I’m a city girl who moved to an 80-person community in remote Canada. I never expected how much my life would improve.

The weather in Beaver Creek can be harsh (I’m talking -40 degrees Fahrenheit), and the winters are long and dark. Plus, we’re a 10-hour round trip from the nearest hospital.

Neighbors check in with each other. They offer to pick up groceries when they go five hours into town, help if you have vehicle troubles, and give you the cup of sugar you’re missing.

My own experience was a flat tire at the height of the coronavirus pandemic. The Alaska Highway was even quieter than usual. I had the jack under the car, and I was desperately trying to remove the tire, which had seized onto the wheel.

The first car that came by stopped to help, and so did the second. A local Royal Canadian Mounted Police officer came out to help me, and when he couldn’t, he drove an hour and a half to ask a neighbor for assistance.

Up here, that’s just what you do. 

Before I moved, loading up at the Whole Foods salad bar was as close as I got to cooking. A friend once stayed at our apartment while we were on holiday and lamented that we didn’t own a single pot or pan.  

I was in for a shock when I suddenly had to learn how to cook and stock a pantry with food that lasts six to eight weeks in between shopping trips. 

The drive to and from the nearest grocery store is incredibly beautiful. On the Alaska Highway, the views are out of this world, and it’s not uncommon to see bears, moose, lynx, coyotes, and even wolves. But it’s also 10 hours round trip. 

I was surprised to find that I like cooking — love it, even. I also love planning our meals, organizing the freezer and pantry, and thinking ahead.

I’ve learned to make preserves, yogurt, and kombucha. I bake our own bread and bagels. And, if we have a hankering for a sweet, I make that, too: pies, kettle corn, candied fruits.

In Vancouver, I had easy access to restaurants, shops, parks, beaches, and mountains, and I didn’t ever really think about it.

When I learned we’d be moving, I was horrified.

How would I live without all of this? Surprise: Remote Northern Canada has made me appreciate everything about the outdoors.

I hike and cross-country ski, and I marvel every single day at how lucky I am. My friends and family cannot believe that urban Hilary has embraced Beaver Creek.

“Aren’t you lonely?” is a frequent refrain I hear when people find out about my living situation. 

And I was really lonely during those first dark, cold months. My husband was working 12-hour shifts, sometimes during the day, sometimes overnight. 

Time dragged. I’d go for walks with our new puppy, but in the dead of winter, it’s easy to walk in Beaver Creek without seeing a soul. Days went by without any real human interaction aside from my husband.

I tried to learn how to cook. I did my home workouts. I kept up with remote work. I called my friends and family back in Vancouver. And still, the days were long and the loneliness felt overwhelming. 

It wasn’t long before I learned to embrace my time alone, especially in nature. Beaver Creek is a beautiful place surrounded by mountains, trees, rivers, and streams.

Compared to green spaces in the city, the land here is untouched, and experiencing all that alone has been transformational. 

Now, alone time outside is the most restorative part of my day. I can’t live without it, no matter the weather. 

In the winter, the nights are long, and the days bring half-light, nothing more. I arrived in the Yukon shortly after the winter solstice, when the sun came up around noon and was gone again mere hours later. 

I found it exhausting. I’m an early riser, and that didn’t change, but by 4 p.m. I wanted to go to bed.

Eventually, I learned to turn on more lights and get outside regardless of the dark. I even learned to love the nuances of darkness, especially the moon and stars.

The dark winters were definitely an adjustment, but what really surprised me was the light in the summers. The midnight sun, as it’s affectionately called, comes gradually but with a force.

I recall telling a friend, a lifelong Northerner, that I had no problem falling asleep, so I was confident the midnight sun wouldn’t affect me. I was so wrong. 

In the summer, I find myself working away at something, unaware that it’s 12 or 1 a.m. That first summer, I lay awake in bed, trying to relax, my whole body yearning to do a workout, tackle a deep clean, or complete a 1,000-piece puzzle.

We quickly learned that blackout curtains and a rigid evening routine were essential at this time of year. 

I don’t like change, so the move was petrifying.

However, all the things I feared were things I ended up embracing: I’m much stronger than I thought I was, I can cook, I can change a tire, I’m comfortable walking in the wilderness alone with a knife and bear spray, I can garden. 

Had someone told me over five years ago that I’d be the person I am today, I would’ve laughed. Now, here I am, feeling so happy.

This story was originally published on April 24, 2022, and most recently updated on March 17, 2025.