If a tree falls in the forest … he’s on the case
B.C. officer is Mounties’ only forest-crime investigator
ABBOTSFORD, B. C. – Responding to a tip about possible “tree-poaching,” RCMP Const. Cameron Kamiya and a fellow provincial investigator climbed up a steep, rugged trail, surrounded by a mix of new and old-growth forest and dense brush. Then they heard the unmistakable crash-thud of a felled tree.
Two men near the scene at first claimed they were just hiking. But things didn’t add up. Who wears gumboots hiking? Moments later, two more men popped out of the bushes — one was covered head-to-toe in sawdust. They were busted. Kamiya currently has the distinction of being the national police force’s only full-time forest-crime investigator. Falling under E-Division’s major crime section, the job has him criss-crossing the province investigating complex stumpage fraud cases, arson fires, and the theft of high-value maple trees coveted by luthiers — the makers of guitars, mandolins and other wooden instruments.
Things can get a little lonely at times out in the “middle of nowhere,” but the work is never dull, says Kamiya, an avid outdoor enthusiast who studied forestry in college and once worked for a forestry-consulting firm.
Returning this week to the scene of that tree-poaching incident in the Old Clayburn area of Abbotsford, about an hour east of Vancouver, Kamiya pointed to the victim: a broadleaf maple believed to be 120 years old.
Kamiya says that when he and Jeff Mortimer, then a compliance and enforcement specialist with B.C.’s ministry of forests, showed up on the scene last year, the hapless thieves had just sliced the tree near its base with a chainsaw, leaving behind a jagged-edged stump.
“The rest of it is lying down there,” Kamiya said, gesturing down an embankment.
Typically, thieves will chop a tree into pieces and sell those raw chunks to export brokers or to local businesses. A vehicle-trunk load of highquality maple can fetch up to $6,000 from local mills, who, in turn, process the wood for sale to instrument makers.
Thieves, who tend to work at night, target trees with unique grain patterns that resemble a tiger’s stripes or supple waves. Some will go from tree to tree stripping away a bit of bark each time in search of such patterns, leaving behind permanent scars.
Cedar trees have also become a favourite target of poachers. Cedar blocks are sought after for turning into roof shingles. Earlier this year, poachers hacked up in successive waves a giant, 800-year-old red cedar in the Carmanah Walbran Provincial Park on Vancouver Island, causing an uproar among environmental groups.
While citizen tipsters play an important role in catching tree poachers, police are also using surveillance technology — Kamiya wouldn’t say exactly what — to try to catch lawbreakers in the act. On occasion, Kamiya will go the old-fashioned route and hunker down in some bushes, wearing full camouflage gear and face paint.
If he comes across the site of a tree poaching after the fact, he may scour the ground in search of discarded cigarette butts or drink containers for possible DNA and fingerprint traces that could lead him to possible suspects.
“Too bad,” Kamiya says, that penalties for certain forest crimes aren’t a bit stiffer. In the Abbotsford case, two of the four men were charged with theft under $5,000. One, who pleaded guilty earlier this year, was ordered to pay a $500 fine and handed a six-month conditional discharge and six months probation. The charge against the other man was stayed.
Some people say it’s a victimless crime, but it can have ripple effects, Kamiya said. Just think of the safety hazard posed by a tree that hasn’t been felled properly and gets hung up in other trees, or the impact on slope stability.
Driving up a bumpy road in his unmarked truck to another possible tree-poaching site in the Davis Lake area near Mission, Kamiya stops briefly at a clearing popular with gun enthusiasts for target practice.
The area is littered with beer cans, beef jerky wrappers, mattresses, shotgun shells and waste from marijuana grow-ops.
Kamiya crouches down and picks up a bullet casing from a .45-calibre pistol.
“That’s not allowed to be up here,” he says shaking his head. “That can only be at a (gun) range.”
Driving the province’s lonely forest roads, Kamiya has encountered countless oddities — from massive outdoor rave parties, to discarded waste from meth labs.