become inseparably linked. The mounting stress, uncertainty, and frustration had to go somewhere, and the gym became one of the few places where effort still produced immediate, measurable results. As my mind drifted further into chaos, my body was reaching some of the best shape and strength of my life.
Deadlift and squat numbers climbed higher than ever before. StairMaster sessions became increasingly absurd. At some point, climbing the equivalent of the Empire State Building became routine, followed eventually by an ascent matching the height of the Petronas Towers in a single uninterrupted session. Looking back, it almost feels like I was trying to physically outrun my own mind.
Brief Escapes
There were also a few rare moments that briefly interrupted the mechanical rhythm of that summer. On a couple of occasions, Taylor and I went on short hiking trips within the Saguenay Fjord National Park. Being from Alberta, she was an avid hiker herself, and I had sorely missed that kind of activity since arriving in Chicoutimi. The destinations were not particularly far away, but without a car I was always dependent on others whenever I wanted to escape the city.
Those outings did not magically solve anything, but they helped reconnect me, if only briefly, with a world outside the shrinking cage of work and stress that my life had become. Standing atop those hills overlooking the fjord, even for a few hours, reminded me there was still a reality beyond routines, deadlines, bureaucracy, and psychological exhaustion.
Rivière Éternité in the Saguenay Fjord National Park
Then there was the music.
The endless soundtrack accompanying my long walks to the university, gym, or grocery store. Around that time I had discovered bands like Haken and Frost*, whose songs became inseparable from that chapter of my life. Certain tracks resonated with me in a strangely precise way. Lyrics from Repeat to Fade in particular seemed to echo the monotony and emotional attrition of those months: “There’s only one way out, repeat to fade.”
Even now, hearing those songs instantly transports me back to that time. They no longer feel like mere music, but like fragments of memory preserved in sound.
By the end of August, I had finally completed the discussion chapter — by far the hardest part of the article to write. The foundation was there. What remained now was the exhausting cycle of revisions, corrections, and somehow stitching the entire manuscript into a coherent final product.
Revision Warfare
As my primary supervisor, Lucie wasted absolutely no time descending upon my manuscript with an avalanche of red comments, corrections, suggestions, and tracked changes. Entire paragraphs were reshaped, reorganized, or rewritten, only for us to revisit them days later and partially undo previous changes in favor of new ones. At some point, we reached the amusing stage where Lucie was effectively correcting her own earlier corrections — one of the unavoidable quirks of academic writing, I suppose.
Despite the chaos of revisions, I appreciated the speed at which she worked. Time was rapidly becoming my greatest enemy.
Everything moved with mechanical urgency
My other two collaborators, including my secondary supervisor, remained almost entirely silent. In the emails I had emphasized repeatedly that I was aiming for an early October submission due to the uncertainty surrounding my degree transition and the looming risk of having my studies spill over into yet another semester.
Days passed. Then more days.
After a polite reminder email produced little response, Lucie and I eventually decided to continue as though our collaborators simply had no major comments to add. There was no time left to wait indefinitely for perfect coordination. At that stage, progress mattered more than perfection.
Yet despite reaching such an important milestone, it was becoming increasingly difficult to stay motivated. The university still had not responded regarding the tuition situation. The entire future of my studies remained suspended in uncertainty, and no amount of work could resolve that lingering question hanging over everything.
When It Rains, It Bureaucracies
When mentioning the administrative tangle Alexandre and I found ourselves in after requesting our study program changes, I forgot to mention another delightful little complication.
The CAQ.
Normally, when you move to Canada on a student visa, you simply deal with the federal study permit. Except in Quebec, of course. Quebec also requires its own separate document called the Québec Acceptance Certificate for studies. Because apparently one bureaucracy was not enough.
Unlike the federal study permit, which is generally tied to your status as a student, the CAQ was linked specifically to the type of program we were enrolled in. In our case: PhD. Once we requested the downgrade to MSc programs, both of us had to reapply for entirely new CAQs reflecting the change.
A rare exception in an otherwise rigid landscape
We submitted the requests early in the summer. Eventually, the documents arrived. Mine was correct. I promptly submitted it to UQAC and moved on. Alexandre, however, got obliterated by bureaucratic incompetence one final time. His new CAQ had been issued… for a PhD. Not an MSc. Meaning he could not officially complete the downgrade process. At that point, he was simply done.
The process had already taken months, his mental state had been deteriorating for a long time, and the idea of restarting yet another administrative battle was too much. He refused to reapply. He no longer cared about graduating. His only remaining goal was to finish the semester, complete the research work he still owed for the article, and leave Canada behind for good. And that was exactly what he did.
There is only so much bad luck, stress, and institutional absurdity a person can absorb before they finally throw their hands up and walk away.
The All Clear
Around early September, I finally received the university’s decision regarding my tuition situation.
They accepted the PhD tuition payments I had already made over the previous years and agreed to apply them toward my modified study path. I would only need to pay MSc tuition fees for the single semester I remained enrolled under the new program, along with any potential additional semesters if I failed to finish in time.
It was a massive victory. Everything had been hinging on this moment for months.
The instant I read the email, it felt as though some great bell had gone off inside my head. A deep reverberating sound cutting through months of uncertainty and exhaustion. The path ahead suddenly became clear.
I had one month left. One month to finish everything. And there was still an absurd amount of work remaining. But now there was no hesitation left in me. No more doubt. No more paralysis. It was time to shift into maximum gear.
My routine immediately intensified. I woke up, ate, and worked until afternoon. Ate again, then continued working into the evening before rushing to the gym, where I pushed myself harder than ever before. After returning home, I ate once more and continued working late into the night until I finally passed out from exhaustion.
Day after day. Harder and harder. As if sheer momentum alone could carry me across the finish line.
Final Stretch
By mid-September, after what must have been the seventh or eighth major revision, Lucie was finally satisfied with the article manuscript. At last, I had something resembling a final version.
Now I just needed to write an entire thesis in roughly two weeks. In French. Well… sort of.
In reality, I wrote everything in English first, then translated it using software before sending it to Lucie for language corrections. Honestly, that woman was an absolute godsend during this period. I genuinely do not think I could have finished all of this without her help.
The workload was insane. Sections had to be rewritten multiple times in completely different formats. The article itself in full scientific detail, then restructured portions for the thesis chapters, then condensed versions for abstracts, conclusions, summaries, and introductions. Looking back, this was probably the period where I unintentionally developed most of my writing skills.
Rewritten so many times it no longer resembled its original form
Conveniently enough, those skills would later become quite useful for things entirely unrelated to academia.
By the end of September, things were finally starting to look hopeful. I was going to make it. Then my secondary supervisor finally replied to an email I had sent over a month earlier. With corrections. At the absolute worst possible time.
I nearly lost my mind.
Lucie, thankfully, calmed me down quickly. The changes were manageable, she said. She would help me deal with them. I just needed to focus on finishing the thesis. The bell rang again in my mind. Double down. We could still do this. Where one version of me might have failed, many of us would succeed.
Pushing the Limits
By October, a single phrase had embedded itself into my mind and repeated endlessly like a mantra:
“I will not be stopped. I can not be stopped.”
One evening during leg day at the gym, I pushed myself especially hard during heavy sets. By the end of them, I was completely winded and slightly dizzy. My legs felt weak beneath me and I barely had the strength to continue.
I finished the session and headed toward the locker room.
The cleaning staff had just washed the floors, and the heavy perfumed smell of cleaning chemicals hit me immediately. Combined with the warmth of the room and my already exhausted state, it made me nauseous almost instantly. I wanted to get changed quickly and leave for fresh air.
Instead, my stomach insisted I make one stop first. I stepped into a stall, closed the door behind me, and just as I was about to sit down… Everything went black.
System Reboot
In a strange hazy dream, the loud ringing in my head slowly gave way to the distant sound of a fan spinning somewhere nearby.
I opened my eyes in confusion. The gym. Locker room floor. My legs awkwardly sticking out beneath the stall door must have looked like the Wicked Witch of the West after Dorothy’s house landed on her.
Nothing stops the train
My composure returned surprisingly quickly. I stumbled out of the stall and lay down flat on a nearby bench, somewhere between amused and deeply embarrassed by the absurdity of the situation. Thankfully, nobody else had been there to witness it.
After resting for a while, the weakness slowly passed. The cool air outside helped even more. Looking things up while I walked, I was relieved to discover that passing out during or after extremely heavy leg training was apparently not uncommon. Intense exertion could redirect blood flow heavily into the legs, especially combined with poor breathing, overheating, exhaustion, and dehydration.
In other words: I had essentially overclocked myself. Yet somehow, even that ridiculous episode became part of the larger story of that period.
As I continued walking home through the cold autumn air with a smirk on my face, I repeated the phrase aloud this time, almost as if defying nature itself:
“I will NOT be stopped. I CANNOT be stopped.”
Nearing Deadlines
I was entering the final week before the Monday submission deadline. Working at maximum capacity.
The final revision of the article was nearly complete. My thesis was approaching the finish line as well. The plan was straightforward in theory: first submit the scientific article to a journal, then immediately submit the thesis to the university based on that article submission. Afterward, I would still have two months left to complete an additional project course required by the new MSc credit structure before finally addressing whatever thesis corrections came back from the reviewers near the end of the year.
If all went according to plan, I would somehow complete one of the most absurd academic loophole-jumping feats imaginable, all while navigating bureaucratic chaos, collapsing funding, lockdowns, and relentless psychological pressure. And somehow… it was actually working.
With each passing day that week, I could feel myself getting closer to the end. Yet paradoxically, I also kept working harder and longer with each passing day. The final push. Fatigue had temporarily lost its grip on me. I was a machine.
L’Îlet, La Baie. So close I could almost step onto it
Then came Thursday morning. Lucie called me. In her deceptively cheerful tone — the one she used whenever masking impending disaster — she informed me that we had “another small problem.”
Oh no. What was it this time?
Well, after speaking with administration, she had learned that all course credits needed to be officially completed before thesis submission. Our entire workaround plan had just collapsed. I could no longer finish the additional course afterward.
It felt like a hammer came crashing down onto everything. Not because it completely ruined the situation, but because it meant I would now have to extend everything into another semester. More wasted time, more money and more administrative purgatory. Deflated, I told Lucie that this was probably it then. No way around it anymore.
But she hesitated. “Not necessarily…” Then, cautiously but hopefully, she asked: “Do you think you could write a course report in three days over the weekend?” I answered instantly. “I’ll do it in two.”
At this point, it was obvious we were all-in.
One More Impossible Task
I was allowed to choose the report topic myself. Naturally, I picked something closely related to my research work while still being different enough to avoid simply recycling material.
I gathered several articles and a reference book, ignored everything non-essential, including proper meals, and started writing. And then something strange happened. The information simply began pouring out of me. Hours blurred together. Thought became momentum. Momentum became flow and by early evening, it was done.
An entire fifteen-page review report on porphyry mineralizing systems. Complete with figures, references, formatting and everything. Written in under a day. Even I struggled to fully process what I had just done.
I sent the report to Alexandre and asked if he could quickly proofread it for me. He got back to me surprisingly fast with only a handful of minor corrections. More amusingly, he openly admitted that he was shocked by how good it actually read considering the absurd timeframe.
Honestly, so was I. That night, I sent the report to Lucie for final review and submission.
Mounting Momentum
At this point, the accomplishments were becoming increasingly ridiculous.
A scientific article assembled within months under catastrophic conditions. A Master’s thesis completed in roughly two weeks. Now an entire course report researched and written in less than a day. I genuinely think I may have broken some kind of unofficial academic speed record somewhere along the line.
By Friday morning, I was overflowing with confidence. Despite everything that had happened since the collapse of our funding months earlier… despite the lockdowns, the isolation, the bureaucratic warfare, the mounting psychological strain and constant uncertainty… I had somehow managed to force my way through it all.
Against all odds, I was going to make it.
The Final Stretch
My report was accepted almost immediately. Credits were rushed through administration and officially granted in time. Final article and thesis submission was scheduled for Monday.
That weekend was probably the happiest I had been during my entire time in Chicoutimi. For the first time in what felt like forever, the pressure had lifted.
An epic sunset over the Saguenay, seen from my balcony for once
I shared a bottle of wine with Alexandre and we drank to survival, success, and whatever uncertain future waited for both of us afterward. My mind drifted through a surreal haze somewhere between euphoria and exhaustion. At times I would simply stare blankly into space while my thoughts struggled to adjust to the idea that there might not actually be more work waiting around the next corner.
My brain no longer understood the concept of rest.
Even during moments of calm, some part of me remained hyper-alert, continuously scanning for unfinished tasks, hidden complications, or incoming disasters. But by Monday morning, I had finally begun letting go. For the first time in months, I was almost ready to relax.
Then I opened my email. And everything exploded again.
Collision Course
The third collaborator on my paper had finally replied to the discussion manuscript I had originally sent back in August. And she was furious.
I will not name this person. The purpose of these stories is not to shame individuals, but simply to recount events as I experienced them.
The collaborator had previously worked in academia at Laurentian and had studied some of the same geological material I was working on. Our projects were never meant to directly overlap. Hers focused primarily on geochronology and age dating, while mine centered more around geological processes and interpretation. However, under Lucie’s guidance, my final manuscript had ended up including a small amount of age dating work as well.
And our ages did not perfectly agree.
The differences were relatively minor, but the uncertainty ranges also did not fully overlap. That was enough.
A minor discrepancy began to branch into something harder to contain
The collaborator launched into a full-scale email meltdown on the very day we were supposed to submit the article. Various higher-ups were copied into the exchange. Claims were made that this violated the original project scope agreement and that publication of my work could jeopardize her own unpublished research.
After everything I had endured… after months of stress, endless work, mental deterioration, institutional chaos, and near burnout… I now stood at the finish line watching someone threaten to destroy everything because they themselves had not yet finished publishing their own work.
I reread the email chain multiple times. The more it sunk in the more heat rushed through my body.
I was absolutely furious. Not frustrated. Not upset. Livid.
I was out for blood.
The Brink
I called Lucie immediately.
She had already responded diplomatically within the email chain and was trying to arrange a direct conversation with the collaborator. When we spoke, she explained that she still hadn’t managed to reach them. Likely because they were working in the field somewhere. Lucie promised she would continue trying. She also reassured me that even if necessary, we could delay submission by up to a week without compromising the overall outcome.
On the surface, I remained calm. Internally, I was a furnace.
All of the focus, pressure, compartmentalization and psychological intensity I had built over the previous months now redirected itself toward a single target. My mind immediately began evaluating scenarios, outcomes, and countermeasures.
The Raging Tempest
Lucie and I discussed options in case diplomacy failed.
Without going into unnecessary detail, we both understood that we ultimately held stronger cards than the collaborator did if things escalated further. The knives were out. But there was still hope that they would not need to be used. The following days were brutal psychologically.
The raging torrent of the Rivière du Moulin mirrored my state of mind at the time
At times, I managed to calm down and remind myself that the situation was temporarily out of my hands and that Lucie was doing everything possible to resolve it. Then reality would crash back into my thoughts again and reignite the fury instantly.
Everyone I spoke to during that period knew the situation and reacted with the same disbelief. Even if the collaborator had not intended actual malice, the timing of everything felt catastrophically destructive. And my mind responded accordingly.
The anger kept building. Pulse after pulse. Closer and closer to boiling over.
The Storm Breaks
Days later, Lucie finally called me back. She had managed to speak with the collaborator at length and the entire situation ultimately turned out to be one massive misunderstanding that had spiraled into an equally massive overreaction. One that had nearly destroyed everything I had worked toward.
In reality, even if there was some overlap between our work, the collaborator’s methodology was far more precise than my own. Their future publication would have no problem refining or overruling parts of my results later on. And honestly, I didn’t even care about this anymore. At that point, all I needed was to submit the article and escape the endless spiral my life in Saguenay had become.
Autumn light breaking through the trees deep in the Saguenay Fjord Park
The sheer amount of chaos that accumulated around this project as I approached completion was genuinely unbelievable. Yet somehow, through relentless effort, stubbornness, and Lucie’s unwavering support throughout the ordeal, we had made it through.
The article was submitted later that same day. Moments afterward, I submitted my Master’s thesis as well.
And then it was over. Slowly, the storm lost its fury. The ragged clouds finally began to part, revealing the sky beyond them once more. After nearly two years of chaos, pressure, isolation, uncertainty, and psychological exhaustion, the machine had somehow dragged itself across the finish line.
I sit here five years after the events of this story, revisiting them in their full form for the first time. This is not a year I ever enjoyed looking back on once I had survived it. Yet not every moment was terrible. There were small flashes of joy scattered between the difficult stretches. There was also a lot of music that I discovered during long winter walks, late nights, and periods where distraction became a form of survival. Music was always a reliable crutch.
Now, as I write this while listening to many of those same tracks, nostalgia quietly creeps in. Part of me almost misses those moments. At the same time, the rational side of my mind feels stunned by the audacity of wanting to relive a year that pushed me so close to the edge. Because 2021 was not simply difficult. It was the year that tested my resolve more than any other before or since.
Frozen Routine
The year began quietly. We were still trapped inside another strict lockdown rolling over from 2020. Apart from supermarkets and the restrictive university campus, nearly everything remained closed. Days moved slowly, stretched thin between routine and uncertainty.
A small space, a warm bed, and a quiet corner where old habits found their way back through a new musical instrument
At the time, I was still waiting on the final laboratory results for several rock samples. Something that should have taken weeks had already dragged on for nearly two months. Delays had become normal by then. Restricted work schedules and reduced access slowed nearly everything down. Once the results finally arrived, the next phase of my project began: data analysis. Hours disappeared into plotting graphs, comparing trends, searching for patterns and anomalies hidden inside datasets that I would later try to interpret.
Winter had settled fully over Saguenay by then. It had been there since November, and by my second year living in the region I understood that this was simply the rhythm of life in northern Quebec. Nearly half the year existed beneath a blanket of white, interrupted only by varying degrees of cold. Heavy storms would occasionally sweep through, dragging temperatures down toward -40°C, sometimes even lower when wind chill was particularly nasty. Most days, however, floated somewhere between -10 and -30.
A few months earlier, I had moved into a neighbouring apartment within the same house. Slightly smaller, but with a balcony and a direct view over the Saguenay. A small spatial trade-off for a permanent face-to-face with the fjord itself
By that point, Alexandre and I had adapted enough that -10 already felt like springtime. Anything warmer bordered on beach weather. We had integrated into the Canadian climate more than either of us probably expected.
Learning to Live With Winter
The most frustrating part of winter was not even the cold itself. It was the roads.
Chicoutimi sits within an ancient geological rift valley known as the Saguenay Graben. There is nearly a hundred-meter elevation difference between the lower ground near the Saguenay River where my apartment was located, and the upper plateau where the university, shops, and commercial areas sat.
When the roads froze solid beneath a glaze of ice, the steep streets became dangerous. Without fresh snow to provide grip, the pavement transformed into a slippery downhill slide. More than once, I chose to avoid the roads entirely. Instead, I would cut through deep snowbanks or take a longer path through Parc du Moulin. The route added time, but it also offered something the town itself often lacked during winter: silence.
Routine walks through the park sometimes meant forging my own path through untouched snow
Walking through the park meant escaping the repetitive landscape of parking lots, oversized roads, and rows of near-identical houses. It was quieter there, more natural, and easier to forget how repetitive lockdown life had become.
When Alexandre and I went shopping after work, we usually took the bus home. Nightfall came so early during winter that by the time errands were finished, darkness had already swallowed the streets. One particular evening remains especially memorable.
The Walmart Orogeny
A winter storm pushed through town that evening. Fine snow drifted across the asphalt in thin winding patterns, forming snaking shapes that looked almost like miniature sand dunes moving across the ground.
We had just finished a late-afternoon shopping trip at Walmart. Darkness had already settled outside. By that point in winter, snowbanks had grown enormous. While most of the surrounding landscape sat buried beneath at least half a meter of snow, the Walmart parking lot looked different.
Snowplows had spent months pushing snow into one corner of the lot, gradually building what resembled an artificial mountain range. The compressed snow hardened into towering icy ridges — five to ten meters high in places. Alexandre and I named it the Walmart Orogeny.
Where are we going, boys?
After leaving the store, we made our way toward the nearby bus stop, trying to shield ourselves from the freezing wind. The storm had emptied the streets. We seemed to be the only people outside. We waited there shivering while the bus ran late. Eventually, headlights emerged through the blowing snow.
An empty bus pulled up quickly, displaying the correct route number. The doors opened, and a young black guy with dreadlocks leaned toward us from the drivers seat with an unexpectedly cheerful grin. “So, where are we going, boys?” he asked in English, which itself was already shocking considering the limtied use of English in this part of the world. For a second I just stared at him, half laughing. “You tell us,” I replied. “You’re the bus driver.”
After some confused laughter and a bit of head scratching, he managed to get himself lost in some back streets due to various road closures. He was probably new on the job. It turned into one of the strangest bus rides I had experienced. Equal parts awkward, funny, and oddly memorable.
The Shattering
Winter carried on like that for weeks. Days blended together into a routine of snow, university work, grocery trips, and long stretches of quiet repetition. Then sometime near the end of January, Lucie called a meeting with the entire research group. Remote, of course. Face-to-face meetings between multiple people still felt discouraged, if not outright frowned upon.
Since the previous fall, a new student had joined our group. Taylor, from Edmonton, had come to complete her Master’s at UQAC despite speaking almost no French. We hadn’t even gotten the chance to meet her yet with all the restrictions and busy schedules. She was about to receive an intense introduction to Quebec academic life.
A clear winter day in the park, where snow and light softened the landscape into something quietly beautiful. A contrast to how the same season often felt from within
Lucie appeared on screen smiling as always. She had an energetic warmth that rarely seemed to disappear. Unfortunately, her smile did not always signal good news. This was one of those moments.
She wanted to tell us personally before the information spread further. A major financial crisis had surfaced at Laurentian University, triggering a large-scale investigation. The consequences extended far beyond one institution. Research budgets stalled and funding channels froze. Including those of our sponsors, Metal Earth…
In simple terms, our primary research funds had just been paralyzed. And just like that, the atmosphere changed. What had previously felt like a slow, frustrating winter suddenly became something heavier. The uncertainty was no longer abstract. The stability of the project itself no longer felt guaranteed.
Funding Frozen Indefinitely
We were all stunned.
Lucie tried to reassure us in whatever way she could. At least for now, our contracts were secure until May. PhD funding worked on a yearly basis, even though the projects themselves were designed to last four years. On paper, nothing had changed yet. But the truth was that she knew as little as we did.
Nobody could tell us how long the situation would last, whether funding would return, or if the projects would survive in their original form at all. So for the moment, we carried on as if nothing had happened. Not an easy thing to do when financial uncertainty hangs over your head like a storm cloud.
At the height of winter, the Saguenay lay still. Sealed beneath ice and silence
Without additional funding, further laboratory work and fieldwork were effectively off the table. If we wanted to continue, we would need to reshape our projects around what already existed using previous results, existing samples, and literature reviews to construct something workable from increasingly limited resources.
The Truth Behind Truth
It’s difficult to describe what a complete clusterfuck this situation had become.
Both Alexandre and I had entered fully funded four-year PhD projects with clearly defined goals, timelines, and expectations. Then the pandemic arrived a year earlier, throwing everything into disarray. Lockdowns slowed research, delayed lab access, complicated logistics, and gradually wore away at morale.
Despite all of that, we had managed to recover. By the end of 2020, we were finally back on track. Through stubbornness, efficiency, and a willingness to work relentlessly whenever opportunities appeared, we had clawed our way back into progress.
Lucie also played a major role, often shielding us from the more rigid and overly cautious layers of academic bureaucracy whenever our enthusiasm pushed beyond acceptable protocol. But now this. Something completely outside our control.
Nothing like this had happened before at a Canadian university, and somehow we had become tangled in the fallout through the financial lifeline supporting our projects.
An Odd Balancing of Scales
But as the universe taketh, so too it occasionally giveth.
Some posts ago, I mentioned how I had slowly become interested in cryptocurrency investing before leaving Denmark. What started around 2018 as casual curiosity had gradually evolved into a side hobby.
Over the years, I learned to tolerate the volatility. I followed traders on TradingView, watched technical analysts on YouTube, and slowly developed an understanding of how cyclical markets behaved. Crypto, despite its chaos, seemed to follow recognizable emotional rhythms — waves of optimism, collapse, accumulation, and eventual resurgence.
As temperatures eased, the first movement returned only where the current was strongest. The rest of the river still held in winter’s grip
For years, people talked about the elusive bull market phase of the four-year cycle. And by early 2021, it appeared to have arrived. The pandemic crash of 2020 had briefly crushed everything. Markets collapsed alongside global panic. But central banks responded by flooding economies with liquidity, printing money at historic levels to stabilize financial systems.
Everything rebounded. And risk assets, especially cryptocurrencies, surged. I had invested quite a lot by the end of 2020. Good timing, whether through foresight or luck. Suddenly, what had been a hobby was transforming into something far more serious.
Despite making several objectively terrible trades during early 2021, my portfolio grew rapidly. My crypto holdings began outpacing my actual academic income. For the first time, I wasn’t just saving money for a rainy day. I was making eyewatering profits. It felt unreal.
While uncertainty grew in university life, another parallel reality was unfolding quietly on my screen — one filled with charts, profits, optimism, and the dangerous illusion that perhaps financial freedom was not as far away as it once seemed.
Unravelling
While crypto helped keep my morale afloat, Alexandre was not doing well.
The lockdowns had hit him especially hard. Over time, his frustration with Chicoutimi, Quebec, and Canada itself became increasingly difficult to hide. The isolation weighed heavily on him. Now, with funding uncertainty threatening both his income and future, the pressure intensified. But academic stress was only part of the story.
Every step forward carried the risk of slipping further down… sometimes more literally than expected
He also had to live beside a deeply unstable neighbour. The guy regularly took drugs and experienced frequent mental breakdowns. Alexandre often complained about screaming late into the night, objects smashing against walls, and violent outbursts that made sleep nearly impossible. The landlord could do little because tenant protection laws complicated intervention. Then things escalated further.
At one point, the neighbour rammed a metal pipe, or something similar, directly through Alexandre’s wall. Police were called. Nothing meaningful happened. And so Alexandre remained trapped beside someone increasingly unpredictable.
We discussed moving him elsewhere, but realistically that would have to wait until summer. By then, though, the damage was already being done. He was exhausted. Mentally fried. And slowly approaching his limit.
The Decision to Leave
As April approached — still winter in Saguenay, despite what the calendar claimed — Alexandre had reached a turning point. He told me he was done. Fed up with the uncertainty, the isolation, with the absurdity of the place and his situation. He wanted to quit and move back to France.
The final piece pushing him toward that decision was family. Through video calls, he watched his parents age from afar. What had once felt temporary began to feel irreversible. Time suddenly seemed more fragile than before. He realized he no longer wanted to spend years feeling miserable in another country while missing precious time with people he loved. And honestly? I could not argue against it anymore.
The Saguenay river followed its natural course eastward, toward the sea… and for some, toward home
I understood. By then, I had also lived abroad for nearly seven years and had watched distance slowly reshape relationships with home and family. But I had committed to a different path. I had accepted long ago that I would keep moving until I found somewhere stable… somewhere that finally felt like home.
Alexandre already had that. He loved France and missed it more every day. He had something waiting for him. I didn’t.
Eventually, he told Lucie he wanted to downgrade his PhD into an MSc and finish within the year. His real goal, one he mostly kept between the two of us, was simple. He wanted to go home.
A Hollow Escape to Tadoussac
Sometime during what should have been spring, Alexandre, Pedro, and I decided to escape Chicoutimi for a day. We needed air. A change of scenery. Anything.
I can’t remember who suggested it first, but we drove east toward Tadoussac. Located where the Saguenay River meets the much larger St. Lawrence, Tadoussac is normally known for whale watching and summer tourism.
At times, tidal forces briefly reverse the Saguenay’s flow westward, against its natural course… against the sense of return
At that moment, we needed no excuse to go. We were simply happy to leave Chicoutimi behind for a few hours. That town had begun to feel heavy. Like a lead cloud permanently hanging overhead.
Driving through Saguenay Fjord National Park, I found myself unexpectedly struck by the scenery. The road wound between steep rocky cliffs and narrow valleys carved by ancient geological forces. For the first time, I fully appreciated the beauty of the landscape. And it frustrated me. Because my experience there had been so dominated by struggle that I had grown resentful toward the place itself. Yet the land remained beautiful regardless.
Tadoussac, however, felt lifeless. Late winter had stripped it of charm. The village sat somewhere between seasons. Neither winter nor spring. Dirty snow lingered in patches while mud surfaced through thawing ground. Everything seemed grey.
A lifeless Tadoussac. A few worn out colors contrasting the bleak late winter
The sky remained mostly overcast, allowing only faint pale sunlight to break through. Cold wind moved through empty streets. The occasional masked pedestrian only reinforced the atmosphere. A reminder, as if any of us needed one, of how everything had changed since the pandemic began. The place felt abandoned. And somehow perfectly aligned with the emotional tone of that year.
The Ice Begins to Melt
On the return trip, we crossed the Saguenay by ferry and stopped near La Baie. There, we walked onto the final remnants of ice still covering the river.
During peak winter, the Saguenay froze into a thick surface strong enough to support ice fishing camps and even vehicles. Locals built temporary communities directly on the frozen water. This was the first time we had seen it ourselves. I had been there for over a year, yet somehow remained a stranger to the place. I lived within the landscape, but never quite within the life of it.
The last remnants of ice fishing tents and equipment being packed up
This late in the season the ice was already deteriorating. People packed up tents and equipment as slush formed across the surface. It was surreal watching full-sized pickup trucks still driving over what looked increasingly unstable. In the pale yellow light of a sunset I watched winter losing its grip on the river. Reflecting on how I… would soon lose my only close friend there.
The thought of continuing alone, in a place that still felt alien due to the language barrier, especially under uncertain funding and growing instability, was not comforting. Things were changing. And I would have to change with them.
The Path Forward
Not long after Alexandre officially decided to leave the PhD program, I began seriously considering the same path. Not because I wanted to leave Canada or return to Europe, but because I wanted out of the academic system, and out of the depressive spiral that Chicoutimi had slowly become.
My goal had never truly been academia itself. From the moment I chose Canada over opportunities elsewhere, the objective had always been to build a future there. I needed a Canadian degree to qualify for a post-graduation work permit, but it did not need to be a PhD. What I really wanted was stability — a path into the mining industry, a career, and eventually a place that felt permanent. Alexandre was trying to return home. I was still searching for mine.
The sun sets over the slushy, unstable ground above the Saguenay
I sat down with Lucie for an honest conversation. She encouraged me not to rush my decision, but she also said something important. As valuable as research was, mental health mattered more.
I have to give her enormous credit here. Many supervisors might have pushed harder to keep students tied to projects out of pride, reputation, or convenience. She did the opposite. Lucie understood what the previous year had done to us. She had seen how hard we worked whenever opportunities existed. She had also lived through the same endless restrictions, bureaucracy, and funding collapse herself. Most of it was beyond her control.
Ferries sailing past each other across the Saguenay near Tadoussac
A few days later, I made my decision. I wanted out of the PhD program as well.
I would downgrade my study program, finish sooner, and leave the academic life with a second Masters degree rather than risk losing everything.
Approval came quickly. No resistance from supervisors. No objections from Metal Earth.
And so, two foreign PhD students prepared to do something that had apparently never happened before at that university. We asked to have our status changed from PhD students to Master’s students.
I returned to Chicoutimi and my student life fully revitalized after four weeks of field work in the north. Revitalized in the sense of normalcy within the bleak year of 2020. The harsh lockdowns of the previous months had drained my willpower, but that stretch in the field rekindled something. A sense of momentum. Of purpose.
On a late-summer’s day, somewhere in Chicoutimi
September had arrived and the academic year had begun. The university was slightly more open now. Masks and distancing were still in place, but at least there were people in the halls again. Some recreational spaces reopened too, including the gym I had signed up for. Slowly, it felt like we were climbing out of the lockdown haze.
Back to the grind
With the amount of material Alexandre and I brought back, we had months of work ahead. All those rock samples needed processing. Cutting them down, preparing them for thin sections, and eventually for geochemical analysis.
We both had prior lab experience and felt confident going in. The lab manager walked us through the equipment. A couple of fixed rock saws, a discussion about blades. Alexandre asked David, the lab manager, for the best blades since our samples were granitic, quartz-rich, and extremely hard.
Coming back from the field with rock samples of different sizes
David gave us the “student treatment.” He didn’t trust us with the sharper blades and handed us the smoother ones instead, telling us to just take more time. Not a great start.
After a single day it became obvious those “safe” blades weren’t going to cut it. Literally. We were standing there for hours, barely making progress. Eventually David gave in, and from the next day on we were allowed to use the proper blades.
That solved one problem, but another quickly appeared. Even with the right blades, the machines kept shutting down under strain. David explained the fix involved flipping a breaker switch in an electrical box, but according to protocol, he was supposed to call an electrician to do it.
For us, this was next level. Calling an electrician just to flip a switch? How did anything get done? It was the complete opposite of the fix-it-yourself mentality we grew up with in Europe.
Outlaws in the lab
The work settled into a routine. Daily sessions of rock cutting. Alexandre had far more to process than I did, seventeen buckets compared to my five, so I helped where I could.
The breaker issue quickly became unbearable. It would trip multiple times a day, and David wasn’t always around. Sometimes we’d be stuck waiting hours just to continue working. Then came the day he wasn’t there at all.
The bridge to nowhere across nothing in northern Chicoutimi
Within the first hour, everything shut down again. That was it. Alexandre had had enough. The electrical box wasn’t locked, just braced. He opened it, flipped the switch, and closed it back up. We were back in business. Outlaws at work. And we got a lot done that day. No more waiting. No more interruptions. Just progress.
By late afternoon we were exhausted but satisfied. Then I noticed something that instantly killed the mood. A small ocean had formed in the lab. All the water from the saws hadn’t been draining properly. It was pooling in the center of the room and slowly creeping toward David’s office.
We were screwed.
The Great Flood scandal
The design of the room made no sense. The lowest point was where the water pooled, while the drainage grates sat slightly higher. It was absurd.
So we grabbed the wide navy brooms and started pushing the water uphill toward the drains. It took over an hour. By the end, most of it was gone, but the floor was still wet and muddy. We were completely drained ourselves, so we decided to leave it overnight and come back early to finish.
The slabs I ended up with after cutting the rocks, prior to sending them off for thin sectioning
The next morning was a disaster. David was furious. He wanted to ban us from the lab. Alexandre had already taken the initial hit before I arrived, and Lucie was there trying to mediate. We explained the drainage issue and what had happened, but there was another problem. He had found out about the breaker.
Illegal. Catastrophic. Students flipping a switch. Endangering everyone. You get the idea.
Lucie was more understanding. She had grown up in France and shared our mindset. Later she even told us she once got scolded for changing a light bulb herself instead of calling an electrician. Canada… what the hell?
Yes, it sounds ranty. But that’s exactly how it felt. The whole situation was absurd. We were put in time-out. Not for long though.
Once David ran the saws himself, he quickly realized the drains were clogged. That was the real cause of the flooding. Not us. We were eventually pardoned, with one condition: stay away from the electrical box.
Fair enough. Luckily, thanks to our “outlaw day,” we could afford to slow things down.
Better days
By October we were finally done cutting. The samples were sent off, and the next phase began. This was my favorite part.
Thin sections opened up an entirely new world. What looked simple in hand sample became incredibly complex under the microscope. Beyond quartz, feldspar, and amphibole, there were all these accessory minerals. Titanite, apatite, sulfides, magnetite, zircon and more. Zircon was of particular interest for us. Its resistance to alteration makes it ideal for dating. Tiny crystals carrying time itself. You could get a surprisingly accurate idea of when the host rock formed.
Microscopic image of one of my thin sections in natural light, with a colorful array of amphiboles and biotite in a dirty white sea of feldspar
I was equally interested in apatite and sulfides. Some for thermometry and barometry calculations, others just out of curiosity. This was the kind of research I loved. Digging into complex methods, trying to reconstruct pressure, temperature, even oxygen fugacity of ancient magmatic systems. From that, you could infer things like the potential of a magma to transport gold.
It was precise and logical, yet somehow felt like science fiction.
Remote science in a strange year
Restrictions still made things complicated. For laser ablation work, we used the LA-ICP-MS at Laurentian University in Sudbury. Their setup was more powerful than what we had at UQAC. The lab manager, Jeff, was fantastic. After a short introduction, he trusted me to book and operate the system remotely. It was a pleasure.
Another thin section image, under polarized light this time showcasing the vivid colors quartz and zonation in feldspar
However, not everyone was that flexible. The microprobe lab in Quebec City refused remote access entirely, despite my prior experience from the University of Copenhagen. In doing all of the work themselves, their schedule was very limited and it took a very long time for me to get my results. Everyone was adapting differently to the new world of restrictions.
Still, those final months of 2020 were good for me.
Another thin section, this time under cathodoluminescence, highlighting a bunch of apatite crystals in a fluorescent green
“Laser time” became something I genuinely looked forward to. I would spend entire days in Lucie’s lab, remotely running analyses on my samples in Sudbury. One of my favorite tools was the EDS system. Quick, on-the-spot chemical readings. Not as precise as the laser, but perfect for identifying minerals and satisfying curiosity.
I’ll never forget December 2020. That’s when I identified a rare fluoro-carbonate mineral as parisite. High in rare earth elements. My first and only truly exotic find using EDS. Another memorable moment was spotting thorite inclusions inside zircon grains that looked completely destroyed from within. A perfect example of metamictisation. Radiation slowly breaking down the crystal structure over time.
Magnetite (in the center) and three zircons in preparation for EDS analysis. The top and rightmost zircons retained their zonation, while the bottom-left one has a destroyed core, replaced with bright white inclusions of thorite
These were my small discoveries. Quiet victories in a microscopy lab, with avant-garde progressive metal playing in the background. Some of my best memories from UQAC.
A quiet, uneasy ending
But December also brought a tightening of restrictions again. A new COVID variant, renewed panic, and Quebec shut things down once more. Non-essential services closed. The gym, which had kept me active and sane, was gone again. A curfew was introduced. Christmas gatherings were effectively cancelled.
After nearly a year of this, we had enough. Restrictions or not, Alexandre, Pedro, and I decided to meet for a turkey dinner at Pedro’s place.
Christmas turkey dinner at Pedro’s
I remember how dead the streets were that evening. Even by Chicoutimi standards, it felt eerie. Snow-covered, silent. Curtains drawn everywhere, as if people were hiding how many guests they had inside. It felt like everyone was quietly rebelling, but also watching over their shoulder.
The idea that you had to hide a small gathering from the authorities was… surreal. Still, we had our evening. We caught up. We laughed. For a moment, things felt normal again. 2020 was coming to an end, and we allowed ourselves a bit of hope.
Surely 2021 would be better. How much worse could it get?
After a rocky first week of geology field work in Chibougamau, pun intended, our fortunes were about to improve. You could say we’d hit rock bottom… Okay, I’m pushing it now with the dad jokes. Just to recap some of our mishaps: we lost one of our GPS devices somewhere in the forest, we lost one of the truck’s side mirrors, and we got it stuck in deep mud, requiring the other team to come pull it out. At least we were being productive and getting some rock samples. Well, at least Alexandre was. I couldn’t reach one of my primary targets due to the thick forest and overgrown roads.
But field work has a funny way of balancing things out. Just when it feels like the forest is determined to humble you, something finally goes right.
Heavy Duty Sampling
As we got more accustomed to the terrain and our new sampling routine, we were becoming increasingly efficient with our time. Regular geological field sampling usually involves finding a good representative outcrop and hammering off a few fresh pieces of rock from it.
Sampling rocks using various tools
In the Canadian Shield, however, the outcrops are most often flattened, rounded, and polished by ancient glacial activity. That makes it highly difficult to hammer any decent rock pieces out of them. Even when using a chisel, we would usually end up with thin, superficial weathered chips that would yield poor geochemical results. Hardly representative of the magmas that had crystallized billions of years ago.
In Canada, however, we had an alternative method of sampling, something I had never seen, nor needed to use during field work in Europe: a rock saw. Or a concrete saw, as some call it. Essentially a hand-held motorized saw fitted with a large diamond cutting blade. A chainsaw for outcrops, if you will.
The rock saw and water pump backpack tank we used
This thing… was impressive. It was big, heavy, loud, and an absolute pain on the lower back to use. But boy, could it sample. Instead of hammering on a flat outcrop for half an hour only to collect a few useless weathered fragments, we could cut thick slabs of fresh, unaltered rock straight from the interior of the outcrop. As an added bonus, the vibration and exhaust during cutting kept most of the bugs away. Suffice to say, it quickly became our preferred method of sampling.
The rock saw did have two major downsides. It required a nearby water source to fill the cooling pump tank, and it was quite cumbersome to carry on longer hikes deep into the dense forest. However, for the easier-to-reach outcrops, it was a no-brainer. It saved us an incredible amount of time.
The Needle in a Haystack
One day, after becoming quite efficient with our rock saw, we managed to finish the day’s sampling targets surprisingly early. With plenty of spare time on our hands, Alexandre and I decided to head back to the forest where our GPS had gone missing during the first week. Maybe, just maybe, we could find it somewhere near the road.
Cattails swaying where the boreal meets the bog
We only had an approximate idea of the location since there were no GPS tracks to follow back. Alexandre parked the truck in roughly the same area where we thought we had stopped before. We headed into the forest and began searching. Pretty quickly, though, it became clear that this was a hopeless task.
The forest all looked the same. Thick bushes and tangled underbrush everywhere. The ground covered in a soft carpet of leaves, moss, and rotting branches. We wandered around for five or ten minutes before Alexandre finally gave up. It was the very definition of a needle-in-a-haystack situation. Defeated, we slowly wandered back toward the truck, still half-heartedly scanning the ground as we walked.
As I neared the road and slowly put one foot in front of the other, something caught my eye.
A faint flash of bright orange beneath the leaves, right where I was about to step.
THE GPS.
Against all odds, almost as if guided there by sheer luck, my foot nearly landed right on top of it. My eyes lit up. My jaw dropped. I bent down, grabbed it, and with a triumphant battle cry echoing through the forest, raised it high above my head like a long-lost trophy. We couldn’t believe it.
Fireweed in the endless green
It was a moment of pure disbelief, followed by sheer amazement and slightly manic laughter. It felt like a sign. Fortune had clearly turned in our favor.
“Pluton de France” the Second Attempt
After that stroke of luck, I decided to take another shot at Pluton de France on my project’s next field day. Since we had failed to reach the outlined polygon on my map by car the previous time, I wanted to attempt it on foot instead. This was going to be a bold undertaking, as the bush in this particular part of the Abitibi looked extremely dense.
Alexandre wasn’t too keen on the idea of a long, arduous hike through the boreal jungle. Fortunately, Adrian happened to be free that day and was willing to join me. So for one day I swapped partners and headed back northeast toward the elusive intrusive rocks somewhere near the edge of the Abitibi Greenstone Belt.
We drove as far as we could, essentially until we reached one of the old roads that had once led toward my target area. The road, however, had long since been reclaimed by nature. It was completely overgrown by dense alder thickets.
Right this way, sir… your target awaits just a couple of kilometers ahead. Enjoy your refreshing swim through the green foliage. Don’t forget your goggles… and a prayer
These alders seemed to thrive anywhere the forest had once been disturbed. Where logging had opened the canopy, they quickly took over the landscape. They grew like a strange hybrid between bushes and small trees—clusters of multiple thin trunks sprouting from a single base in the ground. Their branches were flexible, tightly packed, and tangled together into nearly impenetrable walls of vegetation.
Ironically, pushing through these alder thickets was often far more difficult than walking through the untouched forest. At least beneath the mature spruce and pine trees there was space to move. In the alder patches, however, every step became a battle against springy branches and dense foliage that refused to let you pass.
Swimming in Trees
We powered through as best we could, large tool-filled backpacks and all. This was easily the worst forest trekking of the entire field trip. We were legitimately fighting the forest inch by inch. Roots constantly tripped us up, while dense branches grabbed at our clothes and gear. This was the moment when I coined the phrase “swimming in trees.” The large sledgehammer sticking out of my backpack kept snagging on branches every few steps, which certainly didn’t help.
At least the trees provided shade from the mid-August sun
Still… we pushed on. Slowly. Extremely slowly. Fighting for every meter through an endless wall of dense bush. After a couple of hours of this, we finally reached the Pluton de France polygon according to the geological map.
And of course, there wasn’t an outcrop in sight. However, further ahead we noticed what looked like a small rise in the terrain. A hill meant there was a chance that bedrock might be exposed beneath the soil. So we pushed on. Eventually we reached a small incline and decided to start digging. We removed thick layers of leaves, branches, and soil until we struck rock. Finally!
The problem was that it looked… strange. Dark, heavily weathered, and altered by the soil to the point that I couldn’t immediately identify it. So we kept digging, clearing away more of the surface. When we finally managed to hammer off a few pieces, the truth became obvious.
A proud Adrien after we found and unearthed that first outcrop
It wasn’t what I was looking for at all. Not even close to what the map had suggested.
Pluton de Lies
Blasted inaccurate map, I thought. Still, we were close to the edge of the polygon, so I took a sample anyway and suggested we push a little farther toward the nearby lake that covered much of the mapped area.
Somewhere around that time another thought crossed my mind: this would be an absolutely terrible place to have a wildlife encounter. If we ran into a bear here, there would be no easy way to escape the sea of trees surrounding us. Then again, perhaps a bear would be smart enough to avoid pushing through such thick forest. Unlike us.
Some time later, deeper inside the target area, we finally found a small clearing near the top of the hill. To my relief there were even a couple of outcrops exposed there. Of course, they were perfectly flat and glacially polished—impossible to sample properly without the rock saw.
Hammering rock, only to find disappointment
And worse still… It was once again the wrong rock type. Dark, heavily altered basalt everywhere instead of the light-colored granitoids I had been hoping to find. What a disappointment.
More than anything, I was frustrated with the map itself. These geological maps, after all, are produced by the Québec Ministry during annual field campaigns. But even those teams can only cover so much ground, and sometimes the boundaries of geological units end up being… educated guesses. I marked the location on the map to note the discrepancy and kept the token sample from the previous location as reference.
Lucie later appreciated the effort, but she still had me discard the sample since it wasn’t useful for the project. All that effort. All that struggle through the forest. For nothing. But that’s field work. You win some. You lose some.
Roaming the Chibougamau Region
We continued our sampling campaign well into August. Alexandre’s project took us all around the Chibougamau area—from the high cliffs northeast of the lake to the far western stretches near Oujé-Bougoumou.
And once more we were close to a temporarily restricted area
On the western side of the Chibougamau pluton, we stumbled across several piles of trash near Oujé-Bougoumou. A sad and unfortunate eyesore in an otherwise vast and pristine wilderness. We also came across numerous animal tracks, mostly large canine ones. Likely local dogs, though wolves were certainly not out of the question.
Maybe someone should invest in a trash bin, or ten…
The only wildlife we consistently encountered, however, were the grouse, or as I liked to call them, forest chickens. We had heard plenty of stories about them beforehand, usually involving their questionable survival instincts. Instead of fleeing from danger, these birds, especially protective mothers, would often charge directly at the perceived threat in a rather unconvincing display of bravery. Not the best strategy when facing modern human inventions like trucks.
A mother grouse coming out onto the road to escort us away from her chicks
On foot, however, they were simply amusing. They would follow us around at a cautious distance, clucking and posturing, as if politely insisting that we leave their territory.
In the northeast, on the other hand, we encountered more “exciting” forest roads for our battle-hardened truck. At one point, a deep natural ditch carved out by a small creek abruptly killed the engine as the truck dropped into it—perfectly synchronized with the beat drop of the music playing in the car. No lasting damage, but plenty of dramatic effect.
The southern Wetlands
Whenever we shifted focus back to my project, we found ourselves driving farther and farther away from Chibougamau.
Only the best road conditions for us
One day took us deep south toward a small intrusion known as the Hazeur pluton. The landscape there transitioned from dense forest to open wetlands. At one point, the water had quite literally claimed part of the road. Alexandre, understandably, was having flashbacks to our previous encounter with waterlogged terrain that had left us completely stuck. This time, however, there was no mud, just firm gravel beneath the shallow water. We proceeded cautiously and made it through without issue.
The small Hazer pluton location. Still in doubt whether outcrop or boulder.
At the end of the road, a small outcrop, or possibly just a very large boulder, awaited us. The quiet swamp surrounded us on all sides. Far removed from any main road, it felt like prime territory for wildlife encounters. We spotted a few birds, including a large and majestic sandhill crane. In the distance, the eerie calls of loons echoed across the wetlands, occasionally interrupted by the faint howling of wolves.
A true call of the wild.
Zoomed in shot of a Sandhill Crane striding through tall grass in the Canadian wilderness
Despite that, there was no real sense of danger. We were working right next to the truck, heavy tools within reach. If anything, I felt completely at peace. There were barely any bugs, the scenery was wide open and beautiful, and for a moment it felt like we had stepped into a nature documentary.
Lesser Yellowlegs foraging stealthily in a marshy reed bed, blending perfectly with the surrounding cattails and reflections
To top it all off, I managed to collect several excellent sample blocks for my study. Easily one of the best locations we visited during the trip.
Blood for Samples
Another day took us west, past Chapais, toward a small syenite intrusion known as the Dolodau Stock. There, I finally managed to collect some of the best samples for my project. But the bounty came at a cost. Blood. We had wandered deep into black fly territory, and they were out in the millions. We were the main course.
Coming across blueberry bushes everywhere we went
Between hammering rocks and repeatedly drenching ourselves in bug spray, we uncovered one of the most fascinating outcrops of the entire campaign: a carbonatite unit, quite a rare igneous rock type, crosscut by sulfur-rich syenite veins.
Shiny disseminated pyrite cubes sparkled within the syenite. Grey magnetite blobs and black flaky micas stood out against the white carbonatite. Thick, blocky calcite veins cut across the outcrop like frozen rivers of stone. It was a geological treasure trove.
The large carbonatite unit, riddled with phlogopite (black mica) and magnetite
Throughout our field days, we often stumbled upon vast patches of wild blueberry bushes. Whenever we finished early, we would start gathering and snacking. Before long, we had collected an impressive haul, which we eventually brought back to base to dry and preserve.
The Final Days
The August days slipped by quickly, and our field campaign began drawing to a close. A few moments from that final week still stand out.
Prepping for a stroll along the northern railway
One of them involved walking along a set of railway tracks to reach a cliffside outcrop. It was a surprisingly calm day. No bushwhacking, no brutal driving, just a relaxed walk and straightforward sampling.
On another day, possibly our last, we aimed to reach one final target within the Chibougamau pluton. It was an easily accessible outcrop near a side road running parallel to the main road. However, the only connecting route required a long detour. Naturally, we decided to make things more interesting.
Killdeer standing alert and photogenic in short grass
After finishing our work, and soaking our boots while crossing flooded ground, I suggested taking a shortcut based on the map. Alexandre hesitated, but eventually gave in. I think we were both feeling a bit nostalgic about pushing our luck one last time. A sharp turn later, we found ourselves driving through a wet, sandy stretch just before a ramp leading up to the main road.
And… the truck got stuck. Again. This time, however, we were ready.
I jumped out to assess the situation while Alexandre quickly wedged traction aids under the tires. On my signal, he floored it, and the truck launched itself free, gliding across the remaining sand with ease. We had clearly graduated from the school of getting stuck in the mud.
The vast empty straight roads of the north
A Thunderous Roar Downstairs
Back at base, we needed to dry our soaked boots for the next day. There was a designated drying room, but it wasn’t quite enough for boots that wet. So naturally, we came up with a brilliant idea:
We put them in the dryer. The sound was… apocalyptic.
Meanwhile our blueberry bounty was drying in the kitchen upstairs
The machine roared and thundered as it violently tossed the heavy boots around inside, like drums announcing the end of the world. We closed every door we could, but the noise still echoed through the building like a distant storm. Miraculously, the dryer survived. And so did our boots.
The End of a Successful Field Campaign
On one of the final evenings, the sky was perfectly clear. No moon, no clouds. I suggested we drive out of town and stop at one of the abandoned quarries for some stargazing. After some hesitation, Nesrine and Adrian agreed. It was well worth it.
Above us stretched a breathtaking night sky. The Milky Way cut across the darkness, its bright star clusters contrasted by the deep shadow of the dark rift. As we stood there in silence, we once again heard wolves howling in the distance. It felt like the perfect ending to our time in the wilderness.
Under a crystal in northern Canadian wilderness
After 28 days of field work, we had collected 24 buckets of rock samples. Despite the rough start, we had successfully completed our summer campaign during one of the strangest years in recent history, 2020. A year when the world seemed to shut down. When uncertainty, isolation, and restrictions became part of everyday life.
And yet, out there in the wilds of northern Canada, things felt… different. For a while, we were free.
Free to work. Free to explore. Free to live something that felt almost normal again.
It wasn’t always easy. There were frustrations, setbacks, and long exhausting days. But there was also laughter, discovery, and moments that stayed with us. Moments that Alexandre and I still find ourselves retelling years later. And just like that, it was time to head back to Chicoutimi.
Messy beards, messy hairs and a truckload of samples after an adventurous month in the field
Back to our strangely constrained lives as PhD students in a world that hadn’t quite opened up again.
