Congratulations to the World's Unluckiest Traveler Winners!

My unlucky travel moment is less about bad luck and more a testament to my ignorance, arrogance, and a generous dash of stubbornness.

It started with a mini high school reunion in California, where one of my two longtime buddies now lived. I’d only visited him once before, and our third friend had never been to the West Coast. So we booked our trip, ready for a weekend of food, laughter, and questionable decisions. I met my goddaughter for the first time (and was officially christened Godfather), and the three of us did what dudes do—hung out, explored, ate like kings, and cracked each other up.

Then came the bright idea: Vasquez Rocks. My friends pitched it as a cool Star Trek filming location. I vaguely remembered seeing it in a travel guide but didn’t give it much thought. I pictured a few modest rocks in the desert. No big deal. I just wanted to chill with my friends.

So I showed up in a t-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops—perfect for the heat, terrible for what came next.

As soon as we parked, I realized I’d misjudged the situation. My friends, ever the adventurers (and even more competitive than me), proposed a bet: who could climb the highest. They wore proper shoes. I wore foam sandals. But pride is a powerful motivator, so I joined the ascent.

At first, I held my own. But as the rocks got steeper, my fear of heights kicked in hard. I froze. My friends, perched above me like smug mountain goats, sneered down in triumph. I waved the white flag.

Then came the real challenge: getting down.

My anxiety went into overdrive. I panicked. Vultures—actual vultures—started circling overhead. My friends couldn’t stop cackling. I was furious at them, and even more furious at myself.

After twenty agonizing minutes of inching down on my backside, I finally made it to solid ground. My flip-flops survived. My dignity? Not so much.

Looking back, my unfortunate footwear choice gave us a lifetime of laughs. It was worth it—just not in the moment. I still remind my two idiot friends: with friends like these, who needs enemies?

It all started like a dream winter getaway. I flew to Germany, full of excitement for my snowboard trip in the Austrian Alps. I met with my German girlfriend to make the drive down to Austria. A couple of days later, we had arrived in Galtür, a charming little ski town that looked like a snow globe. The powder was perfect, the mountains majestic, and I was certain this was going to be the trip of a lifetime.
It was...just not in the way I imagined.
2 hours into our first day on the slopes, I managed to turn a casual snowboard run into a full-blown medical emergency. One wrong move and suddenly I was sliding on my back towards a blind drop. Even though I had years of experience, I was a foreigner on this slope. As I approached the edge, I stuck my palms into the snow. I slammed into the icy bank and braced myself for the fall beyond. Next thing I know, I am laying on my back in deep powder.
I giggled at my apparent luck and continued down the hill. At first, I was in total denial...I rode down the slope to the next hut and unstrapped my board like nothing had happened. But when I took off my gloves, everything changed. My wrist was deformed, that’s when it hit me something was seriously wrong. I was staring at a wrist that looked like it had been assembled by Picasso.
As I tried to stay calm, ski patrol swooped in like alpine superheroes. The team was speaking so fast in German I thought they were performing some kind of secret ski ritual. Thankfully, my girlfriend translated everything for me. I was the only Canadian in the group, standing there like a confused moose while everyone organized my rescue. I figured I could just hitch a snowmobile ride down to the base. But the medical team took one look and said, “Nein! You need the helicopter.”
My wrist was so badly fractured that even a bumpy snowmobile ride could have made things worse. I was airlifted off the mountain, watching my dream vacation shrink below me as the helicopter bill grew somewhere in the background.
At the hospital, X-rays confirmed the bad news: my wrist had exploded! Surgery was immediate, expensive, and unavoidable. The next few days were a blur of more pain meds and awkwardly trying to cut steak with one working hand. On top, it was my birthday the day after I left the hospital; not the kind of celebration I had in mind.
By the time I was released, I had enough metal in my arm to set off every airport detector, and a collection of receipts that could wallpaper a room. To make matters even more ridiculous, another friend on the trip had just fractured their thumb. The two of us looked like a pair of mismatched action figures.
The bright side? I got some truly dramatic X-rays. And I learned that “souvenir” in German is “Andenken,” which is fitting because I left Austria with one heck of a keepsake. I usually bring home a magnet from all my trips, but I guess fate decided to give me a much more memorable keepsake instead... definitely more expensive than a magnet!

Ryan

Throughout my breast cancer treatment, I had one goal that kept me moving: get to Copenhagen for my niece’s confirmation. I wanted the cancer out of me as soon as possible and pushed to have surgery and radiation scheduled as early as safely possible. My radiation oncologist and her team even stayed late one evening so my mapping could be completed sooner. My sister kept saying it was okay if I missed the confirmation. But I wasn’t okay with that. I didn’t want cancer deciding where I could show up. I was told not to plan travel right after treatment, because if the radiation machine malfunctioned, everything would shift. So I accepted that I had done all I could and waited. Somehow, everything held. I finished radiation in time. I was traveling with my partner and our then six-year-old daughter. We almost missed our first flight to London because we relaxed too long in the lounge; the gate agent even called asking where we were. We ran and made it. Then London was a mess: forty minutes to deplane, a terminal change, and a security line that barely moved. With a four-hour layover, we shouldn’t have been rushed, but we were. We only made our connection to Copenhagen because that flight was delayed. It was a relief to finally land in Copenhagen. But about five minutes into deplaning, a flight attendant announced, calmly and firmly, "Leave your things and get off the plane." No explanation. There was chaos and confusion. One woman ahead of us tried to take all her bags, so many she couldn’t even walk forward. That added to the anxiety. I scanned the exits. I remembered that a friend once mentioned her belief in the premise of Final Destination and decided not to revisit that thought. My daughter looked to me to understand how to respond. I kept my voice steady: "We’re okay. Leave your things." She had her headphones around her neck and left them on her seat too. If only the adults on the plane could follow instructions so easily. Once we reached the jetbridge, the adrenaline released. I cried, and I wasn’t the only one. Through the windows, we saw fire trucks hosing down the plane. We later learned hydraulic fluid had leaked onto the front tire during landing, causing it to catch fire. So yes, the trip I had worked so hard to make began with an evacuation. Did I mention I’m a fearful flyer? And it didn’t calm down from there. Our luggage disappeared into the post-Covid baggage system. We waited until almost 11 pm before being told to go home; they couldn’t open the cargo hold because of hydraulic issues. The next day we bought clothes and toiletries. When the bags were finally located, we missed the delivery call, and the next window didn’t work, so on day two we took public transit back toward the airport to retrieve them from a warehouse. But we were there. At the confirmation. With family. Cancer had not taken that from me. Now 3 years later, I am still here, and I still fly. Because after everything, that’s what living looks like.