EDITORIAL: The Prince Rupert Curveball

Anyone who knows me knows that I like to keep things light. I try to stay on the sunny side of the street, even if the clouds are looming overhead. Life throws curveballs; that’s a given. But if you can dodge them with a smile, all the better. That said, after two days in the coastal B.C. city of Prince Rupert—charmingly dubbed the Rainbow Community—even my best efforts to stay positive have been tested. Severely.

To be fair, travel isn’t always smooth sailing. When I head off to conferences across the country—meeting municipal leaders, exploring new towns, trying local eats—I approach each trip with an open mind and an open schedule. I leave room for spontaneity. I welcome the unexpected. But this trip? This trip felt more like a slow-moving car crash in the rain.

Let me start with a metaphor I rarely use: baseball. I’m not a huge sports guy, but bear with me. In baseball, it’s three strikes and you’re out, or four balls and you get on base. Well, I’m currently sitting at two strikes, two balls—and I’m not sure whether the next pitch is a curveball or a fastball to the head.

Let’s start at the top.

When I first arrived in Prince Rupert, things looked promising. My hotel was in a great spot—near the waterfront, quiet street, charming building. I unpacked, settled in, and got ready to rest before the next day’s conference sessions. That was the plan, at least.

Then came the chirping. You know that high-pitched beep that a carbon monoxide detector makes when the battery is low? Imagine that, every minute, all night long. The offending device was conveniently located right outside my room. I notified the front desk. They said they’d look into it. Spoiler: they didn’t.

As I write this, the chirping continues. At this point, I’m tempted to run to the dollar store, buy a C battery myself, and climb a ladder to fix the thing. When you’re sleep-deprived, these things feel personal. Strike one.

The next day, determined to make the most of things, I booked a whale-watching tour with a local operator called Ribtide: Zodiac Tours. Sounds thrilling, right? Wind in your hair, whales breaching in the distance, an unforgettable coastal experience. I’d even booked in advance to secure a spot. I showed up at the arranged location at 1:00 p.m. sharp—punctual, polite, Canadian.

I was alone. No staff, no fellow tourists. Just me and the vague hope that someone would show up soon. I waited. 1:00 became 1:15. I sent a polite email. No response. 1:30 came and went. A boat arrived, then left. I thought, optimistically, maybe they’re fueling up. A few minutes later, the same boat returned. A man packed up gear, locked up shop, and left—without acknowledging me once.

It was now 2:00 p.m. No tour. No explanation.

At 4:15—over three hours later—I received an email from the company. “Tour cancelled due to low participation,” it read. That’s it. No apology. No mention of the ghosting. For a town that markets itself on tourism, that’s a bad look. Strike two.

Every traveler knows that the best food tips come from locals.

So, after arriving on the first night, I stopped into a local dollar store to pick up some snacks and ice for my cooler. While checking out, I asked the cashier where I could find a good burger—a mom-and-pop place, something authentic.

Her answer? “Leave and go to Terrace.”

Now, I’ve been brushed off before, but never quite like that. Terrace, by the way, is about an hour and a half drive away. Not exactly a casual dinner suggestion.

Thankfully, other locals were more helpful. Several recommended OB Burgers. I tried it the second day and it was, to my surprise, excellent. A real gem. I only wish someone had steered me there on day one instead of into the golden arches. Ball one.

Now, I’ll admit this next complaint is less about the town and more about me. I have a deep-seated dislike for birds—specifically ravens and crows. I grew up in rural Ontario, and let’s just say my bird experiences were more Hitchcock than Disney.

Prince Rupert, as it turns out, has a raven/crow population that rivals its human one. They’re everywhere—on streetlights, in trees, on the docks. But it’s not just the sheer number of them. It’s their attitude.

I’m convinced one raven in particular is messing with me. He shows up on my morning walks, stares me down, follows me from bench to bench. I swear he’s laughing at me, like some beady-eyed local joker. My conspiracy theories are usually quiet and internal, but this time? The bird knows something. And I don’t like it.

So while the ravens aren’t technically a “ball,” they’ve put a damper on my mental scorecard.

Now, lest you think I’m nothing but gloom and doom, let me be clear: not everything about Prince Rupert has been a miss.

First, the drive from Terrace to Prince Rupert is nothing short of breathtaking. If Canada has a greatest-hits album of road trips, this stretch of the Yellowhead Highway deserves a front-row spot. Towering mountains, winding rivers, mist-draped trees—it’s nature at its finest. It reminded me of Jasper, Banff, the Icefields Parkway. Every Canadian should do it once.

Second, I have to give a standing ovation to the staff at the Prince Rupert Visitor Information Centre. These folks went above and beyond. When I explained my whale-watching saga, they tried contacting the company directly. They gave me alternative options, local suggestions, and a good dose of kindness. If you're visiting the town, stop here first. It’ll set the tone for your stay—one I wish I’d experienced from the beginning.

So where does that leave me? Well, in baseball terms, it’s the bottom of the ninth. Bases loaded. I’m two-for-two with two balls and two strikes. The next pitch could send me into the dugout—or finally let me round the bases.

Travel can be transformative, yes. But it can also be deeply frustrating. Not every place clicks with every traveler. And while I can’t say Prince Rupert and I are soulmates, I also recognize that even difficult trips have their place in the broader story. They build resilience. They sharpen your ability to laugh through gritted teeth. They remind you to pack earplugs and backup burger plans.

In the end, I still believe in giving places a second chance. And maybe next time the birds will back off, the boat will show up, and the carbon monoxide detector will finally be silent.

Until then, I’m hoping for a better tomorrow—and maybe, just maybe, a walk free of sarcastic ravens.