Prince Rupert has a long and storied history in the seafood industry, once home to large-scale commercial fishing operations, canneries and processing plants. But much of that history is just that — history. Now, Coastal Shellfish, an Indigenous aquaculture company, is slowly changing the tides as it builds its business and sells its first product: Great Bear Scallops. 

“Prince Rupert produces some of the most iconic seafood in the world,” Michael Uehara, president and CEO of the company, said in an interview. 

Coastal First Nations — an alliance of nine nations on B.C.’s central and north coast — started exploring the viability of shellfish aquaculture in the region in 2003, testing various species including oysters and geoducks. In 2013, the nations formed Coastal Shellfish, with Metlakatla First Nation as the majority owner, and started producing scallops. Three-quarters of employees are Indigenous. 

Last year, Coastal Shellfish took over the former Canfisco Seal Cove processing plant in Prince Rupert. Photo: Prince Rupert Port Authority

The decision to focus on scallops was based on sustainability, Uehara said. Scallops are filter feeders, so farming them in the ocean means they clean the water while they grow. 

“Our idea essentially establishes what amounts to a restorative ocean patch that would create ecological benefits, but more importantly, not create ecological harm, and delivers, at least calorically, a tremendous amount of sustenance.”

Coastal Shellfish operates a hatchery and ocean farm sites, and last year opened a processing plant. Uehara said it’s the first seafood plant on the north coast to open its doors in about 15 years. 

“A couple of years ago, I said that once we started selling scallops live in Prince Rupert, we would become the live scallop capital of North America by virtue of the fact that nobody else is doing it,” he said with a laugh.

‘Nothing says inclusion like ownership’

The concept of establishing sustainable Indigenous-led businesses on the West Coast was a prominent part of the Great Bear Rainforest Act, an agreement between the B.C. government, the Coastal First Nations and other First Nations whose territories are within the area. The agreement became official in 2016 and had been in the works since the late 1990s.

The agreement includes land and marine use management plans, which were announced in 2006. As part of these plans, the provincial and federal governments each contributed $30 million to support conservation and sustainable economic development projects, matching $60 million contributed by philanthropists and conservation groups.  

The donors, governments and First Nations agreed to set up a trust called Coast Funds to administer the money to Indigenous projects that meet the goals of the agreement. Coastal Shellfish was the first project Coast Funds supported.

Coastal Shellfish staff show off their harvest. Photo: Michael Uehara

Brodie Guy, executive director of Coast Funds, said the trust has invested $4.7 million to date in Coastal Shellfish, including providing funding last year to support the development of the processing plant. He added the intent of all this investment is to shift the north coast economy from one based on extraction by outside interests to one that is driven by local and First Nations interests. 

“Coastal Shellfish is really an amazing result of the vision that communities had 20 years ago,” he said.

Uehara said seeing the vision become reality is gratifying. “Our goal has been fairly ambitious to produce … an economy of inclusion for Indigenous communities in coastal British Columbia,” Uehara said. “And quite frankly, nothing says inclusion like ownership.”

Scallop aquaculture is new to B.C. waters

Marine biologist Brian Kingzett is vice-president of the company and runs the technical side of operations. He said the project has had its fair share of challenges. Scallop larvae are microscopic and extremely sensitive. 

“If you look at them sideways, they die,” he said in an interview. 

Scallops produce as many as 30 million eggs in a single spawning event, he said. “The idea is that one will survive.” 

To successfully grow scallops for a commercial operation, the Coastal Shellfish technical team had to figure out how to increase that survival rate. In the hatchery environment, naturally occurring bacteria in the water can either sustain the scallops or kill them. It took years of trial and error to determine the right mixture of bacteria that allows the animals to survive and thrive.

“We’ve found a recipe of probiotic marine bacteria just like the probiotics in your yogurt,” Kingzett said. 

In the hatchery, the scallops also need a food source. “They have very high nutritional requirements, so we spend most of our time actually growing the food, the phytoplankton that we feed them,” he said. 

A Japanese scallop cultured by Coastal Shellfish. Photo: Brian Kingzett

Young scallops in a collapsed lantern net. Photo: Brian Kingzett

From the hatchery, the shellfish are transferred to the ocean, where they are susceptible to the smallest changes in the marine environment. “We’re a lot like a terrestrial farmer trying to learn what his farm will do, except we can’t add nutrients to the soil,” Kingzett said.

Unlike farming fish such as salmon, shellfish aquaculture poses very little ecological risk. Farmed fish are fed a variety of ingredients in pellet form, while farmed shellfish get their food from the natural environment. Wasted pellets and faeces from farmed fish enter the marine landscape and can cause the oxygen content of the water to decrease, impacting other aquatic species. 

Fish aquaculture also introduces chemicals into the ocean from feed, disease treatments and cleaning products used on containment structures. Farmed salmon in particular can transfer diseases and sea lice to wild salmon. 

Farmed fish can also escape from containment areas and compete with wild populations. The very nature of shellfish like scallops means the chance of escape is slim. And in restorative aquaculture operations like Coastal Shellfish, sustaining the natural ecosystem is embedded in the process.       

B.C. salmon farms regularly under-counting sea lice, study finds

Because there are very few scallop aquaculture operations in North America, Coastal Shellfish has largely had to rely on ingenuity to achieve success. The company recently hired a young biologist from Hokkaido, Japan, with experience in scallop aquaculture. 

“At least on the farming side, we’re trying to borrow more tech and ideas from Japan, where it’s very well established,” Kingzett said. 

He added that there are still a lot of unknowns, but Coastal Shellfish has steadily increased its operations and the product itself is quickly becoming a sought-after item in high-end Vancouver restaurants.  

Sustainability and food security at forefront

While Vancouver makes up a large part of Coastal Shellfish’s market, Uehara stressed the importance of creating food security in the northwest and pointed to the pandemic as an indicator of that need. B.C. imports much of what ends up on grocery store shelves — in the early days of the pandemic, a lot of those shelves were suddenly empty.

“We’re facing incidental shortages of things that we have no idea where they came from,” Uehara said. “I think we owe it to ourselves to start exploring the possibility of supplying ourselves.”

Kingzett agreed and said it’s a global issue. “We’re gonna hit 10 billion people whether we like it or not by 2050. And because seafood consumption is increasing rapidly, the pressure on the world’s oceans is huge.”

The commercial fishing industry in northwest B.C. still exists, but much of what is caught is shipped south for processing and isn’t available to locals. “The long and short of it is the seafood economy of Prince Rupert and the north coast is a shadow of its former self,” Kingzett said. 

How do you revive that local seafood economy? Look for long-term sustainability.

“We’ve got a history of resource extraction, either in wood or fish or mining or whatever, and to a certain degree that’s still happening,” Kingzett said. “The idea here is to hit all pillars of sustainability.” 

The new plant is located in a former fish processing plant and offers jobs to people who previously worked there. 

Coastal Shellfish crew members harvest scallops from one of their ocean farm sites. Photo: Brian Kingzett

Before the plant opened, Coastal Shellfish wasn’t able to sell the live scallops directly to local businesses because they had to first go through a licensed plant. The nearest plant was in Vancouver, 16 hours away by truck. As soon as the company opened the local plant, its first customer was Daisuke Fukasaku, owner and chef of Fukasaku restaurant on Prince Rupert’s waterfront.

“The focus of my business is sustainability and locality,” he said in an interview. “The first thing I want to do is to show my customers how fresh scallops are. So having scallops on the shell in my fridge is one of my greatest appreciations.”

Before Coastal Shellfish, Fukasaku could only buy scallops from Vancouver, after they’d been shucked and cleaned. “All I wanted was scallops in the shell.” 

Now, he proudly features the product on his menu. “They have [a] really great mindset,” he said of the people behind Coastal Shellfish. “I always have fun working with them and they support my business in so many ways. We are like good partners, like best partners.”

Uehara said Coastal Shellfish has been steadily selling scallops to several local businesses. “I was so happy to see that the local consumers here have become a viable part of the market.”

One unlikely customer is the local brewery, Wheelhouse Brewing. Head brewer Craig Outhet wanted to try reviving an old beer recipe he’d stumbled upon. He said the history of oyster stouts goes back to Victorian times, when oysters were a bar snack.

Briny beer, anyone? Photo: Wheelhouse Brewing

“In the 1920s, some breweries in New Zealand started adding oysters directly into their stouts during the brewing process,” he said in an interview. 

Outhet thought it would be interesting to try substituting scallops for oysters, so he bought a large quantity from Coastal Shellfish, shucked and cleaned them, and put them in during mashing, the first part of the brewing process.

“I took the scallops out of the mash and they were warm and partially cooked, so I ate them — and they were good.” 

When he transferred the partially brewed beer to the kettle, it had already acquired a strong briny flavour. He had intended to add a number of shells but found he didn’t need to. “Now I use a lot less scallops than I’d originally intended and I eat them all.”

Uehara said he hasn’t tried the stout but is a regular Fukasaku customer.      

Coastal Shellfish explores vertical farming, growing ‘zombie urchins’

With local and regional markets established and growing, Coastal Shellfish is starting to explore expansion plans and the possibility of producing other species. The company is also looking into vertical farming, which involves suspending apparatuses at different levels in the water. 

Coastal Shellfish is considering farming kelp and sea urchins, also known as “zombie urchins” due to their insatiable appetite for kelp. When sea otters were hunted to near-extinction in the 19th century, sea urchins suddenly had no predators and decimated kelp forests. While sea otters have made a comeback, there is still an imbalance in the ecosystem, which the company thinks it could help rectify. 

Kingzett said the idea is to take the urchins out of the fishery, bring them to the vertical ocean farm and feed them with farmed kelp until they’re big enough to sell. Sea urchin gonads, known as uni, are a delicacy in Japan and popular in sushi. 

Kingzett said he can grow more kelp in Prince Rupert than anywhere on the coast because of its clean, cold and productive waters but doesn’t have a market to sell it. By using farmed kelp to feed urchins, the company could provide a solution that not only helps the ecosystem but also continues to build a sustainable local economy.

“The idea is to use what we’re doing with the scallops as the backbone of rebuilding this Indigenous-driven seafood economy.”

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The Haíɫzaqv (Heiltsuk) Nation’s cancellation of its financially and culturally important spawn-on-kelp fishery due to COVID-19 is in the international spotlight, with a letter by Canadian scientists and Haíɫzaqv resource managers appearing in the journal Science on Thursday. 

The letter states that the Haíɫzaqv approach presents a “stark contrast” to government and industry decisions to deem extractive industries as essential services. 

COVID-19 concerns have been raised at mines, hydro dams and oilsands camps, with B.C.’s Interior Health Authority linking 19 cases of COVID-19 to an outbreak at the Kearl Lake oilsands project.

“The Haíɫzaqv fishery closure demonstrates the effectiveness of informed, responsible decision-making by community members themselves,” the letter states. 

“It also demonstrates an alternative to centralized management approaches. State-led fisheries have faced criticism for making decisions that are isolated from the nuances of individual communities, for viewing resources through a narrow lens of stock productivity and extraction and for paying too little attention to complex social outcomes.”

In April, Fisheries and Oceans Canada allowed fishing to continue but pulled at-sea observers from trawlers, reverting to electronic methods like video to monitor the industry. (Observers are now permitted, but not required, on vessels if safe working procedures are in place.)

The Haíɫzaqv Nation consulted with the 692 members who had signed up for the fishery in March before the hereditary and elected leadership decided to close it. The short fishery, which only lasts five to six days in March or April, is carried out by hanging lines of kelp upon which herring lay their eggs. The eggs — or roe — are harvested and the herring are unharmed.

“We’re going to protect ourselves, and we’re going to do that at any cost,” said Kelly Brown, director of the Haíɫzaqv Integrated Resource Management Department and one of the authors of the letter. 

The Haíɫzaqv suffered a major economic and cultural blow by closing the fishery, but Brown said they are hoping to “lead by example” in their cautious response to COVID-19.

Kelly Brown, director of the Haíɫzaqv Integrated Resource Management Department, says the security of Haíɫzaqv people is more important than money. Photo: Louise Whitehouse / The Narwhal

The letter notes the remote community’s limited medical capacity and the risk posed to Elders, “who comprise most of the remaining fluent speakers of Haíɫzaqvḷa.”

The Haíɫzaqv won the right to have the spawn-on-kelp fishery after a hard-fought battle in the Supreme Court of Canada that proved they had practised a commercial fishery before the arrival of Europeans.  

In 2015, Haíɫzaqv citizens occupied a Fisheries and Oceans Canada office and successfully drove out a commercial herring gillnet fishery opening in Haíɫzaqv territory to protect herring from overkill. Protecting the fishery has been an act of protecting their sovereignty.

The fishery has also been a major source of revenue, exporting the roe to Japan. Brown said a member can make between $5,000 and $12,000 depending on the quality of the roe. But he said all the members agreed safety was more important.

“It’s never about the money,” he said. “Obviously we want security, but our people matter and we’re not going to leave them at risk for the sake of a dollar.” 

Keeping fishery closed also keeps visitors at bay

Brown said visitors, including those from the United States, have been trying to access Bella Bella via yachts and sailboats. The community will provide fuel and groceries by boat but won’t let anyone dock.

“We’re getting nervous,” Brown said.

More than 100 new COVID-19 cases in 72 hours were reported in B.C. on Monday, leading provincial health officer Dr. Bonnie Henry to warn people to exercise caution.

“We do have a possibility of having explosive growth in our outbreak here in B.C. if we’re not careful in how we progress over the summer,” Henry said on Monday.

Meanwhile, lodges on Haida Gwaii have reopened and the community reported its first COVID-19 case on July 18, despite the Haida Nation’s efforts to restrict visitors. The Haida Hereditary Chiefs’ Council has now said the Queen Charlotte Lodge “has lost its welcome” on Haida Gwaii. 

The sea remains a ‘safe place’ during tough times

Despite the cancelled fishery, Brown said people are spending a lot of time on the water harvesting for sustenance. 

Haíɫzaqv Councillor Louisa Jones-Housty grew up on the water and has been running her own boat with a crew of family members for the past four years. She said she’s still been out in her boat despite the chaos of the pandemic.

“It’s my safe place,” she said. “It’s where I want to be.”

Heiltsuk rising: inside the cultural resurgence of one B.C. First Nation

While the community has gotten by without a COVID-19 case, it has still been hit hard with two local businesses shutting down and 24 deaths in two and a half months unrelated to COVID-19. About 1,400 people live in Bella Bella.

“The big thing is mental wellness. This has impacted so many people in so many different ways,” she said. 

The number of deaths is overwhelming for the community and really brought home how devastating a COVID-19 outbreak could be when the small morgue was overwhelmed after four deaths in 24 hours.

“A lot of community members weren’t able to come back to say final goodbyes,” she said. “It’s so sad.”

But Jones-Housty said community members are sharing the load, fishing for those that don’t have boats and making sure “everyone’s freezers are full.”

She said she is looking forward to the day everyone can gather in their Big House, which was built last year and is the first one on the territory in 120 years. 

“Our culture is the basis of our life, our identity. We need to be there and gather our strength, and get strength from each other.”

The Narwhal’s reporters are telling environment stories you won’t read about anywhere else. Stay in the loop by signing up for our free weekly dose of independent journalism.

Ernie Tallio has seen a lot on patrol from his community of Bella Coola, B.C. He’s rescued swamped kayakers, recovered bodies and protected sacred sites throughout his community. 

As a Nuxalk Guardian, Tallio relies on a boat and a truck owned and maintained by the Nuxalk First Nation, a salary to feed his family and gas to get him out on the land. 

Those costs — and those of guardians and staff in 14 communities throughout the Great Bear Rainforest — are partially paid for through an obscure scheme intended to put a price on the protection of land.

But a carbon offset project that was developed specifically to fund protection of the Great Bear Rainforest is struggling to find buyers. In fact, the only reliable buyer is the provincial government, which set up the B.C. carbon market in the first place.

The papers that established the B.C. Forest Carbon Offset Protocol were signed in 2008, and the first credits hit the market in 2012, to great fanfare. 

But sales of B.C. carbon credits have not come close to living up to expectations. 

“When the whole carbon market was started in B.C., everybody thought that these tonnes [of offset carbon] were just gonna fly out the door,” explains David Oxley, an administrator at Coastal First Nations.

Everybody, it turns out, was wrong. 

“I don’t think it could be described as a home run right now,” says Phil Cull, CEO of NatureBank, a reseller of the credits. 

As much as $25 million in unsold carbon credits (around 1.9 million tonnes) are sitting on the metaphorical shelf. Some date back to 2013, the second year of sales — and they don’t keep forever. While they don’t exactly expire, carbon credits can lose their value over time.

Monitoring work after the Nathan E. Stewart oil spill in Heiltsuk territory. Photo: Tavish Campbell

“As they get older — as they’re from older vintages — they’re often not eligible to be used in certain systems and are less valuable over time,” explains Joseph Pallant, director of climate innovation at Ecotrust Canada.

The slow sales mean the money that funds a lot of the protection of the Great Bear Rainforest — the world’s last remaining intact temperate rainforest — is under threat. 

About a third of the revenue that funds activities like those of the Nuxalk Guardians comes from carbon credits, according to Brodie Guy, executive director of Coast Funds. 

“You can see how important carbon credits have become in terms of revenue,” Guy says. “It’s funding they use on all these soft costs that are vital to permitting, monitoring, stewarding their territory.”

Slow sales, Guy says, mean the general revenue pools are much smaller than what is necessary to fund the breadth of work being done on the coast. It’s been a mounting concern for coastal First Nations and the NGOs they work with for the past two years.

“It puts the whole framework of what they’ve done over the last 10 years in jeopardy.”

Carbon offsets, explained

Carbon offsetting is a simple concept that gets complicated as soon as it hits the real world. Think of it this way: you burn a litre of gasoline getting your car to the store and back. That releases a stream of carbon dioxide, which contributes to climate change. If you want to reduce that impact, you have two choices: don’t drive your car, or offset the impact of the emissions you did release by planting a tree. The tree pulls carbon from the air and stores it.

A carbon market is a big system for putting a value on the emissions we produce, and supporting projects to reduce them — things like tree-planting, building wind farms or, in the case of the Great Bear Rainforest, supporting stewardship instead of logging. 

It can work either voluntarily, by people or companies looking to do good, or by regulation, by having the government set a cap on emissions. Companies then pay others, who are emitting less, to keep their overall emissions below that cap. 

In its 2008 climate plan, the B.C. government pledged it would offset all of its own emissions to become the first carbon-neutral jurisdiction in North America. It achieved that, arguably, beginning in 2011. That was seen as laying the groundwork for a bigger cap-and-trade system. 

“The carbon neutral government was supposed to be the first step in B.C. adopting cap-and-trade regulations,” Cull explains.

The cap-and-trade system would have provided a massive new market in which the credits could have been sold. 

Two bald eagles perch on old-growth in the Great Bear Rainforest. Photo: TJ Watt

“Demand would have been in the millions or tens of millions of tonnes, right out of the gate,” Pallant says. Each of those tonnes can be worth as much as $15 to a buyer. 

But the system never happened. In 2011, the B.C. Liberal government under premier Christy Clark abandoned the cap-and-trade plan, meaning all the offsets generated in the Great Bear Rainforest are either bought voluntarily, or bought by the provincial government. 

The provincial government buys about 600,000 to 700,000 tonnes of carbon offsets each year to account for what it generates in emissions. But the Great Bear Rainforest produces much more than the province needs. It’s currently sitting on 1.9 million tonnes of unsold “inventory,” or credits.

“Collectively, the Great Bear projects generate more carbon offsets each year than the province can reasonably purchase under the carbon neutral government program,” a spokesperson for the Ministry of Environment and Climate Change Strategy wrote in an emailed response to questions.

Meanwhile, demand from the voluntary market (the do-gooders who want to offset their emissions) hasn’t kept up with supply: a report from Forest Trends in 2017 found the total worldwide value of offsets sold was cut steadily, reaching just a third of its 2011 value by 2016. Demand in the voluntary market shrank by 24 per cent between 2015 and 2016 alone. 

Slow sales

When the project was first announced, the belief was that everyone would want to buy their carbon credits from the Great Bear Rainforest because of its worldwide appeal.

“We’ve got a great story behind the tonnes,” Oxley says. “When you buy our carbon offsets, we can tell you exactly where the money is going.”

Guy agrees the region has major cachet.

“The Great Bear is a model of Indigenous self-government and stewardship that’s known around the world,” he says.

But in setting up the project, the B.C. government made a decision that some have blamed for the lack of international interest.

Carbon markets are a relatively new thing, and as a result they can be plagued by mistrust. Buyers are often paying someone not to do something, like cut down a stand of trees. That requires trust that a) the trees exist, b) the trees would have otherwise been cut down, and c) the person will in fact not cut down the trees after the deal is done. Even after all is said and done, parties have to determine exactly how much carbon was spared in the process. So, naturally, there have been carbon-offset scams in the past. 

Third-party verification systems have been set up to audit the claims made by offset projects, and bring some trust into the system. One, the Verified Carbon Standard (VCS) has emerged among the most trusted. And it does have a protocol that could have been applied to the Great Bear Rainforest.

“Corporate voluntary buyers are much more comfortable with VCS as a standard,” Cull explains.

But, anticipating a cap-and-trade market that never arrived, the province created its own standard, the B.C. Greenhouse Gas Emission Offset Protocol. The result is that it’s more complicated and time-consuming to verify them, making them much less attractive to big buyers.

“People didn’t think nature should be commodified.”

“We’ve talked to some purchasers in the States, and they don’t want to buy carbon offsets that aren’t clean and unquestioned,” Oxley says.

Pallant disagrees with the interpretation that the province went wrong in setting up its own system instead of adopting an existing standard. He points out that all governments developing cap and trade compliance systems build their own standards and protocols, rather than utilizing a voluntary offset standard.

Building a tailored system is the standard approach, he says. “It wasn’t really a decision that could go another way.”

The province has subsequently created a way of linking the credits with the Voluntary Carbon Standard for buyers who prefer those credits.

Pallant points the finger more at the lack of a cap-and-trade system and the demand it was supposed to create, and at the general decline in demand for credits on the voluntary market. That lack of demand was exacerbated in this case, he says, by a skepticism from environmental organizations toward forest-based offsets.

A 2008 report from the Pembina Institute and David Suzuki Foundation, which ranked different kinds of offsets, put forest-based offset programs in five of the bottom six ranks out of 20. None were given a “strong performance” rating.

“People didn’t think nature should be commodified,” he says. 

A white kermode bear, or spirit bear, in the Great Bear Rainforest. Photo: TJ Watt

Carbon juggernauts could create demand

To people like Tallio and his crew, these offsets aren’t just jargon. They’re a system to fund jobs that have real value to their communities. They have saved lives across B.C.’s central coast.

The carbon offset revenue also allows First Nations to apply for matching funding from philanthropists and government agencies, opening up even larger new pots of money.

So it is critical for the communities that they find buyers. 

One of the possibilities presents a paradox for the environmentally conscious: liquefied natural gas. The giant LNG Canada terminal being built in Kitimat is going to generate huge carbon emissions — around 3.45 million tonnes of carbon dioxide equivalent per year in its first phase alone, doubling or tripling in its final state.

One way for the carbon behemoth to slightly reduce its impact would be to buy up offsets, protecting rainforest in exchange for its huge carbon output. Cull says the government is considering that. 

Pallant and Oxley both expect the Paris accord to be another source of new interest. Companies will have to account for their emissions starting this year under the agreement, and many are beginning to look for a way to offset their emissions in the voluntary carbon market. The Canadian government is also setting up its own federal offset standard.

Meanwhile, some of the world’s most recognizable brands have begun voluntarily offsetting their own emissions. Microsoft is buying carbon credits to offset its emissions retroactively to its founding, with the goal of being carbon-negative by 2030. Gucci claims it is now carbon-neutral. JetBlue is offsetting as well.

“Voluntary offsetting is going up quite significantly,” Pallant says. “The interest is picking back up.” 

Oxley says he’s “quietly optimistic” that things will start to pick up, and the carbon credits will start to move off the shelf. If they do, guardians up and down the coast can breathe a sigh of relief.

“The work that it’s supporting,” Oxley says, “it just makes it all worthwhile.”

The Narwhal’s reporters are telling environment stories you won’t read about anywhere else. Stay in the loop by signing up for our free weekly dose of independent journalism.

Large numbers of logs are being left behind at logging operations in the Great Bear Rainforest, according to data analyzed by The Narwhal.

The Narwhal investigated the waste levels after receiving photographs of logs abandoned by Interfor on Gilford Island, which is in the southern portion of the iconic temperate rainforest that is known the world over for its ecological values and allegedly leading forest practices.

According to a provincial government database that can be used to track logging rates by individual companies, Interfor — one of the world’s largest lumber companies — logged a little more than 493,000 cubic metres of wood in the North Island-Central Coast Natural Resource District, which includes the southern Great Bear Rainforest, in the first 10 months of 2019.

During that same time period, the company reported leaving behind nearly 115,000 cubic metres of logs. Meaning for every four trees logged and taken to market at least one tree was left behind to rot in the forest from which it was logged.

Photographer Tavish Campbell, who grew up on Sonora Island in the southern portion of the Great Bear Rainforest, documented some of the wood waste on Gilford Island in March of this year, noting droves of yellow cedar and cypress logs left behind.

Campbell told The Narwhal the most extensive waste was higher up mountain slopes where the company was engaged in very expensive helicopter logging, or “heli logging,” operations. 

Waste piles containing scores of sizeable cypress tress on Gilford Island. Photo: April Bencze

A map showing the boundary of the Great Bear Rainforest on the coast of British Columbia. Gilford Island, where Interfor logging operations are taking place, is shown by the red square. Map: Carol Linnitt / The Narwhal

‘An incredible amount of waste’

“There’s an incredible amount of waste in the heli blocks because they’re only wanting to take the most valuable wood off the hill,” Campbell told The Narwhal.

“In the heli blocks we walked they’re leaving lots of logs. They’re leaving the yellow cedar. They’re leaving the hemlock and the balsam. Anything that’s even slightly substandard, they’re bucking and leaving it there. They’re just targeting the best red cedar.”

Interfor logging operations on Gilford Island in the Great Bear Rainforest. Photo: Tavish Campbell

There is reason to believe, however, that the actual levels of wood waste are far higher than the numbers that the provincial government tracks.

That’s because Interfor and other companies increasingly use an obscure formula for calculating the number and the value of the trees they log — a formula that is almost impossible to verify after the fact. There is no independent auditing of what companies report.

Under the formula, known as “cruise-based” pricing, small sample plots are analyzed and used to project the total number and value of standing trees to be logged on a larger parcel of land. 

The assessment is important because it’s also used to calculate exactly what the provincial government will receive from logging companies by way of payments known as “stumpage” fees. The fees are paid to the province in recognition of the fact that the trees are logged on Crown or publicly owned lands and that the public is entitled to a share of the value of the trees after they are logged.

The forests of Gilford Island in the Great Bear Rainforest contain great diversity that may not be reflected in “cruise-based” assessments. However, there are no independent audits to verify if companies are accurately representing the value of trees in cutblocks. Photo: Tavish Campbell

The Great Bear loophole: why old growth is still logged in B.C.’s iconic protected rainforest

‘Limited’ government oversight

Cruise-based pricing is controversial, however, because it only works if the sample plots that are selected truly represent the number, diversity and value of trees on the wider landscape. Because once the cruise assessment is accepted — there is no checking on what is logged after the fact.

Mark Haddock, who recently completed a report on “professional reliance” for the provincial government, warned that there is potential “vulnerability” associated with cruise-based sales because there have been known cases where the volume and the value of trees were underestimated using the system — in one case a witness said he found this to be done deliberately.

If, for example, numerous plots of smaller trees are considered to be representative of the whole, when in fact some plots may have much larger trees, then the larger, more valuable trees aren’t captured in the estimates and the companies pay less stumpage on those trees.

Giant cedars on Gilford Island. Photo: April Bencze

“In the past, there have been known issues with underestimation of timber volume and quality that led to enforcement issues, professional association disciplinary cases and litigation,” Haddock noted in his report.

“Oversight of these policies and procedures depends on government’s capacity to carry out audits and compliance and enforcement, which the Ministry [of Forests, Lands, Natural Resource Operations and Rural Development] acknowledges is very limited.”

The alternative to cruise-based pricing is a more expensive system, in part because it has built in checks and balances. On non-cruise-based logging sites, some logs are actually “scaled” or measured to ensure that the companies accurately report what they say they log. These logging sites are referred to as “normal production” sites in the database, and are also commonly referred to as “scale-based” logging sites.

But no such checking occurs with cruise-based sales. Also, under cruise-based sales there is no reporting on how much waste is left behind because the waste is allegedly already paid for and built in to the up-front calculations.

Interfor logging operations. Photo: Tavish Campbell

Big trees ‘worth exponentially more’

All of which means that the actual level of waste at Interfor’s logging operations is likely to be far  higher than the numbers reported in the provincial database because of the large amount of wood that is being logged by the company under cruise-based sales.

In the first 10 months of 2019, the amount of logging done by Interfor under cruise-based sales was a reported 298,000 cubic metres or 60 per cent of everything the company logged in the North Island and Central Coast region.

If the unrecorded log waste at the “cruise-based” sites matched that on the scale-based sites where the logging waste must be reported, then Interfor’s log waste levels would rise by nearly 176,000 cubic metres.

“We’ve lost the ability to track at a finer scale, particularly when it comes to these big old trees.”

Jody Holmes, a biologist and project director with the Rainforest Solutions Project, estimates that when all is said and done the actual waste at logging operations throughout the Great Bear Rainforest may be much higher because of the potential for under-reporting with cruise-based pricing.

She notes that next to Interfor, the largest entity using cruise-based pricing is actually BC Timber Sales, an arm of the provincial government that awards allotments of timber to companies that bid on the right to log.

Farlyn Campbell, sister of Tavish, on an Interfor cutblock on Gilford Island. Photo: April Bencze

Logging company Interfor’s operation on Gilford Island, located in the southern tip of the Great Bear Rainforest. Photo: April Bencze

She worries that a “level of detail” is being lost with such sales that makes it almost impossible to verify what is actually being logged in the Great Bear Rainforest, which opens the system to abuse.

“We’ve lost the ability to track at a finer scale,” Holmes says, “particularly when it comes to these big old trees. Those big old cedars are worth exponentially more than the other stuff. You only need four or five of them in a block to all of a sudden make it incredibly valuable.” 

In response to emailed questions, the provincial forests ministry told The Narwhal that it is confident that cruise-based pricing is statistically sound and that it ensures that the public gets a fair return for what is logged. The ministry added that the system is designed to “capture the variation” of value in different trees, whether they are big or small, younger or older, or of lower or higher economic value.

“The province believes that these standards are sufficient to capture the variation of the stand,” the ministry maintained. It also added that because cruise-based pricing takes into account the waste that may be left behind at logging sites before the actual logging takes place, that that waste calculation is built into the final prices paid by the logging companies.

This means that there may actually be less logging waste on such sites because there is a built-in incentive for the companies to not leave trees behind. The objective, the ministry said, is to encourage “maximum utilization” of what is logged.

An Interfor cutblock where waste piles were re-harvested for merchantable timber. Photo: Tavish Campbell

The Narwhal contacted Interfor and was instructed to submit emailed questions about logging waste and other issues.

Blaire Iverson, a professional forester and Interfor’s area manager for coastal woodlands ultimately responded with a letter. In it, Iverson said that “the industry as a whole has been working to improve utilization and we are implementing policies that the provincial government has put in place.”

“Interfor is proud of our operations being fully compliant with all legal requirements,” Iverson said.

Update December 17, 2019 3:30pm pst: This article was corrected to clarify that the filing of inaccurate information on the value of trees in cruise-based sales may not necessarily be deliberate, but was described as deliberate by an expert witness. That expert witness told the Forest Appeals Commission that a cruiser working on behalf of Apollo Forest Products “deliberately tried to keep the tree count low.” The commission subsequently found Apollo in violation of the Forests Act.

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Tavish and Farlyn Campbell have a deeper appreciation for what goes on in British Columbia’s remote coastal inlets and forests than the vast majority of people who are twice their age.

The twins, now 30, grew up on Sonora Island, which is only accessible by boat or floatplane.

From the age of 13, they were skippering sailboats on multi-day journeys in and around what is today known as the Great Bear Rainforest.

So when they tell you that things aren’t right in the so-called “jewel in the crown of B.C.,” they speak from direct experience.

Tavish is the first to admit that the message is not an easy one for people to hear, especially with most British Columbians sold on the idea that the Great Bear Rainforest is somehow different from other regions of the province.

A magical place where wolves feed on salmon and ghostly spirit bears tramp over carpets of deep moss and fern covering the forest floor. Where curious sea otters float on their backs watching kayakers pass by. Where humpback whales breach and auklets dive for pooling herring. And where First Nation villages dot the coastline, their totem poles and big houses bleached a ghostly grey by years of exposure to the sun, wind and rain.

Gilford Island, located near the southern tip of the Great Bear Rainforest boundary. Photo: April Bencze

Farlyn and Tavish Campbell in an Interfor cutblock on Gilford Island. Photo: April Bencze

Little if any logging takes place in this mythical landscape, which remains terra incognita for most British Columbians given the time and expense required to get there. Or if it does, it conforms to “some of the most stringent legal requirements” found anywhere on earth.

At least, that’s what the public was told to expect by conservationists, industry and the provincial government alike when a “landmark” agreement to protect vast tracts of the region’s forests and set out new allegedly stringent conditions for resource extraction on adjoining lands was reached nearly four years ago.

That agreement, unveiled with fanfare by then premier Christy Clark at the University of British Columbia’s Museum of Anthropology on February 1, 2016, formalized the conservation of nearly 3 million hectares of land on the province’s central and northern coasts and placed another 550,000 hectares of land — an area equivalent to 1,375 Stanley Parks — into a new distinct zone where special “ecosystem-based” logging would take place.

Giving the industry what it wants to cut

But for the Campbells and others, that logging looks virtually indistinguishable from the logging that initially galvanized conservation organizations and First Nations to try to protect the coastal rainforest in the first place.

“For us on the ground, I don’t even know the words to describe it. It’s pretty devastating for us to see what’s going on … and to know at the same time that people think that the Great Bear Rainforest is saved,” Tavish says. “There’s so many different loopholes and ways for industry to make everything look good on paper, but still give the industry what it wants to cut, which is the most valuable wood, which is the big trees.”

“Not only is it business as usual, it’s worse than that. Because now it’s green-washed.”

In some ways, Tavish ruefully says, it may actually be worse today than what it was before the agreement was reached. Because now the logging has the alleged blessing of the environmental community.

“Not only is it business as usual, it’s worse than that. Because now it’s green-washed. So it’s business-as-usual, but it has this stamp of approval from everyone in B.C. because they think the Great Bear Rainforest is saved.”

Interfor logging on Gilford Island. Photo: Tavish Campbell

A map showing the boundary of the Great Bear Rainforest on the coast of British Columbia. Gilford Island, where Interfor logging operations are taking place, is shown by the red square. Map: Carol Linnitt / The Narwhal

This spring, Tavish and Farlyn travelled to Gilford Island, an area of intense logging activity in the more southern reaches of the rainforest. The logging was done by Interfor, a company that recently announced that it will close a sawmill in Vancouver, part of an industry-wide wrenching series of mill closures that has plagued communities in the interior and the coast of B.C.

Along with others, the Campbells tromped through clear-cuts high up on the peaks of the island, as well as logging blocks at lower elevations. Much of the logging they documented included the harvesting of very old and very large cedar trees. 

Cedar trees have been used for thousands of years by First Nations all up and down the coast. But in the last half century, in particular, they have been logged at a brisk clip by Interfor, TimberWest and others, raising concerns about what will be left for First Nations in particular, because of their strong ties to the tree.  

Jody Holmes, a biologist and project director with the Rainforest Solutions Project, spent years negotiating with the provincial government, forest companies, First Nations and others to help put in place new conservation areas and a different type of logging in the region. She says it is no accident that the iconic tree of the coastal temperate rainforest continues to be targeted.

“Those big old cedars are worth exponentially more than the other stuff. You only need four or five of them in a block to all of a sudden make it incredibly valuable,” Holmes said.

But that incredible value appears to be precisely what is leading to the trees’ demise.

Great Bear Rainforest ‘gift to the world’ came at our expense, says Kwiakah First Nation

Logging the rarest of the rare

Holmes says in and around Gilford Island in the southern portion of the Great Bear Rainforest only about 11 per cent of all the trees that were actually there before the logging companies arrived were the iconic giant cedar, hemlock and fir trees found on “high productivity” sites.

That number has shrunk precipitously ever since.

“They’re very rare. They’re getting targeted,” Holmes told The Narwhal. “Only three per cent of what was originally old is still old. Ninety-seven per cent of it’s been harvested.”

Holmes says that this is not what conservationists had in mind in 2009 when negotiations over the future of the Great Bear Rainforest reached the point where there appeared to be agreement that in forests where limited logging would take place a sincere effort would be made to protect trees based on the unique qualities of the sites where the trees grew.

Tavish Campbell, far left, and his sister, Farlyn, far right in an Interfor cutblock, containing enormous cedars, that has yet to be logged. Photo: April Bencze

Farlyn Campbell walks along fallen trees in an Interfor cutblock. Photo: April Bencze

Not all trees in a forest grow on sites with the most advantageous growing conditions. Which is why you don’t find big trees of jaw-dropping size everywhere. Back in 2009, Holmes says, the idea was that the Great Bear Rainforest’s forests would be protected representatively and that the industry would not be allowed to essentially target the biggest and best for logging while conserving everything else.

“There were targets, specifically for different types of species and combinations,” Holmes says. “They actually had to set aside each of the species and productivity types.”

But by the time the 2016 agreement was reached, “ecosystem-based” logging had morphed into something else, a commitment to protect “fully intact ecosystems” on the land base.

Within that new commitment, ecosystems began to be treated as monolithic, overlooking the variation of trees within. Companies have used this to their advantage, logging the biggest and oldest trees at location after location, while simultaneously claiming that what is left behind is adequate to protect the overall health and diversity of the forest. 

‘An enormous loophole’

The 2016 agreement, Holmes now laments, “opened up an enormous loophole” that allowed the logging companies “to harvest every last stick of big, older trees,” while simultaneously claiming that they were meeting their conservation targets.

“We’ve been pushing back on that for four years with the industry to absolutely no avail. In fact, they are fighting us tooth and claw on this one,” Holmes said.

Other aspects of the Great Bear Rainforest agreement have opened up additional loopholes.

The biggest of those are allowances that grant companies permission to build roads through nominally protected old-growth forests.

Forestry roads on Gilford Island. Photo: Tavish Campbell

“Basically, in almost any circumstance, they can build a road through old growth that would otherwise be protected so that they can access the wood [on the other side]. But nobody’s watching,” says Jody Eriksson, another Sonora Island resident who has been active in monitoring logging in the southern extremities of the Great Bear Rainforest along with Tavish and Farlyn.

Farlyn said that she, her brother and Eriksson saw example after example of suspect road-building throughout the region; roads that were often built right next to or across older roads that could have been upgraded and used instead.

“We definitely have examples on East Thurlow Island where they built roads right through the nicest trees,” Farlyn says. “It’s just insane to have that many roads crisscrossing an island.”

Roads for forestry, which are permitted to be built through old growth, can be haphazardly routed. Photo: Tavish Campbell

‘We know that our territory is being overharvested’

Rick Johnson is chief of the Kwikwassut’inuxw Haxwa’mis First Nations, which have a small community on Gilford Island known as Gwa’yuasdam’s. Johnson said in a letter to The Narwhal that the community is “severely understaffed and under resourced” and was never part of the discussions leading up to the creation of the Great Bear Rainforest Agreement.

“We know that our territory is being overharvested, not just for logs, but for clams, prawns, crab, and our salmon return numbers were tragically low this year,” Johnson said. “We are working towards having tough discussions with industries to do something about this. While there are 80 per cent of the forests [that] are protected in the GBR north, the GBR South has far less areas protected.”

As part of the process of trying to come to terms with how their tiny nation fits into the broader construct of the Great Bear Rainforest, Johnson said discussions have been initiated within the community about how best to move forward. Those discussions include both what to do about what are seen to be unsustainable logging rates but also to ensure that what logging does take place benefits the community more than it currently does.

“Kwikwassut’inuxw Haxwa’mis only have less than than 5 per cent of the forest tenures in our traditional territory, we do hope to use it to invest in our community.”

Johnson added his nation is interested protecting their entire traditional territory, which would involve setting a sustainable harvest rate that protects our culture and values. 

“Are we there yet? No.”

An overview shot of Interfor logging on Gilford Island. Photo: Tavish Campbell

Johnson added that at present there are three jobs held by nation members in logging and that the feedback from the nation’s members is that they want “more benefits from the forests versus seeing the opportunities literally sail by on a boat of logs leaving our territory.”

The Narwhal also sought comment from Interfor, receiving a letter in reply to emailed questions. 

In the letter, written by Interfor’s area manager for coastal woodlands, Blaire Iverson, the company said that it works closely with the Kwikwassut’inuxw Haxwa’mis before logging operations take place. “We do not proceed with operations until we have worked through a review with the nation and have their support for our planned operations. We are blessed with a two-way relationship between Interfor and the nation and have many ways in which we provide support to one another.”

Iverson went on to say that contrary to assertions that older and bigger trees are getting targeted for logging, that “85 per cent of the forest is reserved from harvest and the remaining 15 per cent is available for sustainable harvesting” within the Great Bear Rainforest.

According to rules set out for “ecosystem-based” logging in the Great Bear Rainforest, 30 per cent of an ecosystem must remain intact. Photo: April Bencze

Of that 15 per cent, less than 1 per cent is harvested annually, Iverson said, adding that, when all is said and done, in areas that are logged, “a minimum of 30 per cent” of each ecosystem must be retained.

It’s that 30 per cent that onlookers like the Campbells worry isn’t sufficient to protect ecosystems in a meaningful way. 

Since touring Gilford Island, Tavish says he has renewed appreciation for the importance of conserving old-growth forests and a deepening suspicion for what can be achieved with “ecosystem-based” logging.

“Right now, the only thing that’s going to actually save these large, rare trees, is these hard conservancies, these hard boundaries, these protected areas where there is just zero logging allowed,” he said. 

“That’s the only thing right now that’s actually saving big trees. Outside of that, there’s so many different loopholes and ways for industry to make everything look good on paper, but still give the industry what it wants to cut.”

Update Sunday, December 1 at 1:44pm: This article was corrected to clarify that Interfor is a Canadian company and not a U.S.-based company as previously stated. The vast majority of Interfor’s operations are located in the U.S. but the company’s headquarters are in Vancouver.

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Bella Bella, B.C. — One of the first things I noticed as I stepped into the Bella Bella airport’s one-room waiting area was a notice board covered in job postings for the Big House opening in October.

It was all hands on deck as the Heiltsuk Nation prepared to open its first new Big House in 120 years. Everyone I met during my four days in Heiltsuk territory was brimming with excitement for the grand opening — from passengers on the seabus to students helping with painting to the Coastal Guardian Watchmen.

To understand the significance of this moment, one has to understand a bit of the history of this place.

At one time the Heiltsuk had more than 50 village sites on the central coast of what is now known as British Columbia. Colonization — and the accompanying smallpox and influenza — reduced the Heiltsuk from a population of more than 10,000 to just 200 people, consolidated in one village. Their big houses were burnt to the ground.

For decades, the customs of the Heiltsuk were driven underground. Now, with the opening of the Big House earlier this month, those practices will be honoured in a sacred place once more.

“It’s going to fill a void that we didn’t know was there,” said elected chief councillor Marilyn Slett. “We’re so strong right now as a people, but I know when that Big House is built, watch out.”

A bald eagle in Bella Bella, B.C. Photo: Louise Whitehouse / The Narwhal

Heiltsuk elected chief councillor Marilyn Slett. Photo: Louise Whitehouse / The Narwhal

The Big House is just the tip of the iceberg in terms of the cultural resurgence happening in Heiltsuk territory.

The cultural programs are almost too many to count. Students learn to smoke fish during “Salmon Day” at the local school and youth attend cultural rediscovery and science programs during the summer at Koeye Camp.

Those “campers” are returning to the community in large numbers to take up leadership positions. Jess Housty, acting executive director of Qqs Projects Society, is one of them.

“This past summer when we were at our youth camp, we had second-generation campers in critical mass numbers for the first time,” Housty said. “We know that people who were campers in my day … are now sending their children out there.”

The new boardwalk at the Kunsoot Wellness Project, which is being build to be accessible to elders and people of all levels of mobility. Photo: Louise Whitehouse / The Narwhal

A building crew takes a break at an old cultural cabin at the site of the new Kunsoot Wellness Project. Photo: Louise Whitehouse / The Narwhal

The opening of the Big House provides a moment to reflect on all of the progress that’s been made in the last generation.

“I’m in my early 30s and I’m in the first generation in my family where no one was apprehended to residential school and no one lived under the potlatch ban and our culture being illegal,” Housty said. “Sometimes we talk about that like it’s ancient history, but it’s actually such a close thing that still has resounding impacts on the way we live our lives now.”

Housty and her father, Larry Jorgensen, took us on a tour of the Kunsoot Wellness Project, a land-based healing centre that will be home to family camps, retreats and school field trips starting in spring 2020.

Larry Jorgensen at the site of the new Kunsoot Wellness Project. Photo: Louise Whitehouse / The Narwhal

“To pause and look around at everything that’s happening in our territory right now and in our community, to know that they tried to strip us of our culture and know we’re opening a huge, beautiful Big House that is a sacred space to practice the customs that our ancestors kept alive through all of that,” Housty said.

“To know that they tried to remove us from our land and our traditional resources and yet we have things on the horizon like Kunsoot that are opportunities for us to re-occupy the spaces where our ancestors lived, to know that my generation and the generations that are coming after me can live their best lives as Heiltsuk people unfettered by the laws that regulated us off of our territory and away from our culture, I think is just incredible.”

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Brian Falconer is more than happy to admit that he and his colleagues at Raincoast Conservation Foundation have dismal records as guide outfitters.

In fact, in the 33,500 square kilometres of B.C.’s Great Bear Rainforest where Raincoast holds the commercial hunting licence — which gives the organization the right to escort foreign hunters into the area to shoot black bears, cougars, mountain goats and wolverines — the success rate has been zero.

Unless, that is, you count the wildlife photos.

“The only ones that can take anyone in for trophy hunting is Raincoast and we take a different type of hunter,” said Ross Dixon, Raincoast communications director.

Guide outfitters have exclusive rights in the area of their licence to take non-B.C. residents on hunting trips. Hunting for food by B.C. residents does not come under the purview of guide outfitters.

Raincoast is now raising funds for the $100,000 deposit needed to secure the commercial hunting tenure for the Kitlope, the world’s largest intact area of coastal temperate rainforest where the longest fjord in the world stretches into the heart of the province.

The site of an old cannery in the Kitlope at Wakasu. A Canadian Pacific Railway steamer used to bring tourists here. Pictured here is the vessel Maple Leaf of Maple Leaf Adventures. Photo: Alex Harris / Raincoast

A swallowtail butterfly at M’Skusa, the final estuary before Kitlope Lake. Photo: Alex Harris / Raincoast

Trophy hunting of wolves, black bears and cougars legal in B.C.

The Kitlope has been protected from logging since the Haisla Nation and the province signed a joint management agreement in 1994. The provincial government banned grizzly bear hunting in 2017, but trophy hunting for other species is still allowed.

Cecil Paul, hereditary chief of the Xenaxiala people, described the Kitlope and the species that live there as the bank of his people.

“They have been robbing our bank for years for no purpose other than to put a trophy on their wall,” Cecil told Raincoast.

“We don’t understand this and we want to stop it.”

It is a sentiment shared by many British Columbians who are surprised to learn that trophy hunting is still allowed in the Great Bear Rainforest and in most provincial parks, Falconer said.

Raincoast has until the end of July to raise the deposit, with about $85,000 already raised. Once the deposit has been paid, fundraising will start for the $550,000 needed to complete the purchase that will give Raincoast the hunting rights for another 5,300 square kilometres, including the Kitlope Conservancy and surrounding area. The deadline for raising the full amount is December 2020, but, with the support of the Haisla Nation, Raincoast aims to have the tenure secured by the end of this year.

It may seem expensive Falconer said but trophy hunters are willing to pay more than $35,000 to kill bears, wolves and cougars and more than $10,000 for mountain goats, bighorn sheep and moose, meaning the value of commercial hunting tenures has soared.

“And remember $550,000 can’t buy half a house in Vancouver,” said Falconer, who, almost 30 years after first visiting the Kitlope at the invitation of the Haisla and Xenaksiala Nations, remains awestruck at the beauty of the area.

A black bear in the Great Bear Rainforest. Despite a ban on the trophy hunting of grizzly bears, black bears can still legally be hunted in British Columbia. Photo: April Bencze / Raincoast

‘It’s like Yosemite on steroids’

“It’s breathtaking and overwhelming. I have never seen a place like it,” he said describing glacial, milky water, trees more than 1,000 years old and granite walls stretching up thousands of feet.

“It’s like Yosemite on steroids. There’s a waterfall every 100 yards —it’s the land of waterfalls — and when you get to the head of (the fjord)  there’s a gigantic, beautiful estuary with willow and alder and sedge meadows so you have all the river species and birds. It’s the highway of the north coast for wildlife,” Falconer said.

Which is exactly what makes it so attractive for trophy hunters.

One of many waterfalls in Gardner Canal. Photo: Alex Harris / Raincoast

A river flows through an area of the Great Bear Rainforest known as the Kitlope. Photo: Alex Harris / Raincoast

The ultimate goal of Raincoast is to buy all commercial hunting licences in the 64,000 square kilometres of the Great Bear Rainforest, so the area will be protected not only from trophy hunters, but also political whims. In 2002, for instance, the Liberal government scrapped the short-lived ban on grizzly hunting brought in by the former NDP government.

The organization also hopes that, by eliminating the need for governments to compensate tenure holders, it will remove a major disincentive to restrict trophy hunting of other species.

However, everything depends on Raincoast’s capacity to fundraise and, unless there is a massive cash donation, not all offers to sell tenures can be immediately accepted

“Other guide outfitters have approached us, because they see the writing on the wall. … There’s certainly more potential. It’s the new economy. It’s the non-extractive economy of B.C. that isn’t wasteful or extractive,” Falconer said.

A grizzly bear in an intertidal area in the Great Bear Rainforest. Grizzly bear trophy hunting is now banned in British Columbia, but hunters can still kill black bears, wolves and cougars. Photo: Alex Harris / Raincoast

An estuary at Wakasu in the Great Bear Rainforest. Photo: Alex Harris / Raincoast

From hunting guides to wildlife viewing operators

There is no better illustration of the changing economy than in the Kitlope where the tenure has been held since 2015 by Angus Morrison of Wild Coast Outfitters, who is now transitioning his business to wildlife viewing.

Morrison, who also works as a helicopter pilot, said his primary motive in selling the tenure to Raincoast is conservation.

“They probably have the best plan for preserving what is left. I love the wilderness and I travel quite a bit and there is a definite decline. It’s not that I think the hunting, as we were doing it, was wiping out the animals, but the motivation behind some of it is a bit murky,” Morrison told The Narwhal.

“If the animals are already under pressure, I don’t see the point in continuing to hunt them. I think we need to slow down resource extraction and commercial fishing and I know that’s easier said than done.”

Hunting trips booked through Wild Coast Outfitters were conducted on foot and were tough going, which weeded out clients who simply wanted a quick kill, a big head on the walls and bragging rights, but there is that element in the industry, Morrison said.

“I like the idea of seeing people going out there and showing them grizzly bears and things without killing the animals,” he said.

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Conservation officers have found two grizzly bear cubs dead at the Thorsen Creek landfill in the Bella Coola Valley in B.C.’s Great Bear Rainforest.

“You could see where the cubs were hit,” inspector Len Butler with B.C.’s Conservation Officer Service told The Narwhal

“Tracks and the blood on the road” also suggest the mother of the cubs was struck, Butler said, though conservation officers haven’t found her.

The two cubs are the first grizzly bears to die from human-related causes in the Bella Coola Valley this season, which Butler called a “busier than normal” year for conflict between people and grizzlies.

Officers received a report that the cubs were run over on the Thorsen Creek Bridge on the main highway on June 30. The Bella Coola Valley is narrow.

“Bears do frequent the bridge crossings,” Butler said.

It’s “maybe anywhere from two to five kilometres across the whole valley,” Nuxalk fisheries and wildlife field coordinator Jason Moody told The Narwhal.

Grizzlies make their dens higher in the mountains, but follow creeks down to the river, following “the different runs of salmon as they arrive in the different creeks.”

The river is also where you will find communities of people. And “all these houses are on salmon streams,” Moody noted.

Getting to those salmon runs, bears pass right through communities, where other things can look like food: garbage, fruit trees and smokehouses can be enticing for bears. Nuxalk research has also shown that fruit trees become more appealing to bears as salmon stocks decline. Since 2014, the Nuxalk Nation has used hair sampling to track grizzly bear populations and movement in the Bella Coola Valley.

“If there’s no salmon, any attractant is increased in value at that point. So cherries, apples, gardens,” Moody said. It’s something the Nuxalk didn’t see when “there was always a stable supply of salmon,” he added.

“You have these wild stocks that are suffering or disappearing completely in other watersheds all around us,” Moody said.

But in the Bella Coola area, human efforts are helping to bring back salmon. The Snootli Hatchery, located 11 kilometres from town, releases various salmon species, including chum, into the Bella Coola River and tributaries.

A grizzly bear eats berries. Photo: Jefferson Bray

The problem with fruit trees

“In the area right now we do have a lot of bears that are wandering around,” says inspector Butler. “It’s been a very interesting year. The bears did come out early and start getting into the fruit trees.”

“The scat that’s up and down the highways right now is just pure cherry pits,” Jefferson Bray, who runs a small chalet and offers nature tours in the Bella Coola Valley, told The Narwhal.

The deaths of the two grizzly bear cubs don’t come as a surprise to Bray, who has kept tabs on grizzly bear deaths since moving to the area 15 years ago.

“We knowingly bait them into conflict and we don’t really do anything about it,” Bray said, referring to the fruit trees he sees around the valley, many of which are not secured with electric fencing. “These little cubs are just the first.”

Moody has been helping with the Nuxalk Bear Safety Group since its start more than five years ago. Unlike other community bear programs, this one puts the safety of bears first.

“There’s a deep respect that we have for the bears, which stems from a lot of our creation stories,” he said.

“The private homeowners have to realize there are going to be bears walking up salmon-bearing creeks.”

Grizzlies follow salmon streams into the Bella Coola Valley. Photo: Jefferson Bray

From spring to fall, when grizzly bears are out of their dens and looking for food, the Nuxalk Bear Safety Group wants to help them make their way safely through the Bella Coola Valley.

“There’s increased anxiety as they go throughout the valley because they’re getting pushed from one property to the next,” Moody said.

In some cases, property owners take things into their own hands when grizzlies are on their properties, Moody said. A video of a man shooting at a mother grizzly bear with her cubs went viral in the fall of 2018. The issue of how people deal with bears on their property is not new and far from over.

Securing potential bear attractants

There are efforts to encourage individuals to secure anything that a bear might consider food. The Nuxalk Bear Safety Group helps people with electric fencing kits to use around fruit trees and smokehouses. They also install cameras and monitor bear behaviour to see if fencing is working. Other services include pruning and removing trees and picking up things like composting fish guts from someone’s property if the person doesn’t have access to a vehicle.

Still, not all properties in the valley have been bear-proofed. Bray says part of the issue is attractant laws aren’t tough enough. In many cases, it’s up to landowners to decide whether or not they will do things like put electric fencing around fruit trees.

“The provincial laws are meaningless as they’re written and it makes for impotent, useless enforcement and it is a liability,” Bray said.

The Wildlife Act indicates that property owners are required to make sure attractants are secure, with exceptions for various activities including farm operations, leaving it up to many individuals to decide whether or not to keep attractants out of the reach of bears and other wild animals, Bray said.

While these laws are province-wide, Bray said there’s an opportunity for the Central Coast Regional District to “create a bylaw that circumvents … the exemptions made in the Wildlife Act and the Farm Act.”

“They could basically make a bylaw stating that people must contain their attractants for the safety of all in our community,” he said.

Without that, there are limits to what conservation officers can enforce, though they do encourage landowners to use electric fencing and other means to secure attractants like fruit trees, Butler said.

For Moody and the Nuxalk Nation, the big picture is keeping grizzly bears safe in the long run. The genetic population counts the nation is undertaking are showing preliminary numbers that are far less than provincial population estimates of grizzly bears, Moody said.

When it comes to grizzly bears, “Bella Coola is known as a black hole,” he said. “That’s the image we’re trying to change.”

The Bella Coola Valley used to be a destination for those seeking to make a grizzly bear trophy kill. Since British Columbia’s trophy hunt ended in 2017, Moody has noticed a fresh approach from the province.

“They have a lot more time to actually do work on the ground and with the bears directly,” said Moody.

Currently, the Nuxalk Nation is doing collaborative research with the British Columbia government to look at the sustainability of bear-viewing related activities.

Still, Moody said, there are different attitudes in the valley when it comes to grizzlies that are counter to the approach of the Nuxalk.

“We want we want people to live here … sustainably with the wildlife,” Moody said, “rather than … trying to keep this oasis of their property separate from all the rest of the Great Bear forest.”

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The grizzly bears of Glendale Cove are the stars that draw international visitors to Knight Inlet Lodge. They are also the catalyst for one of the more than 100 successful First Nations businesses launched with the help of Coast Funds, an Indigenous-led conservation finance organization created through the 2006 Great Bear Rainforest agreements.

“It is 100 per cent First Nations owned and it opened up our eyes to opportunities beyond resource extraction and shone a light on the opportunities and benefits of ecotourism,” Dallas Smith, president of Nanwakolas Council and Knight Inlet Lodge, told The Narwhal.

The former fishing lodge was bought two years ago from Dean and Kathy Wyatt by Nanwakolas — representing the Da’naxda’xw Awaetlala, Mamalilikulla, Tlowitsis, Wei Wai Kum and K’omoks First Nations — with a $6-million investment from Coast Funds, which allocates funds across the Indigenous communities of the Great Bear Rainforest and Haida Gwaii.

“It was a fair chunk of change and one of the great things is it has shown First Nations can work together in ecotourism opportunities when we pool our assets and those of Coast Funds,” Smith said.

The success of the ecolodge can be measured in occupancy rates of 90 to 95 per cent, with the majority of visitors coming from markets such as Europe and Australia.

The Great Bear Rainforest covers 6.4 million hectares on British Columbia’s north and central coast — equivalent in size to Ireland. The land is home to 26 First Nations. The 2006 agreements outlined forest practices for the area, including protecting 70 per cent of old-growth forest.

Map: Coast Funds

Coast Funds was established with funding that came through First Nations’ reconciliation agreements with B.C. and Canada, in combination with funding raised through private donations.

In addition to financial help, Coast Funds has provided help with business management and scientific training so community members can learn more about the bears and other wildlife populations.

Knight Inlet Lodge now offers 13 wildlife viewing opportunities with seven bear viewing stands, an array of small boats that take visitors up spawning channels for a closer look at the bears and 52 wildlife cameras — down from 57 as five were destroyed by wolves or bears.

As much effort is put into bear monitoring and gaining a better understanding of bear life cycles, diet and migration routes as is put into offering a good experience for customers, Smith said.

“We make sure that we are not having an impact on bear health and there are not too many boats crowding into the same inlet. You are not even allowed to sneak a cookie into the boat,” Smith said.

Four Guardian Watchmen have been trained for Knight Inlet, with another three in training, and the monitoring program is a model for managing the surrounding territories. Indigenous-led guardian programs empower communities to manage ancestral lands according to traditional laws and values.

Guardian Watchmen are the eyes and ears on the lands and waters of the Great Bear Rainforest. Pictured here are members of the Coastal Stewardship Network — one of the first projects for which Coast Funds’ board approved funding. Photo: Alishia Boulette

Knight Inlet is an example of the achievements of the conservation finance funds, which promote community well-being and Indigenous-led sustainable development and stewardship, Brodie Guy, Coast Funds executive director, told The Narwhal.

Over the last decade, more than 1,000 permanent jobs have been created, 100 businesses have been developed or expanded and 14 regional monitoring and Guardian Watchmen programs, operating across 2.5 million hectares, have been created or expanded, according to a Coast Funds report released this week.

Funding approved for 353 projects has attracted more than $286 million in new investment to the region between 2008 and 2018 and every dollar spent by Coast Funds leverages three or four dollars, according to the report.

“We are demonstrating that conservation finance, led by Indigenous people, is the key to protecting the world’s most precious ecosystems, such as the Great Bear Rainforest and Haida Gwaii,” Guy said.

One key is that funding is allocated across the communities, rather than one big pot, so it avoids the gold rush mentality or competition between First Nations, Guy told The Narwhal.

“It’s completely up to the nation based on their vision for moving forward and their stewardship of the land and water in this period of — hopefully — decolonization,” he said.

Spirit Bear Lodge in Klemtu sponsors the Súa youth cultural program to support cultural reconnection with Kitasoo/Xai’xais traditions. The lodge is owned-and-operated by the Kitasoo/Xai’xais Nation and employs 10 per cent of the local population. Photo: Súa youth cultural program

Fisheries technicians from Lax Kw’alaams Fisheries Stewardship program hold up a red rock crab while conducting Dungeness biosampling as part of surveys occurring year-round in Stumaun Bay and Big Bay. First Nations have conducted 222 species research and habitat restoration initiatives with support from Coast Funds. Photo: Lax Kw’alaams fisheries stewardship program.

Initiatives include more than 220 species research and habitat restoration programs, 71 projects involving access to traditional foods and 50 protecting cultural assets.

The larger projects range from a renovated grocery store in remote Rivers Inlet to a unique sustainable scallop project and, so far, of the more than 100 businesses started or expanded, only four have failed, Guy said.

Most are community owned and the low failure rate demonstrates the strategic, strong and smart leadership of First Nations applying for projects, he said.

“We are moving away from a totally extractive economy with publicly traded companies coming into the Great Bear Rainforest and Haida Gwaii and extracting value and leaving little value there,” Guy said, underlining that a new way of doing business has taken root.

“We are shifting from an extractive and exploitative model of development to one that has benefits for everyone. It’s not just Indigenous people that are benefitting. It’s everyone of the Central Coast,” he said.

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B.C. Senator Larry Campbell has told a Sunshine Coast resident of Scandinavian descent to “move to your previous Europe,” “get some help for your social anxiety,” and “enjoy your make-believe world” after she wrote to Campbell and other senators urging them to support Bill C-48.

The bill, which would effectively ban large oil tanker traffic along B.C.’s north coast from the tip of northern Vancouver Island to Alaska, was recently rejected by the Senate’s transport committee after passing third reading in Parliament, where it was supported by MPs from four out of five political parties.

Ann Haglund emailed all 105 senators on May 22 urging them to back the bill, which formalizes a voluntary oil tanker moratorium that has existed for more than 30 years. The Senate can vote to pass the bill despite the transport committee’s 6-6 deadlock vote that meant the committee did not recommend the bill for passage into law.

Campbell, who doesn’t sit on the transport committee, was only one of two senators to respond with more than a courtesy acknowledgement of Haglund’s communication.

Email exchange personifies Canada’s growing divide over oil extraction

But Campbell’s return message was far from what Haglund was expecting and a terse email exchange ensued between the two — one that personifies the growing divide in Canada over the future of oil extraction amidst a growing climate crisis.

After Haglund emailed Campbell telling him that Europe is leading the rest of the world in phasing out gas-powered vehicles, saying Canada should be a leader, “not a follower,” and suggesting that Campbell wanted Canada to follow in “your brother Trump’s ways,” the senator became condescending.

“It is clear that while you can whine and complain you personally do nothing,” he shot back on an email from his iPhone that was part of the heated exchange, shared with The Narwhal by a third party.

“Eventually you might mature although I doubt it. . . Like most of your ridiculous statements you suppose rather than find truth. Given all of you[r] weird statements I’d recommend you get some help for your social anxiety.”

Campbell, the former mayor of Vancouver, did not return a call and email from The Narwhal.

‘Extremely problematic’ for unelected Senate to veto majority will

The loaded comments from the independent senator come as Bill C-48 risks derailment in the wake of intense lobbying of senators by the oil industry and as the unelected Senate tests the limits of its power following reforms introduced by the Trudeau government.

If the oil tanker ban  — promised by Prime Minister Justin Trudeau during the last federal election campaign — is rejected or stalled by the Senate without going to Parliament for royal assent before the current legislative session ends June 21, it will die on the order paper.

“It strikes me as being extremely problematic that an unelected body is trying to veto the will of a majority government that was elected on a promise to ban oil tankers on the north coast of B.C.,” George Hoberg, a political scientist in environment and natural resource policy at UBC’s School of Public Policy and Global Affairs, told The Narwhal.

“I think the Senate has been able to maintain some legitimacy by not overstepping its role historically.”

Former Liberal MP Jody Wilson-Raybould, Prime Minister Justin Trudeau and Art Sterritt walk on the boardwalk in Hartley Bay, B.C., along the proposed Enbridge Northern Gateway oil tanker route.

Senate ‘lobbied heavily’ to reject Bill C-48

Only rarely has the Senate, whose members are appointed by the governing political party, ever vetoed bills. Yet Bill C-48 is not the only bill currently held up in the Red Chamber as members test new rules aimed at transforming the Senate into a non-partisan chamber.

Also stalled are a bill introduced by former interim Conservative Party leader Rona Ambrose that would require training for judges in sexual-assault law and Bill C-69, which overhauls the review process for major projects, including pipelines.

MP Nathan Cullen, whose riding of Skeena- Bulkley Valley includes the north coast, said senators have been lobbied in an “an exhaustive effort” by the Canadian Association of Petroleum Producers (CAPP), individual oil companies and groups with special interests.

“It’s affecting bills from different parties,” Cullen said in an interview. “Yet there’s a common theme where the Senate has been lobbied heavily and maybe feels like it has the authority to reject bills that the Canadian people democratically voted for.”

Enbridge, Imperial Oil, CAPP all lobbied senators

From November 20 to April 11, CAPP lobbied senators 19 times, meeting up to four senators on the same day, according to the federal lobbyist registry.

Records show that CAPP lobbied Alberta independent Senator Paula Simons, who cast the deciding transport committee vote recommending that the Senate reject Bill C-48, on three different occasions during that time period.

Sixteen individual oil and pipeline companies and groups also lobbied a slew of individual senators from November 2018 to the end of April 2019, reporting a total of 122 lobbying communications with senators, including with more than one senator at a time, according to the registry.

Those companies and groups included Enbridge, Imperial Oil, TransCanada and the Canadian Energy Pipeline Association.

Cullen said the new Senate rules — which have left a majority of senators sitting as independents and Conservative senators as the only remaining overtly partisan group in the chamber — have “emboldened” senators, even though they are not elected and not accountable to Canadians.

“The well-connected lobbyists have come to realize that this might be an avenue for them to have influence,” Cullen said.

“That also creates a difficult scenario for Canadians because they can’t afford lobbyists to take folks out for dinner.”

Oil spill cleanup near Gale Creek, in Heiltsuk territory on October 29, 2016. Photo: Tavish Campbell / Heiltsuk Tribal Council

Coastal First Nations call lobbying ‘very concerning’

As the clock ticks down to the end of the legislative session, Coastal First Nations sent an open letter to Parliamentarians this week noting that the pledge to formalize the tanker moratorium tanker ban was popularly endorsed when the Liberals won the 2015 election.

“We are asking you in this letter to abide by the wishes of the electorate and, moreover, to respect your own constitutional role as an appointed chamber,” Coastal First Nations Chief Marilyn Slett told senators in the letter.

In an interview with The Narwhal, Slett emphasized that Coastal First Nations have lived along B.C.’s coast for 700 generations and rely on the coastal economy for their well-being.

“The efforts of others with special interests is very concerning,” said Slett, who is also chief of the Heiltsuk Tribal Council.

“We’d bear the outcome from any [oil tanker spills] that would happen on the coast of British Columbia. . . We’ve seen some of the catastrophes that have happened and we’ve lived through the Nathan E. Stewart spill, which is quite small compared to the grand scheme of what could happen on our waters.”

In October 2016, the Nathan E. Stewart, a 30-metre tugboat owned by the Kirby Corporation based in Houston, Texas, ploughed into a reef near the community of Bella Bella in the heart of Heiltsuk territory.

The accident sent more than 110,000 litres of diesel fuel and more than 2,000 litres of lubricant into the fast-moving currents of Seaforth Channel, contaminating a rich Heiltsuk harvest ground containing more than 25 food items, including sea cucumber, rockfish and halibut.

“People harvested everything there, clams and kelp,” Slett said. “It was a spiritual site. The clam fishing closed for two years. That’s the winter economy for our people. It gets them through the winter.”

Two and a half years later, there is still no environmental impact assessment for the spill, Slett noted.

She said the coastal economy should not be put at stake “for the interests of private industry or a few individuals.”

“This is something we just can’t do.”

Majority of coastal Indigenous communities support oil tanker ban

The majority of Indigenous communities along the coast support bill C-48.

They include the Haida, Heiltsuk, Haisla, Metlakatla, Gitga’at, Kitasoo, Gitxaala and the hereditary leaders of the Lax Kw’alaams.

The elected council of Lax Kw’alaams opposes the oil tanker ban, as does the Nisga’a.

In March, when federal Transport Minister Marc Garneau appeared before the Senate transport committee, he pointed out that two groups vocally opposed to the ban — the proposed Eagle Spirit Pipeline and Aboriginal Equity Partners, representing oil and gas producing First Nations and Metis along the rejected Enbridge Northern Gateway pipeline route — represent private commercial interests.

“I do not see them as being in the same category as coastal First Nations and Indigenous communities,” Garneau said. “The stakes are very different for private sector interests than for communities who would see potentially their livelihoods, culture and way of life imperiled by a serious oil spill.”

Hoberg said he views the controversy around Bill C-48 as a reflection of the increasing polarization of Canadian politics “and especially of the divide between the Alberta, or Prairie, view of things and the rest of Canada’s view of things.”

“This ethic has developed in Alberta represented most forcefully by [Premier Jason] Kenney but also by [former Premier Rachel] Notley before him,” Hoberg said.

“That whole ethic is basically that it’s completely inappropriate for constraints to be placed on the Alberta oil industry. And that’s an absurd notion given the environmental risks and the social risks involved in large scale oil production and especially given the climate emergency.”

Garneau: other countries could send oil tankers along north coast if bill fails

Garneau told the Senate transport committee that if Canada allows crude oil tankers along the north coast there’s nothing to stop other countries from sending large oil tankers into the area as well.

The tanker ban dates back to 1985, when the Canadian Coast Guard, U.S. Coast Guard and industry developed a voluntary oil tanker exclusion zone along B.C.’s north coastline.

The voluntary ban was instituted “due to concerns by Canada about the potentially devastating impacts of a major oil tanker spill off the coast of British Columbia.” Garneau told the committee.

“The legislation is a critical step forward in fulfilling our government’s pledge to achieve a world-leading marine safety system that promotes responsible shipping and protects Canada’s waters,” said Garneau, whose mandate letter from Trudeau included instructions to formalize the tanker ban.

Similar bans exist in the United States in Puget Sound and in the Olympic Coast National Marine Sanctuary. There is also a moratorium on large oil tankers in the Strait of Bonifacio between Corsica and Sardinia and in the Turkish Straits.

Cullen said Bill C-48 is running out of time to become law and the Senate needs to send the bill back to the House within the next week, especially if there are any amendments.

“We’re running out of runway,” he said.

“Senators. . . don’t have a mandate from Canadians. They don’t face that responsibility of going back to voters. Therefore, they have to advise and recommend. But they cannot become the authorities on legislation because they simply don’t have the democratic backing to do it.”

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On a rainy October morning, a small boat heads north from Campbell River, B.C., threading through Discovery Passage en route to an inlet called Phillips Arm.

As we near our destination 90 minutes later, the rain slackens and the forested lands jutting out of the water come into focus. On a rocky outcrop, California sea lions lounge.

We have come to visit the traditional territory of the Kwiakah (KWEE-kah) First Nation, once one of the largest bands in what is now British Columbia. But today it is one of the smallest, with just 22 members remaining.

Their territory lies within the Great Bear Rainforest, a 6.4 million hectare planning area created in 2016, of which a little more than half is forested.

It is touted by the province as a “gift to the world” for protecting 85 per cent of those forests.

But the Kwiakah, in the far south of the designated area, say that, under the agreement, logging in their territory will increase, and that this deal negotiated by the timber industry, province, environmental NGOs and First Nations — 20 years in the making — came largely at their expense.

Disembarking, we walk over ferns and a creek near the Kwiakah’s roughly 20-hectare reserve at the site of an old village called Matsayno. During Matsayno’s heyday, the Phillips River was full of fish, including all five species of salmon, and people hunted grizzlies, mountain goats and other game.

Chief Steven Dick, who has led the Kwiakah for about 35 years, welcomes us to Kwiakah land.

“There were hundreds of people who lived here if not a thousand,” he said. “So it’s very important to the citizens of Kwiakah.”

Kwiakah First Nation Chief Steven Dick. Photo: Erica Gies \ The Narwhal

A sea lion feeds on a salmon near Phillips Arm. Photo: Tavish Campbell

These multitudes declined as people transferred to other nations, were lost in war with other First Nations and died from diseases brought by settlers, he said. Today, most of the remaining Kwiakah live in or near Campbell River on Vancouver Island. They left their territory in the 20th century in pursuit of jobs and services, after early clearcuts on their land and overfishing in their waters, which led to a provincial ban on local fishing.

But now the Kwiakah want to return to their old village site and set up a camp here, says Chief Dick, so they can reconnect with their land. His top priority for his people is “a secure land base where they could have their own community…to have a place where they can call home.”

A 2009 provincial land use order said that timber company Western Forest Products would be allowed to cut 27,000 cubic meters annually from the Kwiakah’s core territory in Phillips Arm. But under the Great Bear Rainforest agreement, B.C. Chief Forester Diane Nicholls gave Western permission to cut 41,600 cubic meters annually — 54 per cent more — in the area.

Then things turned even darker for the Kwiakah.

Last year, Western petitioned the B.C. Ministry of Forestry, Lands, and Natural Resource Operations to combine two timber licences it holds in the Great Bear Rainforest, which would theoretically allow it to cut 275,000 cubic meters annually from Kwiakah land, said Jeff Sheldrake, executive director of regional operations for the B.C. ministry.

A decision has not yet been made on Western’s application, he said. “But Kwiakah’s concern has been well noted.”

Logging in B.C.’s celebrated conservation area?

Although it may seem strange that an area touted for conservation would continue to allow logging, that is typical in Canada, where extractive industries dominate the economy.

In fact, ecosystem-based management, a logging practice meant to ensure that the whole ecosystem continues to function, still allows for clearcuts. Profit sharing with First Nations, whose trees these were originally, means they might get three to five per cent of the government’s share of profits.

That income for First Nations is part of the justification for allowing continued logging in the Great Bear Rainforest: it brings remote communities economic opportunity. Nevertheless, most First Nations that have territory within the Great Bear Rainforest boundary support the agreement in part because it reduced logging potential on their lands. But the Kwiakah territory is now at risk for increased logging, making it harder for them to get past the premise that the Crown controls their lands and sees them first as a timber resource.

The boundary of the Great Bear Rainforest dips down into the traditional territory of the Nanwakolas Council of member First Nations, of which the Kwiakah First Nation is a part. Image based on maps from the Nanwakolas Council and the province of B.C. Image: Carol Linnitt / The Narwhal

“These trees belonged to the nations who lived here,” said Frank Volker, manager of economic development for the Kwiakah. “The government steals the trees from the nation and sells them to a licensee [timber company]. The only reason why that is legal is because the government who is committing that ‘crime’ makes it legal. But that doesn’t make it OK.”

We are walking the boundary between the reserve and Western’s Tree Farm Licence 39, cutblock five, and some of the trees wear orange tags. Later, cocooned in the forest, we hear a helicopter pass directly overhead, perhaps doing early reconnaissance, said foresters in our group.

The making of the Great Bear Rainforest agreement

So why did the Kwiakah end up with such a bad deal?

Much more of the northern Great Bear Rainforest is now off-limits to logging under the agreement, but primarily because it is steeper, more remote and much more expensive to get logs to market. The south has more “valley bottom” habitat close to the water, ideal for timber harvesting, said Sheldrake.

“Parts of GBR [Great Bear Rainforest] do not contain any economic timber value,” he said. Industry is first interested in places where logging makes the most economic sense.

The Kwiakah also say they were excluded from the Great Bear Rainforest negotiations. An umbrella Indigenous group, the Nanwakolas Council, was negotiating on their behalf.

Chief Dick said the Nanwakolas Council kept the Kwiakah in the dark. “They told us about the deal just a few days before it was signed,” Chief Dick told The Narwhal. The Kwiakah rejected it, but at that point it was too late to make changes.

Dallas Smith, president of Nanwakolas Council, disputed the Kwiakah’s claim that they were excluded.

What’s undisputed is that, when the Kwiakah refused the deal, the provincial government began to talk with them directly, said Sheldrake.

Another problem is that the provincial government had a two-tier system in engaging with First Nations, said Jody Holmes, project director for Rainforest Solutions Project and one of the main environmental NGO negotiators of the Great Bear Rainforest deal. Groups “in the tent” had signed a strategic engagement agreement (SEA) with the province. Groups that hadn’t were termed nonaligned or nonparticipatory.

“They would withhold treats to try to get them to come in,” Holmes said. She estimated six to nine nations were non-aligned throughout the Great Bear Rainforest process.

Ultimately the Kwiakah signed a Strategic Land Use Planning Agreement (SLUPA) with B.C., which paid them $380,000. But that money is not a payment to the Kwiakah for logging in their territory, said the Kwiakah’s lawyer, Drew Mildon, with Victoria-based Woodward and Associates. It is intended to give the Kwiakah the resources they need to engage in  administrative duties that forestry requires in B.C., such as consultation.

“Kwiakah have not agreed to any areas or cut rates,” Mildon said. “They have taken the position that the annual allowable cut in the Phillips [area] set by the Crown is unreasonable and does not sufficiently protect wildlife.”

Volker added that the Kwiakah signed the Strategic Land Use Planning Agreement because their consent was needed to finalize the Great Bear Rainforest deal and they support its principle: an attempt to conserve the rainforest. And their lawyer Mildon advised them that signing did not mean that they were agreeing to annual allowable cut rates in the Phillips Arm area.

TimberWest Forest Corp. logging near Phillips Arm. Photo: Tavish Campbell

However, the province has a different legal interpretation: signing on to the Strategic Land Use Planning Agreement is viewed as the Kwiakah’s acknowledgment of the Great Bear Rainforest Land Use Order, Vivian Thomas, communications director for the Ministry of Forests, Lands, Natural Resource Operations and Rural Development, told The Narwhal.

The province stopped short of saying explicitly that the Kwiakah had agreed to the annual allowable cut in the Phillips.

The dustup between Nanwakolas Council and the Kwiakah does raise the question of whether the Kwiakah had the opportunity to give informed prior consent, as is required, Holmes said.

Volker added despite the confusion, one thing is clear: the Kwiakah did not consent to the annual allowable cut rate.

Planning process cost-prohibitive, ‘designed to be difficult’

The advice given to those concerned about the fate of the land by Jeff Sheldrake, the regional director of B.C.’s Ministry of Forests, Lands and Natural Resource Operations, is to “sit down and work hard at this landscape unit reserve design process” in which industry and First Nations negotiate with each other.

And yet, considering the ongoing concern that the province set First Nations on a collision course with companies by assigning industry cut rates on band territories, that position could be read as dismissive.

The landscape unit reserve design process was sold as a great opportunity for First Nations to influence how their land is managed and establish reserve areas where no logging should occur, Volker, manager of economic development for the Kwiakah, said.

“In reality it is a complicated and very expensive process that was designed with licensee [timber companies] interests in mind — not the interests of Indigenous peoples” or the environment, he said.

Chief Dick agreed.

The areas the province and industry identified to protect were in places “they’re not going harvest anyway,” he said. “There’s no need to protect those areas because they’re not at risk.”

On the other hand, the lower valley, which the Kwiakah want to protect — where timber is easily accessible and close to shipping routes — “they’re not wanting to use that area as protected,” Dick said.

Volker said he thinks this process is “designed to be very difficult to understand to make sure the average Joe doesn’t get it and won’t complain or identify the flaws.”

After. Photo: Tavish Campbell

Before. Photo: Tavish Campbell

To sift through its complexity, they hired a forestry consultant. The Kwiakah are taking a stand in the Phillips Arm area, the most important area in their traditional territory, and have already “spent tens of thousands of dollars” engaging in the design process, said Volker.

But they aren’t close to done or optimistic about the final result. And while there are three additional landscape units in their territory, “Any large scale participation of Kwiakah in the LRD [landscape unit reserve design] process for those landscape units was just cost prohibitive,” said Volker.

“We just cannot afford to be active at the same level as in Phillips.”

Logging threatens grizzly bear population, bear viewing business

Later in the day, the sun glances off the Phillips River, reflecting a spotlight onto our group in the otherwise dark forest. In the distance a grizzly bear gallivants into the water, swinging a giant salmon in his mouth.

This grizzly and his relations are a source of income for the Kwiakah. Beginning in 2007, they partnered with nearby Sonora Resort, which pays them an annual fee to take guests to see bears from boats and viewing platforms.

That business is threatened by the proposed logging. Phillips Arm has seen a lot of industrial activity already; poorly executed clearcuts from earlier times were devastating, especially to salmon habitat. Modern clearcuts continue.

Back on the boat in the afternoon, the sky turned blue. Clear cuts of differing ages are visible on the slopes all around us, giving the landscape the look of an uneven haircut.

An orca at home in Phillips Arm. Photo: Tavish Campbell

An important point to note in all of this, Volker said, is the Kwiakah aren’t against all logging.

For example, they signed an agreement with the province in 2018, which acknowledges the impact on Kwiakah rights and title from logging and the lost income from bear viewing due to the industrial disturbance. To compensate them for this loss, the province is allowing the Kwiakah to apply for a forest licence to harvest 30,000 cubic metres (once, not annually).

Ideally the Kwiakah would be able to find this volume in its own territory, Volker said, but they will not cut one tree from Phillips Arm. Not that they could: it is almost entirely licensed to big timber companies. Instead, they have to find an area assigned to a timber company but not yet licensed for cutting and convince both the company and any First Nation with overlapping rights to allow them to cut. Because of these hurdles, the Kwiakah may never see much in the way of profits.

Separately, Western talked about condensing five years’ worth of logging into 18 months, which would leave three-and-a-half years without bear-disturbing industrial activity. The Kwiakah are also pushing for Western to reduce its annual cut for those five years from 41,600 cubic meters to 10,000.

The bottom line is that the Kwiakah don’t think Phillips Arm can tolerate the levels of logging the province has authorized. That conclusion is based on independent scientific studies they commissioned to measure the health of their salmon and bear populations.

Clear-cut logging behind grizzly declines: biologist

Biologist Wayne McCrory, an independent consultant hired by the Kwiakah, is a veteran of more than 30 years of grizzly research. He conducted direct counts of individual bears based on four research trips to Phillips Arm.

“It’s the most messed up watershed I’ve ever seen.” — Biologist Wayne McCrory

In historic times he estimates the watershed likely supported 50 to 60 grizzly bears. But his research concluded that there are just 10 to 12 bears there today — numbers corroborated by another study using DNA hair snagging and remote cameras.

The cause of the grizzly population decline in the Phillips Arm area is primarily clear-cut logging, he said. Logging roads disturb critical grizzly habitat, and massive clear-cutting too close to salmon streams caused landslides, destroying spawning habitat.

A bear in the Phillips River. Photo: Miray Campbell

“It’s the most messed up watershed I’ve ever seen,” said McCrory. Part of the Great Bear Rainforest order calls for identifying watersheds that need recovery and doing restoration.

“In order to do that, you don’t keep clear cutting,” he said. “For a watershed that’s been so — pardon my language — fucked over by the timber industry, they should just leave it alone for 20, 25 years and let it recover and do some restoration.”

‘We have been burned’: Chief

The Kwiakah and Western Forest Products have been negotiating, but the Kwiakah feel burned by previous dealings with the company. The band remains concerned about Western’s application to amalgamate its Tree Farm Licences, which would allow it to potentially harvest its full 275,000 cubic meters annually from Phillips Arm.

In an April letter, Western assured Mildon, the Kwiakah’s lawyer, that, until 2026 when the province adjusts annual allowable cuts, it would not take more than the 41,600 cubic meters annually designated for its Tree Farm Licence that includes Phillips Arm.

In an e-mail, Seanna McConnell, director of Indigenous engagement for Western Forest Products, reiterated, “We will not harvest all of the annual allowable cut from a single geographic location. We will continue to maintain the partition on harvest from the Phillips and Broughton blocks of the TFL [Tree Farm Licence] once amalgamated.”

Despite the assurances, the Kwiakah have little trust in Western Forest Products.

And there’s reason for those misgivings: starting in 2013, Western was negotiating with the Kwiakah to reduce cut levels in the Phillips to 15,000 cubic meters a year and drafted a letter to the province, proposing this solution.

But in an overlapping time period from 2011 to 2014, the forest industry as a whole was negotiating with environmental non-profits. As of 2014, negotiations included a proposal to lift restrictions on logging in the Phillips in exchange for reduced logging in the Great Bear Rainforest as a whole, said Holmes of Rainforest Solutions Project.

“Neither the NGOs or Kwiakah First Nation were aware of the coexistence of these simultaneous and potentially conflicting negotiations with WFP [Western Forest Products],” she said.

Meanwhile, Western was also lobbying the province to increase the cut for the amalgamated Phillips and Broughton areas to 79,000 cubic metres a year, which the company could log entirely from Phillips.

Timber piles on Thurlow Island, adjacent to Phillips Arm. Photo: Tavish Campbell

“We learned about their betrayal in April 2016 when staff in the B.C. Chief Forester’s office informed us that she wanted to move forward with a decision on the new AAC [annual allowable cut] but had not consulted with Kwiakah,” Volker said.

Holmes acknowledges that the changes NGOs negotiated in ecosystem management — meant to protect at least 70 per cent of each type of ecosystem across the Great Bear Rainforest — ended up increasing the amount of logging allowed in Phillips’ valley bottom ecosystem.

In an October 2016 letter to Western Forest Products, Chief Dick wrote, “Kwiakah has worked in good faith to try and reach an agreement with WFP, only to end up feeling we have been duped into investing thousands of dollars and our time and energies in an attempt to negotiate with someone who appears to have never had any intention of reaching a fair agreement with us.”

Hoping to circumvent further struggle, Chief Dick proposed to buy out timber harvest rights in the Phillips.

“We weren’t prepared to enter into those sales negotiations,” Western’s McConnell said they responded via letter.

That reaction didn’t surprise Volker. Citing a price would create poor optics, he said, giving the Kwiakah the opportunity to say, “That’s what these guys think they can charge us for our own trees.”

After decades of advocating for his people, Chief Dick said he is impatient with the pace of change in Canada with regard to Indigenous people.

“I want to see that big shift,” he said, like the Maori, whose claim to self-determination is better recognized by New Zealand. He hopes some of that change will come about by the 10-year review of the Great Bear Rainforest agreement in 2026.

“I hope the political landscape within this province as well as in Canada changes to really take in to consideration the view of First Nations,” he said. “I mean, you’ve got this United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous People — which Canada adopted — and I’m hoping to see those types of approaches be taken seriously.”

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