On a clear, cold day in late October, Paul Berntsen stands on the wooden foundation of a yurt he built himself, watching as his dreams of a non-motorized tourist destination in the Skagit River headwaters go up in flames.

In the valley below, slash piles from recent clearcut logging on East Point Mountain are being burned by forestry company contractors, sending great plumes of smoke into the sky. Through the haze, a vast clear-cut is visible on the flanks of the mountain, which is carved into blocks by a network of new logging roads.

“This is the headwaters of the Skagit River,” he says, pointing to the towering Silverdaisy peak, a mountain immediately adjacent to the clear-cuts, which now provide the backdrop view for his yurt. “It’s going to take decades for this to green up again.”

Berntsen has brought me and photographer Fernando Lessa on a backcountry mountain bike ride into the heart of the Skagit headwaters, about 200 kilometres east of Vancouver. Even assisted by electric batteries, biking to the yurt is a tough slog — we gain more than 850 metres of elevation, riding through a fresh 25-centimetre dump of snow in the upper elevations.

Author Chris Pollon rides an electric bike in the Manning Park ‘Doughnut Hole.’ Slash piles from recent clearcut logging on East Point Mountain are being burned by forestry company contractors, sending great plumes of smoke into the sky. Photo: Fernando Lessa / The Narwhal

Piles of discarded wood are burned near East Point Mountain by forestry contractors. Photo: Fernando Lessa / The Narwhal

The Skagit headwaters are located in an area known as the Doughnut Hole, an anomaly of unprotected Crown land about half the size of the city of Vancouver, completely encircled by Manning and Skagit Provincial parks. 

The headwaters were never protected, in part because they are home to a cluster of old mineral tenures, currently owned by Imperial Metals, the company that owns the Mount Polley mine — the site of one of Canada’s worst mining disasters in 2014. 

A clearcut on a slope of East Point Mountain. Photo: Fernando Lessa / The Narwhal

The headwaters are also home to intact old-growth forests with struggling grizzly bear and recently extirpated spotted owl populations, including two pristine, unlogged tributary valleys.

Berntsen is in his early 60s, but retains the wiry stature of a backcountry mountain skier and guide. For 30 years he made a good living guiding wealthy tourists on heli-skiing expeditions all over British Columbia and the world, but what he really wanted to do was to establish his own non-motorized wilderness business here in the headwaters, using the yurt as a base camp for low-impact backcountry ski and hiking tours. 

As a logger in his youth, he witnessed the great surge of smash-and-grab logging across southwestern British Columbia, which saw nearby drainages like the Chilliwack, Harrison and Chehalis trashed and cleared of old-growth trees. But from early on, he knew where he wanted to be.

“I grew up in these mountains,” says Berntsen, who lives nearby in the Fraser Valley community of Mission. “I wanted to find a place that wasn’t totally damaged, and this was that place.”

Paul Bertensen. Photo: Fernando Lessa / The Narwhal

Bertensen, left, and author Chris Pollon in Manning Park. Photo: Fernando Lessa / The Narwhal

Berntsen’s application to establish a backcountry business in the Doughnut Hole was rejected earlier this year by the province — a decision he is appealing. 

Yet other activities have been permitted. Clear-cut logging commenced in the Doughnut Hole in 2004, followed by another flurry of logging in 2018, which included construction of a road network subsidized by BC Timber Sales, a publicly owned body that markets timber on Crown land. 

When the snow gets too deep, we abandon our bikes and hike for about two kilometres to an abandoned Imperial Metals exploration camp. It was allegedly vandalized and burnt to the ground in the early 2000s, but we find a 2,300-kilogram propane tank more than half-full, sitting in the middle of the site. Even under the blanket of snow, it’s clear the detritus of the camp has never been cleaned up.

Bertensen examines a propane tank left behind at an Imperial Metals exploration site. Photo: Fernando Lessa / The Narwhal

A weathered shack housing multiple drill samples at an abandoned Imperial Metals exploration camp. Photo: Fernando Lessa / The Narwhal

Drill samples from Imperial Metals. Photo: Fernando Lessa / The Narwhal

We hightail it down the mountain as the sun starts to creep behind a peak to the west, wary that the lower logging roads will completely freeze over in the chill. When we reach the highway, our access to the road is blocked by a transport truck hauling heavy excavation machinery. 

The driver tells us they are going to be decommissioning logging roads in the headwaters, where BC Timber Sales had permitted logging into 2022. 

Map showing the location of the ‘Doughnut Hole’ between Skagit Valley and Manning provincial parks. The Doughnut Hole lies within the headwaters of the Skagit River. Map: Carol Linnitt / The Narwhal

Logging to end in the Skagit as mining permits linger

On Dec. 3, about a month after our visit, the B.C. government announced it will end commercial logging in the Skagit headwaters, also called the Silverdaisy management area. 

“We’ve heard loud and clear from individuals and groups on both sides of the border that logging should stop in the Silverdaisy,” said Doug Donaldson, Minister of Forests, Lands, Natural Resource Operations and Rural Development. 

It was a victory for a vast cross-border coalition of at least 110 tribes, First Nations, environmental groups and many U.S. politicians, but celebrations were muted. That’s because Imperial Metals continues to hold the Doughnut Hole mineral tenures. The company has applied for a five-year permit that, if approved by the B.C. government, will see the building of an access road, surface trenches, drill pads and exploratory pits up to 2,000 metres deep.

To many, the potential for mineral exploration and mining is a cloud hanging over not only the future of the headwaters, but the entire Skagit River. The fact that the company in question is Vancouver-based Imperial Metals — whose Mount Polley copper and gold mine spilled 25 billion litres of mine waste and sludge into salmon-rich Quesnel Lake in 2014 — does not inspire confidence amongst the critics.

“If toxins from mining enter the headwaters, it could be detrimental for our entire way of life, cultural, economic, everything,” Joseph Williams, an elected senator of the Swinomish Indian Tribal Community, said the day following the logging announcement. 

Williams was standing in the United States when he made the statement, on the banks of Swinomish Channel close to where the Skagit River drains into Puget Sound, about 135 kilometres southwest of the Doughnut Hole.

Elected Senator Joseph Williams of the Swinomish Indian Tribal Community. Photo: Fernando Lessa / The Narwhal

Senator Joseph Williams from the Swinomish. Photo: Fernando Lessa / The Narwhal

The Skagit River. Photo: Fernando Lessa / The Narwhal

Even though the Skagit River begins in British Columbia, most of its 240 kilometres meander through Washington State, where it is the last river in the lower 48 to support all six species of Pacific salmon, including steelhead. To the Swinomish, salmon are everything.

Michelle Mungall, B.C.’s Minister of Energy, Mines and Petroleum Resources, could kill the Imperial Metals permit with a stroke of a pen. But the government has maintained the permit will be evaluated without political interference — and will live or die based on its merits.

A ministry spokesman told The Narwhal the permit is still being reviewed. “First Nations consultation is ongoing,” the spokesperson wrote in an email.

As Williams attests, the decision has the power to affect the entire river system, but the headwaters are just a tiny part of the Skagit story. On the same day the B.C. government announced it would end logging, The Narwhal crossed over the border to the U.S. to see the lower Skagit for ourselves.

Over the next three days, we followed the river from the Cascades mountains in northern Washington state to Puget Sound tidewater — to understand what is at stake for our American neighbours if mining becomes a reality in the British Columbia headwaters.

Skagit River at night. Photo: Fernando Lessa / The Narwhal

‘The border is this imaginary line’

It’s tempting to think of the Skagit River, especially the picturesque upper watershed where few people live, as pristine, but that would be a mistake. Joy Foy, who has led the efforts on the Canadian side to protect the headwaters, likens the Doughnut Hole itself to a “pin cushion” because it has been drilled and explored so much by prospectors, including many Americans.

Before the headwaters were cut off by the border, the Skagit River was shared by many First Nations, including the modern-day Sto:lo, Syilx and Nlaka’pamux up around the headwaters. To the south were the descendants of the modern day Upper Skagit and four tribes of the Swinomish Indian Tribal Community. For 50 years after the War of 1812, settler cultures also moved freely through this area, especially prospectors in search of riches.

“The border is this imaginary line,” Foy says. “It’s in our minds, but the land and water is the reality.” 

Unbeknownst to most Canadians, three hydro-electric dams were constructed on the U.S. side of the upper Skagit in the early 1960s, submerging the Canada-U.S. border and creating three reservoir lakes below the B.C. headwaters. These dams have converted the U.S. Skagit into a river whose flows are no longer determined by glacial melt, rainfall or freshet, but by the need to generate electricity for the city of Seattle.

The Diablo Dam was constructed in 1936 and continues to provide electricity to Seattle. Photo: Fernando Lessa / The Narwhal

The Diablo Dam, close to the village of Diablo,near Washington Pass, is one of three hydro dams on the upper Skagit River. Photo: Fernando Lessa / The Narwhal

A legacy of dam building was ushered in with the signing of the High Ross Treaty in 1984 between the City of Seattle and British Columbia, entrusting four commissioners from each country to resolve disputes over the dams and maintain the environmental integrity of the shared Skagit River. 

This body, called the Skagit Environmental Endowment Commission, has tried unsuccessfully for decades to buy Doughnut Hole mining tenures. U.S. Commissioner Thomas Curley declined to provide details when The Narwhal asked for an update on the status of negotiations with Imperial Metals to purchase the claims.

Salmon-hungry eagles attract tourists

The Skagit passes through the dams, then winds through North Cascades National Park and the Mount Baker Snoqualmie National Forest, then the valley expands and widens out across a rich agricultural “salad bowl” hinterland, famous for vegetables and tulips.

A December drive along the upper portions of the North Cascades Highway, which traces the river from the dams all the way to Skagit Bay in Puget Sound, is both beautiful and desolate. The parks and small towns like Newhalem and Concrete swell with visitors during the summer months, but when the winter rains fall — 2.5 metres of annual rain is not unusual here — they clear out. 

Tourism slows to a trickle during this time of year, but the Skagit River is the reason it never completely stops.

We meet Judy Hemenway, a retired visual artist who is the coordinator of the Skagit Bald Eagle Interpretive Center, housed in a double-wide trailer in Howard Miller Steelhead Park near Rockport. Runs of chum and coho salmon attract eagles, which in turn draw about 3,000 tourists to the interpretive centre every year. Events for the Skagit Eagle Festival in nearby towns will bring at least 5,000 visitors through the end of January.

Judy Hemenway, a retired visual artist who coordinates the Skagit Bald Eagle Interpretive Center. Photo: Fernando Lessa / The Narwhal

The festival continues to grow, Hemenway tells us, even as the number of eagles they see — mirroring the declines in salmon on the river — drop. The highest count in a single day was 500 in the late ’90s. Last year, the counts were as low as 70 per day.

Yet the Skagit still supports the largest populations of threatened steelhead and Chinook salmon in Puget Sound and hosts the largest run of chum salmon left in the lower 48. 

Despite the low returns, about a dozen fly fishermen arrive while we are here, staying in little cabins in the park; multiple boat tour operators are a regular sight, taking tourists out to photograph the eagles.

A bald eagle claw on display at the interpretive centre. Photo: Fernando Lessa / The Narwhal

Hemenway stands on the banks of the Skagit River. Photo: Fernando Lessa / The Narwhal

A male Coho salmon in Clarks Creek, Washington. Photo: Fernando Lessa / The Narwhal

Hemenway tells me about the recent plan by multi-national company Kiewit Infrastructure to build a rock mine and quarry about one kilometre from the Skagit banks near Marblemount. “Everybody wrote letters. We told them, ‘salmon don’t lay eggs in silt, they lay eggs in gravel.’ ”

She says the project crumbled after regulators required an Environmental Impact Statement.

Environmental advocates on the U.S. side have taken the same strategy with Imperial Metals. Seattle City Light, the city-owned power company, and the Swinomish tribes formally requested that the B.C. environment ministry require a formal environmental assessment for proposed exploration in the headwaters. 

On Dec. 10, Kevin Jardine, associate deputy minister for the B.C. environment ministry, rejected calls for an assessment. 

“I am not satisfied that the exploration program has the potential for significant adverse environmental, economic, social, heritage or health effects,” Jardine wrote, “ … nor am I of the view that an [environmental assessment] would be in the public interest … ”

Old-growth forest in the Skagit River area. Photo: Fernando Lessa / The Narwhal

The last ‘truly wild’ stretch of the Skagit

We meet John Scurlock at his cabin home near the confluence of the muddy Sauk River and the Skagit, not far upstream from Concrete, Washington. 

The Sauk is the last big, free-flowing tributary of the upper Skagit (even the Baker and Cascade river tributaries have dams), which turns the clear main stem cloudy with glacial silt carried from way up in the Mount Baker-Snoqualmie National Forest.

A former mountain climber, Scurlock is a renowned alpine photographer who takes dramatic photographs from a plane he built himself. Today, though, he’s promised to take us on a hike to see what he considers the last “truly wild” stretch of the entire Skagit mainstem in Washington State.

John Scurlock. Photo: Fernando Lessa / The Narwhal

The Skagit River. Photo: Fernando Lessa / The Narwhal

We hike for about 30 minutes along the old Great Northern Railway right of way, which is being reclaimed by a jungle of alder, cottonwood and Himalayan blackberry. (It rains so much here that the trees keep their long-flowing beards of algae and lichen year-round). Cougars, black bears, barred owls and elk are all regular visitors along this stretch of lush riparian zone.

“The Skagit was a wild river, one of the greatest we had before the dams were built,” Scurlock says. “There used to be 70-pound kings [Chinook] on this river.”

We emerge from the jungle to a stretch of river wild on both sides, with the Eldorado mountains rising into the clouds to the east. Eagle cries fill the air, so loud they interrupt our conversation. 

“They’re our national buzzard,” he laughs.

Scurlock is concerned that mining in the headwaters could replicate the transboundary fiasco on the Columbia River. 

The remains of a spawned-out salmon on the sandy bank of the Skagit River. The metal cord is a remnant of former logging activities in the area. Photo: Fernando Lessa / The Narwhal

Scurlock looks out at the Skagit River. Eldorado Peak is visible in the background. Photo: Fernando Lessa / The Narwhal

“You don’t want what happened with Roosevelt Lake,” he says, in reference to the U.S. Colville Confederated Tribes’ 20-year fight in court against Canadian mining giant Teck, which polluted the lake and downstream Columbia River with toxic waste from its lead-zinc smelter on the Canadian side of the border.

He sees a way forward, similar to what happened with a big American mining company called Kennecott. In 2010, Scurlock tells us, the U.S. Forest Service took control of more than 150 hectares of the enormous Glacier Peak Wilderness in the North Cascades, where copper giant Kennecott wanted to build a huge open-pit copper mine in the Skagit drainage. 

“[Change] will require the will of people in British Columbia. What’s the value of the Skagit up there? That’s what people have to ask themselves.”

Kennecott abandoned the plan amid fierce opposition, including from Washington Senator Henry Jackson.

Regardless of opposition in Washington State, getting to that point with the Skagit will depend on Canadians and not Americans, Scurlock says. “[Change] will require the will of people in British Columbia. What’s the value of the Skagit up there? That’s what people have to ask themselves.”

Even sprawling mega malls need the Skagit

The city of Burlington is only about 45 kilometres downstream from Concrete, but it may as well be in another country. Our chain motel is located close to a huge bend in the Skagit, but you would never know the river is there. 

The core of this city sprawls out for miles upon miles of big box chains and low rise “drive-through” retail. The Skagit may be invisible, but even here, the river is all important. That’s because almost half of the water consumed by 70,000 people in the communities of Burlington, Mount Vernon and Sedro Wooley, is piped directly from the Skagit. The other half comes from four streams that rise up into the Cultus Mountain watershed near Mount Vernon.

Kevin Tate, community relations manager for the Skagit Public Utility District, says when the stream flows dip below a certain point — usually during the summer months — the utility takes water from the Skagit, which tends to have higher flows in the summer thanks to snow melt coming off the Cascades.

Kevin Tate, community relations manager for the Skagit Public Utility District. Photo: Fernando Lessa / The Narwhal

A water drain in Burlington is a reminder of the Skagit River flowing under the city’s concrete infrastructure. Photo: Fernando Lessa / The Narwhal

Meanwhile, 15,000 people in the nearby community of Anacortes rely on the Skagit River for 100 per cent of their water — as do the nearby Shell and Marathon oil refineries, two major employers in the region.

Tate says they are not aware of a detectable impact from logging in the headwaters in terms of silt or turbidity but confirms they are watching the situation in British Columbia closely. 

“Our water quality has won awards every year in Washington State for the last 18 years,” he says proudly. “There’s very little turbidity.”

Just outside Concrete, we meet up with Tom Uniak of Washington Wild, an environmental group focused on lands and water across Washington State that is a leading U.S. voice on the headwaters issue. 

Standing over six feet and seven inches tall, Uniak is a shrewd, uncompromising organizer who has brought together many of the U.S. politicians, businesses, environmentalists and tribes that oppose headwaters development.

Tom Uniak. Photo: Fernando Lessa / The Narwhal

With him are Lynn Best, chief environmental officer for Seattle City Light, and environmental policy manager Kate Engel, who shares her time between the power company and staff duties at the Skagit Environmental Endowment Fund.

The trio is happy about the logging announcement, but wary about potential mining.

“The claims should be cancelled or bought — they should be extinguished — and that land put back in the park where it should be,” says Best, who was in the room when the High Ross Treaty was signed in 1984. 

Best puts numbers to what is at stake with the Skagit. Seattle City Light alone has spent more than US$77 million on the river since the dams were constructed, while the state’s investment for ongoing salmon recovery is at least US$90 million to date.

Seattle City Light chief environmental officer, Lynn Best, left, and environmental policy manager, Kate Engel, right, on the Skagit. Both Best and Engel are concerned about the potential impacts of mining in the headwaters of the river. Photo: Fernando Lessa / The Narwhal

The Skagit River just outside of Concrete, Washington. Engle told The Narwhal the river’s quality is carefully monitored. Photo: Fernando Lessa / The Narwhal

Multiple groups, including the federal government, actively monitor baseline water quality on the Skagit, Engel says. “We know that this is a system with high-quality water on the U.S. side. If that changes, we will know.”

In response to questions about potential mining, Uniak says people south of the border can’t afford to say “ ‘oh, this is just exploratory drilling,’ because guess what? You give them an [exploration] permit and then maybe they find what they want, and all of a sudden, you’re half-way to dealing with a real mine.”

The goal, he says, is to “protect what we have left.” 

Nations call for Skagit headwaters protection

Just downstream of Mount Vernon, the Skagit River breaks into two forks that drain into Puget Sound. We follow the north stream to the four-hectare reserve of the Swinomish Indian Tribal Community on the southeastern side of Fidalgo Island. 

Where the Skagit meets the sea, the entire delta, including the reserve on Skagit Bay, forms a globally significant nursery and refuge for migrating shorebirds, song birds, raptors and rare wintering waterfowl like trumpeter and tundra swans.

Until recently, the Swinomish Tribe — the union of four Coast Salish tribes — thrived on a year-round bounty of Pacific salmon. Williams is an elected leader responsible for business enterprises worth many millions of dollars — including a nearby casino, golf course, multiple gas stations and cannabis business — but he never stopped being a fisherman.

Skagit estuary close to the Swinomish First Nation Reserve. Photo: Fernando Lessa / The Narwhal

Standing on the banks of the Swinomish Channel where his grandfather once fished for chum salmon, he says the Swinomish are netting about one per cent of their historical catch on the Skagit system. The threat of damage to the headwaters, exacerbating the already fragile state of most salmon returns, has prompted them to join voices with Washington Wild, Seattle City Light, other U.S. tribes and Canadian First Nations opposing mining exploration in the Doughnut Hole. 

“The First Nations up there are our families too, a ton of my family is still up [in British Columbia],” he says. “The lines that were drawn in the sand by these two countries split our families in half.”

Senator Williams from the Swinomish stands along the Skagit estuary. Photo: Fernando Lessa / The Narwhal

In a show of cross-border solidarity earlier this year, the Swinomish and Upper Skagit tribes of Washington State joined with Union of B.C. Indian Chiefs and called on the B.C. government to reject Imperial Metals’ exploration permit for the headwaters.

“We are sovereign tribal nations who have stewarded the lands and waters of the Skagit River area since time immemorial, and along with our brothers and sisters at the Tulalip Tribes, the Nooksack Indian Tribe and the Lummi Tribe, we ask you to stand with us and urge B.C. Premier [John] Horgan to deny the permit for exploratory mining in the Doughnut Hole of the Skagit River Headwaters,” they said.

The announcement harkens back to a time, not so long ago, when the Canada-U.S. border did not exist, and it was understood that whatever happens in the headwaters touches everyone living downstream.

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High concentrations of a potentially toxic element have been found in fish in the Kootenai River of Montana and American scientists are pointing the finger at Canadian coal mines for the contamination. 

In late September, the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency published a report documenting elevated concentrations of selenium in fish just south of the U.S.-Canada border. 

The study found some fish contained selenium concentrations surpassing the U.S. recommended maximum levels. Researchers found similar concentrations of selenium in the eggs of mountain whitefish.

“Selenium loads have been increasing over time in the Elk River, British Columbia, Canada, due to coal mining operations and runoff from associate spoil piles,” the report reads.

The Elk River is a tributary to the Kootenai River in Montana as well as Lake Koocanusa, where the ongoing research is being conducted. Coal mines in the Elk Valley, near Fernie, B.C., have been singled out as the main source of the contaminant.

Teck’s five metallurgical coal mines are all upstream of the transboundary Koocanusa Reservoir. Map: Carol Linnitt / The Narwhal

While selenium is an essential element for survival, overexposure can have devastating effects. In fish, it can lead to facial and spinal deformities, or an absence of the plates that overlay and protect the fish’s gills. In humans, it can lead to hair loss, muscle weakness and decreased brain function, among other issues, according to Health Canada. 

Canadian scientist finds some invertebrates wiped out by selenium

Meanwhile in Canada, a growing awareness of selenium as a byproduct of mining, paired with numerous unknowns about its impacts in different aquatic environments, led toxicology researcher Stephanie Graves to take a closer look at its impacts. 

Graves, a PhD student at the University of Saskatchewan, spent the last two years dumping various doses of selenium into lake enclosures in Ontario to monitor the effects, both at and above the recommended government thresholds.

Stephanie Graves collects samples from her research enclosures. Photo: Emilie Ferguson / Experimental Lakes Area

Graves monitored the effects of selenium on a number of species, from fish to invertebrates, such as this copepod. Photo: Stephanie Graves / Experimental Lakes Area

Her research was done in two lakes reserved for such research at northwestern Ontario’s Experimental Lakes Area — a collection of 58 lakes cut off from nearly all human influence, used by researchers to conduct studies free of other contaminants and influencing factors.

Graves wanted to address two things in her research: how much selenium accumulated in invertebrates like zooplankton and other aquatic insects, as well as larger species such as fathead minnows. She also wanted to know what elevated concentrations did to these species. 

Tiny invertebrates often don’t receive a lot of attention, but they are an integral piece of the aquatic food web.

“What we found so far is that those organisms can be very sensitive to selenium,” Graves said. 

In fact, she found that some of the invertebrates were wiped out, or nearly wiped out at higher concentrations of selenium. Mayflies are often used to demonstrate impacts of pollution, Graves explains, because they are so sensitive — and this was no exception. 

“They’re an important food source. So losing [mayflies] could have implications for higher trophic level organisms like fish. And invertebrates in general have very important roles in the ecosystem, in nutrient cycling and the transfer of nutrients to higher trophic levels,” Graves said. 

The loss of even some of those organisms is significant, she added. 

Grave’s research also found significant losses in a kind of zooplankton — another principal food source for fish.

And if you doubted just how important these seemingly small shifts are, Graves only exposed fish to the selenium-dosed environments for six weeks, and that time was enough to notice decreased growth of the fish. 

Even the highest concentrations Graves used in her experiments can be found downstream of mines in Canada, she said. However, her research was very purposefully conducted in a lake, to consider what she calls the “worst case scenario” where those high-concentration flows aren’t diluted before arriving at a low-flow body of water. 

“These concentrations aren’t unrealistic,” Graves said. 

In one of her papers, published in the journal of Environmental Toxicology and Chemistry, Graves suggests that recommended federal guidelines for selenium, which is 1 microgram per litre, may not be sufficient to protect all ecosystems — specifically lakes. 

In the end, Graves’ research doesn’t bode well for the health of places such as Montana’s Lake Koocanusa.

A group of scientists and conservationists paddle out on to the Koocanusa Reservoir where they are conducting independent water testing. Photo: Jayce Hawkins / The Narwhal

More regulations to come

When reached for comment, a spokesperson for the B.C. Ministry of Environment and Climate Change Strategy said that the provincial government is continuously working with partners in Montana to further selenium research. 

“The Province of British Columbia is committed to improving water quality in Lake Koocanusa and its tributary river systems,” the statement read.

The B.C. government said that the consortium is working toward setting a new target for the water system that will be followed by both B.C. and Montana regulators starting in 2020.

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There are only a handful of ways to get into the roadless wilderness of the upper Taku River. 

You can take an onerous 100-kilometre jetboat ride up the river from Juneau, Alaska’s capital city, or you can come in from the air, either by helicopter charter or by bush plane, which will land you in a lake where you can join the flow downstream.  

The wildness and vulnerability of the Taku are what have drawn me and my good friend Alex Craven to undertake a 130-kilometre pack-raft trip from a headwater lake nearly to its confluence with the Pacific.

Alex Craven surveying the abandoned Tulsequah Chief mine site after a 15-kilometre hike up the river bed. Photo: Colin Arisman / The Narwhal

Besides a few short 4×4 trails, the entire Taku watershed remains without access roads and is considered to be the largest intact wilderness river system on the Pacific Coast of North America, despite past mineral development in the valley.

As an avid fly fishermen and back-country traveller in Alaska, I’ve wanted to visit the Taku for years because of its jaw-dropping beauty and relative isolation. Despite abundant wildlife including grizzlies, caribou, wolves, moose and all five species of salmon, the remote region sees few visitors.

But there’s another reason for my interest in the Taku. 

As a photographer and journalist, I’m also here to document the abandoned Tulsequah Chief mine which, since the 1950s, has leaked acid mine drainage into a tributary of the Taku, the prevailing salmon-producing river for southeast Alaska.

Despite mounting public pressure, the Canadian and British Columbian governments have failed to clean up the mess for more than 60 years. 

The Tulsequah Chief mine is frequently referenced by downstream Alaskan stakeholders, tribes and fishermen as evidence B.C. cannot responsibly regulate the mining boom taking place near transboundary rivers that flow between Canada and the U.S. 

Arriving at the floatplane, Alex, a skilled paddler and staffer with the Sierra Club based out of Seattle, hops in the front seat.

Alex Craven gazes out across millions of hectares of roadless, unfragmented wild country. Photo: Colin Arisman / The Narwhal

Moving inland from the wet coastal range of Alaska, the Taku Valley forests transition from temperate rainforest to boreal forest in the drier interior of British Columbia. Photo: Colin Arisman / The Narwhal

Juneau slips out of view as we bank away from the Pacific and into the mouth of the mighty Taku River.

The fishing boats scattered across the confluence below us — where millions of salmon are beginning their arduous journey home to headwaters — disappear from view as we move toward the wide-open valley ahead. Tall peaks tower on either side, as the vast 1.8 million-hectare Taku watershed opens up in front of us. This will be our home for the next seven days.

We float the Inklin River to its confluence with the Nakina where the Taku River begins on the map. Photo: Colin Arisman / The Narwhal

The location of the abandoned Tulsequah Chief mine in relation to the vast 1.8 million-hectare Taku River watershed. Map: Carol Linnitt / The Narwhal

Our travel route included an eight-kilometre hike from King Salmon Lake to the Inklin River. Once on the river, we paddled downstream to join the Taku River and eventually took a detour north to the Tulsequah River where we located the abandoned mine site. Map: Carol Linnitt / The Narwhal

After an hour-long bush flight, the plane circles and lands on a large mountain lake. 

We grab our packs and begin the eight-kilometre hike down to the Inklin River, a tributary of the Taku. 

Alex Craven shuttling a heavy pack loaded with pack rafts, life jackets, cameras, bear spray, camping gear and a week’s worth of food from our float plane on King Salmon Lake. Photo: Colin Arisman / The Narwhal

Hiking down to the river requires fighting chest-high thickets of devil’s club and swarms of mosquitoes. Photo: Colin Arisman / The Narwhal

We are grateful to find an old trail that runs along a trapline but in places it has been completely reclaimed by the forest and soon we are bushwhacking. Blindly pushing through the thick undergrowth, we know we could easily bump into a bear or moose. 

The mosquitoes swarm.

Thick devil’s club, a fierce spiny plant, makes for slow progress. It’s four hours until we hear the sound of the Inklin.

Finally at the river’s edge, we inflate pack rafts, load our gear and begin the seven-day float.

Alex paddles his inflatable pack raft down the Inklin River. Photo: Colin Arisman / The Narwhal

Though the wilderness is rugged, the weather is fair and calm. We make our way through the rapids of the Inklin Canyon and into the swift but gentle current that will be the norm for the rest of the paddle. 

The Taku River runs near the 58th parallel. As our float coincides with the summer solstice, the sun barely sets at midnight during a short interval of bright evening twilight. 

Our first night we camp next to a clear stream and catch a nice Dolly Varden, a species of char that splits its time between the ocean and pristine rivers like the Taku.

Dolly Varden are an anadromous species of trout that gather in large numbers in the Taku River to feed on the salmon spawn. Photo: Colin Arisman / The Narwhal

Tiger swallowtail gathering is a sign of the return of chinook salmon, called king salmon in Alaska. While the Taku River has historically been known for bountiful returns of kings, numbers have been declining in recent years resulting in closures to the fishery. Photo: Colin Arisman / The Narwhal

We’re travelling through a part of the four million hectare (10-million acre) traditional territory of the Taku River Tlingit First Nation. 

Less than 200 years ago the river was flanked by permanent village sites and seasonal subsistence camps. To this day the Taku River Tlingit people rely on the river and watershed for moose, deer, caribou and prized chinook salmon. 

Several decades ago, the First Nation successfully fought the proposed development of a 159-kilometre access road that would have crossed the heart of the watershed, opening it up for mineral exploration.

In 2011, the nation and provincial government agreed to protect a large part of the watershed from development and to jointly manage aspects of the region. 

But that agreement has done little to remedy the decades-old problem of the Tulsequah Chief mine, situated on the Tulsequah River, a major tributary of the Taku.

A view of the midnight sunset from our camp on the Taku River. Photo: Colin Arisman / The Narwhal

Alex cooks a fish dinner over the campfire. Photo: Colin Arisman / The Narwhal

Paddling up to the staging area for the Tulsequah Chief mine. From here we hike 15 kilometres up a dirt road along the bank of the Tulsequah River to the abandoned mine site. Photo: Colin Arisman / The Narwhal

A small rotting dock is the first sign we see of the abandoned Tulsequah Chief mine. We pull our rafts up and step on the bank. This is the spot where barges would land after a long, perilous run up the swift, shallow Taku River. From here trucks would transport equipment up the 15-kilometre provisional road to the mine. 

Discarded trucks and boats, bunk houses and storage containers are scattered around the yard, left to rust amongst the trees. 

In Canada it is not uncommon for mining companies to walk away from cleanup obligations. According to a July report from Canada’s Ecofiscal Commission, “as many as 10,000 orphaned and abandoned mine sites exist across the country.” The report notes that, “B.C.’s policies have contributed to a situation where, according to the most recent figures, the province holds only $1.36 billion in financial assurance against an estimated $2.8 billion total cleanup liability.”

Skiffs and barges were used to run workers and materials upriver to this staging area, from which trucks could drive the access road to the Tulsequah Chief mine. Photo: Colin Arisman / The Narwhal

After five days on the river, the sight of rusting and discarded 50-gallon drums of chemicals feels strikingly out of place. Their mere existence here — 100 kilometres into the backcountry, in a vast roadless landscape — feels implausible. 

As we walk around, we see the remnants of several stages of ownership and haphazard operation of the site. Since Teck-Cominco abandoned the site in 1957, two companies — Redfern Resources and Chieftain Metals — have obtained exploration permits by promising to clean up the acid mine drainage. 

Both failed in their cleanup efforts and collapsed under debt.

We wondered whether the skull and crossbones on the outside was meant as humour or a legitimate health warning. Standing near the door, I was quickly struck with a headache. Photo: Colin Arisman / The Narwhal

An abandoned silo at the staging area is filled with trash, chemical waste and discarded equipment. Photo: Colin Arisman / The Narwhal

Road building is a topic of intense debate in southeast Alaska where there are no major road systems connecting the region’s communities. Photo: Colin Arisman / The Narwhal

A bunkhouse, still appearing new, looked as though it had been abandoned in a hurry, soon after construction. Shoes, telephones and other supplies lay in piles on the floor. Photo: Colin Arisman / The Narwhal

An abandoned room in the bunkhouse. Photo: Colin Arisman / The Narwhal

From the staging area we spent a day hiking up the access road and then the riverbed to the site of the Tulsequah Chief mine. 

Situated directly on the bank of the river, the site was startling and apocalyptic. 

Several new buildings, numerous storage containers and treatment ponds were scattered along the riverside. Rising steeply up from the river was a hillside that had been torn up by mining work.

The Tulsequah Chief mine site situated just metres from the river. Photo: Colin Arisman / The Narwhal

There were several pallets of ferric chloride, used in water treatment. Crisscrossing a dried up tailings pond, black bear tracks were perfectly preserved in the orange mud. The door of a storage container was cracked open, a pile of ominous-looking soak rags in a heap.

A large shed was filled with what appeared to be materials for an elaborate water treatment system. The water treatment system looked as if it was in very new condition and perhaps never operated before abandonment.

Numerous containers are filled with chemicals and equipment from attempted cleanup of the mine site. Photo: Colin Arisman / The Narwhal

A barrel of ferric chloride. Photo: Colin Arisman / The Narwhal

The hill above the river has been excavated extensively and the open earth is stained with the signature rust colour of acid mine drainage. Few plants grow among the orange rocks and many trees appear dead or dying. Several creeks run down through the old mine waste into a pond coated in a thick orange slime.

Previous owners of the site were required to construct new wastewater treatment systems but it’s clear standing near the river’s edge how thoroughly those attempts have failed. A wastewater pond, separated from the river by just 10 metres of gravel bank, has breached and eroded. A small stream of contaminated water flows directly into the Tulsequah. 

The overflowing containment pond. Photo: Colin Arisman / The Narwhal

The wall separating the pond from the Tulsequah River has eroded and wastewater now drains directly into the river. Photo: Colin Arisman / The Narwhal

Over the last decade Canadian officials have at times alleged that “there there isn’t significant environmental harm being done” to the watershed by the water leaking out of Tulsequah Chief. However, this summer the commissioners of several Alaskan agencies wrote that “there are measurable impacts to Tulsequah River water quality and fish habitats next to the mine site and a mile and a half downstream in the Canadian portion of the river.” They noted that these impacts have not yet been detected on the Alaska side of the Taku.

The Canada-U.S. border is marked by a clearcut strip, which cuts across the Taku valley about 20 kilometres from the mine site. Photo: Colin Arisman / The Narwhal

Pressure on B.C. increased in June with a letter from eight senators to Premier John Horgan, urging him to address the threats to transboundary rivers from mining.

“As you know, Alaska, Washington, Idaho and Montana have tremendous natural resources that need to be protected against impacts from B.C. hard rock and coal-mining activities near the headwaters of shared rivers, many of which support environmentally and economically significant salmon populations,” the senators wrote to Horgan. 

“These transboundary watersheds support critical water supply, recreation opportunities and wildlife habitat that support many livelihoods in local communities.”

There are numerous mines at various stages of their lifecycle from proposed to active to abandoned in the B.C.-Alaska transboundary region. Mapped above are 19 of those mines spanning four major river watersheds, including the Taku, the Stikine, the Nass and the Unuk, all of which support major salmon populations. Map: Carol Linnitt / The Narwhal

The letter followed a report from the University of Victoria’s Environmental Law Centre that found 1,100 closed mines across B.C. that continue to represent environmental threats.

The report found that some mines subject to acid mine drainage can never be fully cleaned up and may be subject to expensive water treatment in perpetuity. The Britannia mine, for example, required a $46 million treatment system for acid drainage that requires $3 million each year to operate — all funded by taxpayers.

A coalition of 30 groups in B.C. this summer called on the province to overhaul out-dated mining laws to alleviate risks to the public and the environment.

Alex’s souvenir from the trip was a beautiful moose shed. Photo: Colin Arisman / The Narwhal

Desire for a solution to the Tulsequah Chief mine is at an all-time high with multiple new mine projects in various stages of proposal or development along the B.C.-Alaska border. 

But there’s also cautious optimism for the Tulsequah River now that B.C. has finally selected a contractor to develop a cleanup plan. However, the contractor — embattled SNC Lavalin — is steeped in controversy and an unfolding ethics scandal that could once again derail cleanup of the site. 

A final remediation plan is not expected until the end of 2019.

The Tulsequah Chief gives some indication of how costly and challenging a long-term containment and treatment solution is, even for a small amount of waste water. 

New mines in the transboundary watershed are being built at a scale far greater than the Tulsequah Chief. 

Several years ago I flew over the Red Chris mine, owned and operated by Imperial Metals, a company facing the threat of bankruptcy. I was awestruck by the scale of the mine and tailings pond after only two years of production. Red Chris is perched on a mountain top above the Stikine River watershed, another salmon-rich transboundary system shared by B.C. and Alaska.

Imperial Metals’ Red Chris mine in the headwaters of the Stikine River. Photo: Colin Arisman / The Narwhal

Imperial Metals is also the company that owned and operated the Mount Polley mine, the site of one of Canada’s largest environmental disasters after a tailings pond collapsed, sending 24 million cubic metres of contaminated water into Quesnel Lake. 

Imperial Metals’ full reclamation costs are estimated at $173.6 million, with only $14.3 million held in reclamation deposits. 

The Taku Glacier near the confluence with the Pacific Ocean where we caught a flight back to Juneau from a lodge. Photo: Colin Arisman / The Narwhal

Photo: Colin Arisman / The Narwhal

As we paddle out past the melting Taku glacier and to the confluence where salt and freshwater meet, I try and wrap my head around the timescale of water, rock and ice. 

A salmon jumps and makes a daring dash across the water’s surface. A moment later a seal head pops up just five metres from our boat, a sockeye dangling from its mouth. It is the magic of moments like this that have led me to fall in love with southeast Alaska. 

These are also the moments that highlight what is at stake as B.C. considers new and larger mines in these remote, shared regions.

*Article updated on Oct. 11, 2019, at 2:45 p.m. to reflect the fact that both Chieftain and Redfern went bankrupt and to correct a previous reference to strip-mining on a hillside. The mining was actually underground mining, not strip mining.

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.

Alaska’s fishing industry and lifestyle are under threat from mines on the B.C. side of the border and a non-binding cooperation agreement between B.C. and Alaska, signed last week, does not provide sufficient protection, the Alaska State House Fisheries Committee was told this week.

The committee held a public hearing because of persistent concerns from fishermen, business owners, municipal and Tribal leaders about the proliferation of B.C. mines near the headwaters of salmon-bearing rivers such as the Taku, Unuk and Stikine, which start in B.C. and flow through Southeast Alaska to the ocean.

About 10 mines are in the planning, exploration, construction or production stages in the area close to the border.

“I believe legislators received the message loud and clear that this is a very urgent situation and much, much more needs to be done immediately, beyond the B.C./Alaska Statement of Cooperation,” said Heather Hardcastle of Salmon Beyond Borders.

The agreement between B.C. and Alaska establishes a bilateral working group and provides for Alaska to have input into environmental assessments and permitting for mines. It also formalizes requirements for B.C. to notify Alaska if there is a spill or accident that could affect Alaskan waters.

But the agreement falls short as there are no enforceable measures to protect the water and fisheries and no requirement for bonds to provide financial compensation in case of an accident, speakers told the committee.

“Alaska should require some kind of compensation for catastrophic accidents,” said Dave Chambers, geophysicist and president of the Center for Science in Public Participation.

Mining companies are under pressure to increase production because of falling metal prices and rising costs and that is leading to an increasing number of tailings dam failures, Chambers said.

Requirements for a surety would put pressure on operators to do a better job, Chambers said.

Earlier this year, B.C. Auditor General Carol Bellringer, in a scathing report that criticized B.C.’s weak mining liability regime, estimated that there was a $1-billion shortfall in financial assurance policies, which are supposed to ensure mining companies pay for both catastrophic events and mine site reclamation.

Bellringer’s report was followed by an even more blistering assessment by economist Robyn Allan, who, in a report commissioned by the Union of B.C. Indian Chiefs, concluded there is more than $1.5-billion in unfunded liability.

“A regime to ensure mine owners have sufficient financial resources to pay for environmental damage and third-party losses from unintended mine accidents is non-existent,” Allan wrote.

A common theme at the Fisheries Committee hearing was a push for state leaders to formally request the involvement of the U.S. and Canadian federal governments.

“In order to have binding commitments that protect habitat, by encouraging the highest standards of environmental protection, elevation to the International Joint Commission through the Boundary Waters Treaty seems to be a necessary action,” said Chip Treinen, United Fishermen of Alaska board member.

So far, B.C.’s Energy and Mines Minister Bill Bennett and U.S. Secretary of State John Kerry have shown little interest in referring the issue to the International Joint Commission, the body established to deal with boundary water disputes.

Last week Bennett said that “We’ve proven with this agreement and all the work we’ve done over the last three years there’s no need for the International Joint Commission” and that neither B.C. nor Alaska want to get their respective federal governments involved in an issue they can manage themselves.

At the hearing, Hardcastle said Bennett is “flat-out wrong” in his assumptions.

“The State Legislature and the State of Alaska need to formally counter Bennett’s statement and be explicit with the U.S. federal government that this is an international matter in which the State of Alaska does want and need the critical involvement of the federal government,” she said.

Bennett and Energy and Mines Ministry spokespeople did not respond to questions Friday from DeSmog Canada.

Bev Sellars, chairwoman of First Nations Women Advocating Responsible Mining and Chief of the Xat’sull First Nation in Soda Creek, B.C., warned Alaska’s legislators not to put all their trust in the B.C. government, pointing to a bad track record, and urged them to ask the International Joint Commission to become involved.

“Try to get a solid country-to-country agreement on paper,” she said.

“I haven’t eaten fish from the Fraser River in years — that is a loss of our culture. When I hear about B.C. mines I worry about your culture too,” she said.

The spectre of the 2014 Mount Polley disaster, when the tailings dam collapsed spilling 24-million cubic metres of waste and sludge into nearby lakes and rivers, weighs heavily on Alaskans.

“We’re terrified that that’s what is going to happen here and that we’re going to share their fate,” said Richard Peterson, president of the Central Council of Tlingit and Haida Indian Tribes of Alaska.

“We couldn’t sustain our traditional way of life. We couldn’t sustain our economic way of life if that happened.”

A recent study by the McDowell Group concluded that the Taku, Stikine and Unuk rivers account for U.S. $48-million in annual economic activity and the value of the three watersheds is just under $1-billion over a 30-year timeframe.

Chambers said he questions B.C.’s mine safety enforcement.

“Presently the B.C. government is not putting safety before economics as recommended by the Mount Polley Expert Panel, Chambers said.

“Moreover, B.C. is not implementing other key recommendations of the Mount Polley Expert Panel — a body appointed by the province to determine what went wrong at Mount Polley and how to avoid similar tailings dam failures in the future.”

The hearing was chaired by Rep. Louise Stutes, who said the committee is likely to hold more hearings to assess the possible effects of the mines.

In an interview with the Cordova Times, shortly before the public hearing, Stutes said: “The United States and Canadian federal governments need prodding to secure enforceable protections and financial assurances for our transboundary rivers.”

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