BROUGHTONS IN THE BALANCE
SALMON RUNS ARE FAILING AND GRIZZLIES SEEM TO BE ON THE MOVE IN THE ISLANDS BETWEEN MAINLAND B.C. AND NORTHERN VANCOUVER ISLAND. WHAT’S GOING ON IN THE BROUGHTON ARCHIPELAGO?
Salmon runs are failing and grizzlies seem to be on the move in the islands between B.C.’S mainland and northern Vancouver Island. What’s going on in the Broughton Archipelago?
OON A FOGGY WEST COAST
morning in October, I pull on boots and rain gear and get ready to go looking for grizzlies. My guide, K’odi Nelson, meets me down at the dock and introduces Sherry Moon.
“She’s our top guide,” says Nelson. “When we’re in the woods, Moon leads the way and I cover the rear. We both have spray, and there’s never been a case of a grizzly attacking a group of more than three people, so we should be okay.”
They both work for Sea Wolf Adventures, an Indigenous-owned agency that guides tourists in bear country. We cruise at slow speed into the Broughton Archipelago — a maze of foggy islands between the coast of central mainland British Columbia and northern Vancouver Island. The sea is smooth as paint, spattered with flocks of murres and the occasional V-wake of a swimming seal. Forested palisade cliffs lean up into the mist. Every few kilometres, a burst of spray announces the appearance of a humpback whale. After the better part of an hour, we reach the precipitous slopes of the mainland. In the creeks and rivers of these coastal mountains, salmon return home to spawn and die. And where there are salmon, there are grizzlies.
At the top end of a narrow fiord, we stop at a tidal flat. As we prepare to go for a walk, Nelson apologizes. “I’m normally a happy sort of guy, so sorry if I seem a bit quiet. I’m feeling kind of heartbroken.”
Mud sucks at our boots as we hike across the tidal flat. Nelson is a hereditary Chief of his band, and he’s worried about the salmon. We stop here and there, examining wide excavations where grizzlies have rototilled the turf, digging up edible roots. Nelson kicks at a heap of manure, hoping for fish fins. “It’s October, the bears should be feeding on salmon, not plants.”
Moon nods. “They need fat for the winter. There’s nourishment in silverweed tubers, but it’s not enough.”
We enter the wet forest and follow a trail through tangled alder and fallen trees. The path, which has been beaten down by a thousand grizzlies, contours the course of the Ahta River. Now and then the glint of water comes through the trees, but the undergrowth is tangled and daunting. Moon walks ahead, with a canister of Counter Assault clipped to her belt.
As we duck and weave through the bush, the guides seem watchful but unworried. They’ve been trained by a professional development organization called the Commercial Bear Viewing Association of B.C. and say they’ve had many close encounters with grizzlies without a problem. After 10 minutes of walking, we reach a small clearing — a high cutbank with a view of the river. We stand there for a few moments, looking down at the dark pool. Except for two or three pale, half-decomposed salmon finning listlessly in the current, the pool is empty. No carcasses on the shore, no bears. On a snag across the river, a scruffy juvenile eagle hunches motionless in the falling rain.
Moon draws our attention to a flattened patch of grass a few steps away from where we’re standing. “That’s a day bed,” she says. “A bear was lying here.”
It’s a good sheltered spot with a wide view of the river. Normally this gravel bar would be a battlefield of dying salmon, splashing hordes of struggling fish, wading bears, squabbling gulls and eagles. But now the river is empty
and the bears are absent. “This river normally gets 60,000 pink salmon,” says Nelson. “This year, so far, we’ve seen 110. It’s a disaster.”
Salmon are a critical energy source for the region’s wildlife, and with this year’s general collapse of the salmon run, Nelson says the whole ecosystem is in trouble. “It gives you a spooky feeling — what’s going on?”
He doesn’t say anything else. But as we stand there looking at the desolate river an unspoken question hangs in the silence. Where are the bears?
THE SHORES … ARE FORMED by stupendous high mountains rising almost perpendicularly from the water’s edge. The dissolving snow on their summits produced many cataracts that fell with great impetuosity down their barren rugged sides. … Mr. Broughton had pursued to the north-ward, an extensive cluster of islands, rocky islets, and rocks. These in commemoration of his discovery, I distinguished by the name of Broughton’s Archipelago. —Captain George Vancouver, 1792
MOST CANADIANS have never been to the Broughton Archipelago or even heard of it. But those who know the place and have visited are unlikely to argue with the proposition that it’s the most extraordinary ecosystem in the country.
Every summer, tens of millions of migratory salmon surge down through the narrow passages between the islands, kicking off a festival of gusto that nourishes everything from killer whales to bears to cedar forests. The straits are alive with seals, eagles, sea lions, porpoises, dolphins and whales. Black bears are commonplace; a daily sight. And grizzlies are abundant enough that bear-watching has become a popular tourist attraction.
Logging and commercial fishing were once the economic mainstays of the region. But ecotourism has recently taken over as the area’s principal economy, and visitors come from all over the world to see the wildlife and spectacular scenery. Ecotourism businesses such as Sea Wolf Adventures and local communities such as Telegraph Cove, on the northeast coast of Vancouver Island, are much busier now than they were during the heyday of resource extraction. Tim Mcgrady, the manager of Farewell Harbour Lodge, a posh ecotourism resort in the Broughton Archipelago, says many of his guests are well-educated and discerning Europeans who have been around the world, have strong opinions about environmental protection and feel lucky to visit
As we stand there looking at the desolate river an unspoken question hangs in the silence. WHERE ARE THE BEARS?