“Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.” — John Lennon

Ok, picture this: You’re sitting around with friends, sharing appetizers and a bottle of wine. The conversation is easy, stories are flowing, and then someone says, “Tibor, do you have a good story to share?” My wife jumps in and says, “Tell them about how you lost your wallet!”

This is one of my favourite stories to tell when the setting and atmosphere are just right, so I gladly obey the request.

It was late September, maybe early October. My wife had flown to Europe to visit family, and I was home alone. Business had been busy, and I needed a break. So, I decided to take a short hike out at Cascade Falls, about a forty-minute drive from Abbotsford. The weather was perfect: cool, bright, with a bit of sun shining through the trees. I packed my hiking clothes and a change for later, since I had a listing appointment in Maple Ridge at noon. Sunday morning, I left around eight.

Cascade Falls never disappoints, with water tumbling a hundred feet down into a pool surrounded by towering cedars. I hiked up the trail, stopped at my favourite lookout, then made my way up the river to a small island in the middle. You have to hop across a few large boulders to get there, not too difficult, but tricky enough to keep most people away. The rocks block the view from the trail, so once you’re on that island, you feel like the world has disappeared. That’s where I usually sit to meditate.

After about an hour, I headed back to the car, changed into my business clothes, met my client, and was home by mid-afternoon. Everything fine, right?

Until I reached for my wallet to order some dinner.

It wasn’t in my jacket. Not in my pants. Not anywhere in the car. My pulse quickened. I always keep my wallet in the same place. I checked the side pocket of my hiking pants, my jacket, my backpack, and my car again. Nothing! Panic was setting in, so I sat down, took a few deep breaths, closed my eyes, and visualized my movements during the day.

I suddenly saw myself back on the trail. It must have fallen out somewhere up there, and I narrowed it down to two spots. One of them was that island in the middle of the river. I had a couple of hours of daylight left, so I decided to go back. I changed again, grabbed a headlamp and flashlight just in case, and headed out.

When I reached Cascade Falls, the park gate was already closed for the night, so I left the car outside and jogged in. Dusk was falling fast. The forest darkened quicker than I expected. I searched the first spot, the bench-like rock near the hilltop, but found nothing. That meant it had to be on the island. My heart sank. The river below was louder now, swollen from recent rain, the kind of sound that makes you hesitate even before you see the water. Still, I wasn’t giving up.

I hopped from one boulder to the next and made it to the island. I searched every square inch of the approximately 10-square-foot island with my flashlight, but no wallet. With night approaching fast, I decided to go back home and make new decisions. I scrambled over the first few rocks, balancing my flashlight between jumps. The island was maybe fifty feet away from the shore. The water shimmered faintly under the fading light. I took a deep breath and leapt for the next boulder. Too far. My foot slipped; the next thing I knew, the river swallowed me whole.

The cold was a shock that stole my breath. The flashlight vanished. The headlamp came off. I tumbled in the current, arms and legs flailing, every muscle in full panic. I tried grabbing at the boulders as they blurred past, but the current was too strong. Then I remembered: not far ahead was the waterfall, one hundred feet straight down. I kicked and fought, adrenaline doing all the thinking my brain couldn’t. Then my foot brushed gravel, shallow ground! I pushed off with everything I had and reached for a branch sticking out of one of the rocks. My hand closed around it, slippery, half-broken, but I held on. I pulled myself out, shivering uncontrollably, soaked to the bone, sitting in the dark with the river roaring beside me.

Somehow, I made my way back to the trailhead. My phone still worked, thankfully, and the car’s heated seats felt like heaven. I drove home, half laughing, half shaking. “What a rush!” I thought to myself.

Back home, showered and dry at last, I sat at the dining room table. I decided: first thing, cancel the credit cards. I found a statement, and with a pen in my hand, I looked for a piece of paper to write down the credit card details. I picked up a piece of paper on my table and froze.

There it was. My wallet. Right underneath it.

By Tibor

Assisted by AI

“When running from pain, louder it becomes.”
(Yoda… or someone like him)

Before 2015, Christmas in our family looked much like it did for many others.

We spent days wandering through shopping malls and stores, trying to figure out what to buy for the people closest to our hearts. We don’t have extended family in Canada, so the list was short, but the effort was still there. Shopping for gifts, preparing a traditional dinner, visiting friends, snapping photos on Christmas morning—and then, suddenly, Christmas was over.

It worked while the kids still lived at home.

Once we became empty nesters, Blazena and I started questioning the routine.
“Why are we buying presents for our adult children?” I asked.

More importantly, we realized we had very little time to truly enjoy each other’s company. We were always shopping, cooking, or rushing somewhere.

So we decided to change things.

Instead of staying home, we would leave for a warm place before Christmas and return after. The money we would normally spend on gifts, food, and the general holiday buzz would go toward a family vacation at an all-inclusive resort.

Everyone liked the idea.

The following year, I booked a trip to the Mexican Riviera for the whole family. It was great.

That became our tradition. Instead of staying home, we travel somewhere warm, eat well, relax, take excursions, and make memories.

One Christmas, we stayed at a beautiful five-star resort in Puerto Vallarta. The rooms were modern, the food was excellent, and the activities were plentiful. Everyone did their own thing during the day, and we came together for breakfasts, dinners, and excursions.

Patrick went sailing and fishing. Luke went snorkelling. Blazena and I usually sat by the pool, enjoying the warmth and the view.

One particularly beautiful morning, shortly after 4 a.m., I walked down to the beach. I leaned against a palm tree and began my meditation.

I had started meditating about seven years earlier, and by then it had become part of my daily routine. I could meditate anywhere, but doing it among palm trees, facing the ocean, felt like a gift.

I noticed a security guard making his rounds. He had seen me there the past few mornings. He nodded and continued on.

About thirty minutes into my meditation, I heard a woman’s voice in distress.

The hotel’s architecture caused sound to echo, so at first it was hard to place. She was urgently calling someone’s name. I didn’t pay much attention until I realized the voice was getting closer.

Moments later, a young woman stood in front of me. She was clearly upset and asked if I had seen her boyfriend.

I told her calmly that I had not.

Seeing how distressed she was, I asked if she wanted to sit down and talk. She nodded and sat beside me on the warm sand. Her voice was raspy, full of emotion, as she told me what had happened.

She and her boyfriend had gone to a party. They argued. He left her there. For the past two hours, she had been searching nearby hotels. He wasn’t in their room. She was afraid he had left her.

As she began to calm down, I asked gently,
“What else is happening in your life?”

She looked at me, puzzled, as if asking why I would even bring that up. After a pause, she said quietly,
“My dad died two weeks ago.”

Tears poured down her face.

I asked her to tell me about her father. She spoke about their difficult relationship and how she had never tried to make things right. I asked if she had allowed herself time to grieve.

She said no.

She told me she had been running from it. Even this trip to Mexico, with a very new boyfriend, was an attempt to escape the grief she refused to face.

As the sun began to rise over the horizon, her tears slowed and then stopped. I suggested she go back to her room and get some rest.

“I’m sure your boyfriend will show up once you’ve slept,” I said.

She stood up calmer than before, her energy noticeably different. She thanked me, hugged me, and as she turned to leave, she looked back and asked in a serious tone:

“Tell me… are you my personal Yoda?”

I smiled and said, “Yes.”

That was the day I became Yoda.

Epilogue

A few hours later, over breakfast, I told the story to my family and a couple of friends. Everyone loved it. Since that morning, within our family and close circle of friends, I’ve been known as Yoda.

I don’t mind. Yoda was a fine creature. Being compared to him feels oddly comforting.

I’ll always remember that young woman whose name I never learned.

By Tibor Yoda

Assisted by AI

It began like any other ordinary day, January 8th, just after two in the afternoon. Work had been uneventful, the kind of day that leaves no mark. When I came home, Laska was already waiting by the door, vibrating with anticipation for her daily forest walk.

We walked those trails five or six times a week, covering five or six kilometres along a scenic path that runs beside the river. Rain or shine, it was our ritual. We walked quietly, side by side. Sometimes she would break away from the trail to chase birds – her favourite distraction, but she always came back.
Always.

Until that day.

We reached the end of the trail, turned around, and started back. Somewhere along the way, Laska darted off into the forest after a small bird, just as she had countless times before. I kept walking, unbothered. After a minute or two, I noticed she hadn’t returned.

I stopped and whistled. Nothing.

Her recall whistle – sharp and familiar –  had never failed. I tried again. Still nothing. I retraced my steps to where I had last seen her. I called her name. I whistled. I yelled. The forest answered with silence.

Minutes stretched into an hour. Then longer. Panic crept in, slow but unmistakable. This had never happened before. Laska was only seven months old – smart, affectionate, disciplined in most things. But when she chased birds, the world disappeared for her. Whistles, shouts, commands, none of it mattered.

And now, neither did I.

It was as if the earth had swallowed her.

I searched until the forest grew dark, walking the trails, pushing into brush, calling until my voice was raw. Eventually, there was nothing left to do. The area covered tens of thousands of acres. I was one man, alone, with fading light and no plan.

I went home.

That night, I reported her missing through the tracking service linked to the QR tag on her collar. If scanned, it would reveal her location and notify nearby veterinarians and shelters. It was all I could do.

Sleep didn’t come.

I don’t know whether it was a dream or imagination, but I saw her curled beneath exposed tree roots near the riverbank. When dawn came, I went straight back. My wife searched too. We found nothing.

Cold, wet, exhausted, and defeated, we returned home and made a hard decision; we needed help.

We reached out to neighbours, friends, and social media. The response was immediate and humbling. Search groups formed. People arrived with dogs. Strangers cared.

A family friend, Andrew, connected us with Karen, who specializes in locating lost pets using a drone equipped with an infrared camera technology capable of detecting even small heat signatures. Hope took a new shape.

I spoke with Karen from Halo’s Pet Rescue and arranged for her to come by, though she couldn’t arrive until Wednesday afternoon. That meant another night of rain, another night of cold, and another sleepless night for us.

By Day Three, Laska had been missing for forty-two hours.

Karen advised me to place food and a piece of clothing with my scent near the spot where we had parked because lost animals often return there. I did. One of the food bowls was eaten. Hope flared, then faltered. It could have been anything.

After heavy rain overnight, I checked the trail for tracks. Surprisingly, there were none.

That morning, I met two women walking their dogs. When I told them about Laska, they smiled gently and said, “We’re here to find her today.”

That moment stays with me.

More friends arrived, my son Luke and Karima among them. When my wife took over watching the parking area, I headed back down the trail toward the place I had last seen Laska.

Another searcher mentioned hearing a faint bark earlier, though he thought it belonged to another group. I left the trail and pushed into the forest, whistling and calling her name.

After an hour, I heard it – a faint bark. Directionless. Muffled.

Then again.

This time, I knew. It was her.

I followed instinct rather than logic, letting something older take over. Thirty minutes later, the bark came again, weak but closer. My heart jumped.

“I’m coming, love,” I shouted, my voice barely holding together.

The bark came again. Very close. Twenty feet, maybe less.

I stopped.

If she was that close, why couldn’t I see her?

Then it hit me.

She wasn’t above ground.

I scanned the area carefully and noticed a dense patch of ferns. Beneath them, a small opening. Something moved. I kicked aside the brush and uncovered a narrow, steel-reinforced well seven feet deep.

At the bottom was my puppy.

Cold. Filthy. Exhausted.

And alive.

Every sound she made said the same thing: Please get me out of here.

My first instinct was to jump in after her. Then reason intervened. I called my wife and asked her to bring a rope. As I hung up, Laska leapt four feet straight up.

“Can you jump that high?” I asked, stunned.

I dropped to my knees, leaned into the shaft, and stretched my arm as far as I could.
“Jump again, Laska.”

She did.

As if we had practiced it a hundred times, I caught her midair by the collar and pulled her free.

Weak and shaking, she still found the strength to celebrate tail wagging, body trembling with joy.

We did it.

Epilogue

After a quick rinse in the river and a bite of food from my pocket, we headed home. She received a proper bath, endless hands petting her, and the quiet relief of warmth.

We gave her a toy we had bought the day after she went missing a small stuffed hamster with a red heart around its neck. A homecoming gift.

In true puppy fashion, she deconstructed it in less than two hours.

If you’re wondering about the title, Finding Love, there’s a reason.

In Slovak, Láska means love.

And that, after all, is exactly what we found.

By Tibor Bogdan 

assisted by AI