by Andrew Findlay

The Courtenay River estuary is an ecosystem under siege – hence the formation of  the Estuary Working Group back in 2008 to bring together environmental groups, individuals and government to safeguard this biologically diverse heart of the Comox Valley.

Estuaries form where rivers greet the sea, forming a rich interface of fresh and saltwater that teems with life. These biologically diverse bodies of water are also where humans generally settle, because they are where nature tends to be at its most generous, and the waters of the Courtenay River estuary are no exception. Five species of salmon, blue herons, bald eagles, loons and trumpeter swans, as well as many more migrating waterfowl and shorebirds, frequent the estuary itself, while on its fringes, incoming freshwater braids into numerous channels that thread through tufts of pondweed, Widgeon grass, Lyngby’s sedge and cattails.

And when the tide is out, the sprawling mud flats of the estuary are revealed, along with evidence of a remarkable, extensive pre-historic First Nations fishery, supported by a vast system  of cedar-staked fish weirs in chevron, spiral and other patterns. Some of these stakes date back more than 500 years, a testament to the important role the estuary has played in sustaining life in the region. Ingenuous in their simplicity, these fish weirs worked in a way that allowed First Nation fishers to collect as much fish and other seafood as was needed without the rapacious practices expensive fossil fuel-powered fishing fleets, which are the hallmarks of modern commercial fishing. In this way, the estuary and the  peoples who lived off its abundance for generations hold valuable lessons about sustainability.

Today, the estuary is also the watery link between the municipalities of Comox and Courtenay, two rapidly growing communities that are putting increasing development pressure on this vital ecosystem. However, the environmental degradation of the Courtenay River estuary is not a new problem. For many decades the Courtenay River has been dredged upstream to allow for the passage of tugboats, log booms and barges, destroying vital salmon habitat in the process. And more than 20 years ago, municipal governments authorized the construction of a Superstore on prime agricultural land upstream of the estuary, opening the door to intensive big-box and strip-mall development on adjacent properties. Invasive species such as Himalayan blackberry and purple loosestrife have also altered and damaged the natural plant communities associated with the estuary. And shellfish harvesting in Comox Harbour is permanently closed because of contaminants such as fecal coliform. Most recently, a fierce battle has been fought over a proposed gas station on Dyke Road, which runs next to the estuary between Courtenay and Comox.

In many ways, it is argued that the estuary defines the Comox Valley both topographically and spiritually, making it easier, perhaps, to take this ecological treasure for granted. It’s just there:  we see it, we drive by it, we boat on it. And this is why the Estuary Working Group is encouraging Comox Valley residents as well as visitors to get reacquainted with the estuary through non-motorized recreation, whether by foot, paddle, bicycle or sail. Putting on our walking shoes and rollerblades, or saddling up a bike on the paved trails of the Courtenay Air Park, for example, provides an unparalleled shoreline view of the estuary, while paddling it by  sea kayak imparts a last sense of the power and beauty of this natural system, as one experiences close up the freshwater of the Courtenay River mixing with the sea in Comox Harbour. Harnessing the energy of the wind in a sailboat enables the adventurous to venture further, out into the bay, for an even greater perspective on the scale of the estuary and the interconnectivity between terrestrial and marine ecosystems in the valley. The message is: only by getting out to smell, feel and experience nature can we appreciate it, and this is key to a healthy future for the Courtenay River Estuary.

>>For more about the Estuary Working Group and its Courtenay River Estuary efforts, click here.

Lead photo courtesy Andrew Findlay.

How I built an eco-shed, ditched my SUV, alienated the in-laws and changed my life forever

An excerpt from Almost Green, by James Glave  (Greystone Books, 2008)

What it means to be an eco-warrior/father of two

My name is James, and I drive an SUV. It is a golden-pearl Premium Edition Lexus rx-300, with all-leather interior, genuine walnut wood dash, seven-speaker Nakamichi sound system, seat heaters, moon roof and sport racks. It is a high-riding icon of luxury, a mobile conspicuous-consumption statement, a prosperity public-address system – the sort of vehicle that valets named Chip park in front of five-star Indian fusion restaurants. Let me be clear, though, that the rx-300 is not an indication of my hard-won success as a writer. It’s a hand- me-down from my father-in-law, who offered it to my wife, Elle, and me as a gift just as our 1994 Volvo station wagon threatened to die with our two tired babies in the backseat some night on a lonely New Mexico byway well beyond the fringes of Sprint-Verizon’s digital safety net. Although we are extremely grateful for the gift, the Lexus was perhaps not our first choice for a family four-door; it conveys a not-entirely-accurate message about who we are to those who don’t know us.

This became clear to me one day when I had lunch with my friend Dave, a former colleague whom I greatly admire. It had been a few years since we’d seen each other, and we were sharing a laugh over a certain local restaurant critic whom we both felt could benefit from a little more journalistic backbone. Dave was describing his most recent sighting of the foodie scribe in question: “I’m sitting in this sidewalk café, right? And up pulls you-know-who in this total asshole Lexus suv.”

Hilarious. For at least a few months after that day — at least when out of earshot of our small children — Elle and I referred to our pearl-white and gold-trimmed palace on wheels as “the asshole.” And please forgive me, Padre. Because even though you have that framed photo of George Bush, Sr., in your office, and even though you forward me e-mails asserting that global warming is a “swindle” and a “liberal conspiracy,” I do really love you, and I so appreciate your generosity. But the more I read up on the damage I am doing each time I motor through another tank of regular unleaded, the more I can relate to Dave’s point of view and the less comfortable I am getting back behind the wheel. Because I am the one running a scam. We have hung on to your wheels for reasons that contradict our gradually increasing consciousness and have everything to do with cash flow and guilt. We don’t want to offend you, and
we don’t want to finance something else. I don’t think we can keep dancing like this forever, though. One day I’m going to have to break it to you, Padre, that I think your very generous gift is gradually torching the lot of us.

For now, assuming Pops doesn’t care either way, Elle and I are looking to downsize. With the kids now out of strollers and diapers, we’ve finally decommissioned our bulky toddler infrastructure. We are in the market for a small car. I’ve brought my preschool-age son, Duncan, and his five-year-old sister, Sabrina, into the loop, and they have already begun window-shopping with me as we tool around the twenty-five-square-mile island we call home, just off the sparkling West Coast city of Vancouver, B.C., Canada. One recent morning, on the way to the day care, my son asked me to explain the differences between our six-cylinder white elephant and the zippy little DaimlerChrysler Smart Car that had just passed us headed the other direction.

“Dad,” he asked, “why don’t we have a Smart Car?”

Let me briefly mention here that, like many young boys, my Duncan is infatuated with internal combustion. If it drives, digs or flies with some flavor of refined petroleum, well, he’s all over it.

“They’re fun, aren’t they?” I replied. “We don’t have one because they’re too small. There isn’t enough room inside one of them for our whole family.”

“Why not?” Sabrina chimed in.

“Well, there are four people in our family, and the Smart Car only fits two people. So we would have to take turns or sit on each other’s lap, and that wouldn’t work very well, would it?”

“Oh. ok.”

I could have left it there, but I didn’t. “It is possible to have a car that’s too big, though. Mummy and Daddy think this car is too big. That’s why we are hoping to trade it for a smaller one.”

“Why do we want a smaller one?” asked Sabrina.

“Well, honey, you know how we always stop at the gas station to buy gasoline? This car is pretty heavy – it’s much heavier than it needs to be – and so it uses up more gas than a Smart Car. Gas is expensive, and it is also very bad for the Earth.”

“But Dad,” said Duncan, “why is gas bad for the Earth?”

Long pause here. Jesus, where do I begin?

“Hmmm. Ok, when we burn gas it makes the car go, but it also makes the Earth get hotter. And we’re worried that if we burn too much gas, the Earth will get too hot, and it won’t be such a nice place to live when you two grow up.”

“So our car is too heavy for the Earth?”

“Yes, that’s right. We want to get a smaller car that all four of us can fit inside – one that uses less gas. One that’s nicer to the planet.”

“But not a Smart Car?” confirmed Duncan.

“Right. Not a Smart Car. There are lots of other kinds of smaller cars out there.”

“What kind of car do you want?” Sabrina queried.

“Well, Mummy and Daddy would really like to get a car called a Prius,” I said, offering to point out the next one we passed.

“A Prius? Why do we want that one?”

“Because it doesn’t use as much gas, so it’s nicer to the planet. And we can all fit inside one.”

“Why don’t we get one of those cars right now?”

“Um, they’re expensive. They cost too much money for us, sweets. But we’ll figure it out. In the meantime, we are trying to use this car less. That’s why we walk to the village together so much.”

“Oh,” replied Sabrina. “Oh, yeah.”

I grinned to myself. Duncan was hopelessly obsessed with fuel injectors and transmissions, but his older sister had just made the right connections in her head. She’s a smart cookie, this girl of mine. I was proud of her, and proud of myself for explaining that our present vehicle wasn’t so great but that answers were out there. I’d slipped in an age-appropriate explanation of climate change, without coloring in the whole grim picture.

Then Sabrina chimed in again with a pearl of wisdom that put all my eco-angst into perspective the way only a precocious five-year-old can.

“You know what, Dad?”

“Hmmm?”

“I have a vagina.”

“Yes . . . ?”

“But Duncan has a Prius!”

Continued on GLAVE.COM

See also: Gone Newfie.

Stikine: The Great River (excerpts + an update)

by photographer Gary Fiegehen

An Introduction

SPECTRUM RANGE – looking north to Mount Edziza. The mountain has a 7,500,000-year history of volcanic activity and is part of the circum-Pacific Rim of Fire, which continues almost uninterrupted from southern Chile northward around to New Zealand.

The modern history of the Stikine watershed is shaped by a belief in material riches. Russian fur traders in the 1790s were the first Europeans to see and identify the Stikine’s estuary. In the mid-1800s fur traders were joined by gold prospectors, who followed the Stikine towards the interior in the hope of sudden wealth. This first gold rush came to nothing. At the end of the nineteenth century the Hudson’s Bay Company set up its first permanent Stikine trading post 12 miles below Telegraph Creek. At about the same time, the gold rush of 1897-98 brought a flood of people to the Stikine. Photographs from the period show tough men at a wild frontier.

Soon steamboats were moving up and down the Stikine, bringing supplies to Telegraph Creek and other staging points. This flurry of activity lasted a very short time. The last steamer travelled the Stikine in 1916. The gold rush faded into romanticized history. The fur trade settled into a routine and minor activity. Dreams of agricultural expansion, railways, new towns left a thin trail of incomplete developments.

SPECTRUM RANGE Billy goats are solitary by nature. The first winter usually claims half of the young males and females; the survivors mature sexually at two and a half years and reach full size at age four. A full-grown billy weighs 90-plus kg. The horn grows in length each year, making the goat progressively more attractive to big-game hunters.

But developers vaunted other developments: coal, roads, more gold, hydroelectric dams. Telegraph Creek again became a supply depot, this time for the construction of the Alaska Highway in the early 1940s. In 1972, the Stewart-Cassiar Highway was opened, linking Kitwanga on the Skeena River with Watson Lake on the Alaska Highway. BC Rail attempted to bring a railhead to mining possibilities in the Stikine headwaters.

The watershed is vast, and developments thus far have come and gone or touched only its edges. But the very wildness of the place excites the frontier mentality. No one who works in or with the land can be unaware of ideas that encourage a sense that all real wilderness is doomed.

In another sense, Gary Fiegehen’s photographs [shown in this post, as published in the book Stikine: The Great River] have a place in the struggle for Indian rights. They portray the land of the Tahltan, the people whose hunting, fishing and trapping territories announce that this is not a nature beyond culture.

TWIN GLACIER, STIKINE ICECAP Part of the Coast Mountains, granite peaks 2,600 metres high poke through the 1,200-km ice field. Hoodoo Glacier and Twin Glacier feed the Iskut River to the south; Porcupine Glacier feeds the lower Stikine to the west.

The Tahltan are now centred at the villages of Iskut and Dease Lake, on the Stewart-Cassiar Highway, and Telegraph Creek, below the Grand Canyon of the Stikine River. They are Athabascan-speaking peoples whose economy is a mix of hunting across vast areas and salmon fishing concentrated at specific locations. Their goats, bear, caribou, moose, deer, beaver and groundhog, as well as their berries and furs, come from the lands that Fiegehen’s photographs reveal. Their salmon come from the lower stem of the river. Timber for houses and carvings comes from the forest edge. The obsidian from which they once made knives came from Mount Edziza.

The Tahltan homeland is dramatically defined, but theirs has probably never been a culture of isolation. Trading links connect them with neighbours on all sides – with Tlingit to the west and north, Nisga’a and Gitskan to the south, and interior Athabascan peoples to the east of them, on the other side of the Continental Divide. Exchange of oolican oil, dried salmon, obsidian and berries was part of an intricate regional intercultural economy that depended as much on inland trails as on river and coast travel. Exchange, travel and, at times, warfare are strong elements in Tahltan oral history. In this history the people’s use and knowledge of the Stikine is recorded and celebrated. The names of mountains, creeks and village sites, along with the histories of family names and titles, give life – cultural, human life – to every part of this landscape.

–Hugh Brody, Stikine

A Call to Action

Stikine River Country is raw wilderness. Its headwaters region, the wildlife-rich Spatsizi Plateau, is North America’s equivalent to Africa’s Serengeti Plain. In its mid-region, the mighty river continues to deepen the spectacular 100-km-long Grand Canyon, which has only once permitted the passage of humans. The Stikine’s estuary, with its broad-fanned delta of layered silt, is a vital and irreplaceable migratory bird stopover along the Pacific flyway.

SPATSIZI MOUNTAIN Spatsizi is a Tahltan word meaning "Land of the red goat." Goats roll around and bed down in the iron oxide dust, changing their normally white coats to red.

But this beautiful country will remain wild only if there is massive effort by the citizens of Canada and the U.S. to keep it that way. Mount Edziza and Spatsizi Plateau Wilderness provincial parks and the United States’ Stikine-LeConte Wilderness Area currently protect portions of the Stikine, but saving the rest of the watershed will not be easy because of the enormous push by industry and government to develop its resources. Unless public pressure to preserve the Stikine grows, the earthmovers will go to work, destroying the wilderness bit by bit as economic conditions permit.
The gravest threat is the system of dams proposed by the BC. Hydro and Power Authority – two on the Stikine and three on the Iskut River – and the construction of reservoirs, roads and transmission lines that will accompany the project. According to B.C. Hydro, the need for power from the Stikine is inevitable as the province’s population grows. The company has already spent $40 million in engineering studies on this megaproject. Conservationists know, however, that encouraging private and corporate citizens to become “power smart” would be a much better solution.

The region is also threatened by mining. Thousands of claims exist at present, some of which could become viable as soon as road access is available. In the summer of 1991, without public review or adequate environmental analysis, construction commenced on a major road into the heart of the Golden Triangle area of the Iskut – the Stikine’s major tributary. Conservationists would like the Stikine to contain only small, air-accessed underground mines that concentrate on the highest grade of ore and operate according to strict pollution abatement regulations.

Logging is another serious problem in the Stikine. In 1989, the B.C. government proposed the establishment of a “recreation corridor” that would hide logging from river viewpoints but do nothing to curtail it. The short-term profits to be made from logging the watershed are far outweighed by the long-term costs of destroying the wilderness.

courtesy Gary Fiegehen

Over the past decade, tens of thousands of supporters have joined forces to fight for protection of the Stikine. In 1988 we proposed that a National Park Reserve be set up, a move that would stop industrial development while safeguarding native land claims in the area. But our efforts have not been enough. We need you to join us.

Stikine country is too previous to squander. It is a place for wildlife to flourish – and a place for you to make a stand.

–Paul George, founding director, Western Canada Wilderness Committee, Stikine

Fast forward to 2010

Twenty eight years after first experiencing the Stikine I continue to return whenever I am able. I watch with trepidation as new mines are developed, some with access roads that have a habit of turning into logging roads, as our government pushes a new power corridor up Hwy. 37 to facilitate them.  And I watch with hope when the Tahltan with public support were able to repel Dutch Royal Shell out of the Sacred Headwaters and – at least for now – stopped methane gas extraction from the headwaters of the Stikine, Spatsizi, Klappan and Skeena rivers. I hope that 28 from now and 128 years from now there will still be a free-flowing river with an intact watershed and people are still able to know the wild. I also hope folks will inform themselves by googling Cassiar Watch and Pembina Institute, then vote for whomever represents their values.

The photographer  >>Photographer Gary Fiegehen first encountered the Stikine in the early 1980s, then spent five years consumed with photographing it. He travelled on horseback, by canoe and on foot. He went in all seasons, searching for images that would convey the power and majesty of this ancient land as well as his own intense responses to it.

The book   >>Stikine: The Great River, by Gary Fiegehen (1991, Douglas & McIntyre; $25). Available at gfiegehen@uniserve.com

Related Reading >> Northern B.C.: The Last Wild River >> Northern B.C.: Swim the Skeena

All photographs: Gary Fiegehen

B.C.’s BEST AutoObesity program receives its first “car donation” – while the donor hopes to lose his “afternoon-coffee-hour gut”

by Steve Beck

Since BEST – B.C.’s Better Environment, Sustainability and Transportation centre – launched its AutoObesity program in December 2009, it has had hundreds of inquiries, such as “How does the program work?” and “Who can participate?” And Drew Lemen’s recent AutoObesity experience not only answers most of these questions, it’s a great case study of a family that has taken the plunge and gone from being a two-car to a one-car household. We interviewed Lemen (pictured below), a retired public servant, at his home in south Richmond, B.C. – after he realized that with two cars for just two people, his household had one more vehicle than necessary. The result: Lemen has donated one of them to BEST.

MyWW: How do you donate a car?

DL: I just called up BEST and they met me at my condo and explained how AutoObesity works. As I was already committed to making a change, I didn’t need convincing as much as some help making the change, which is what the AutoObesity program is about.

MyWW: Did you get anything in return?

DL: A charitable tax receipt, based on my car’s fair market value (less the value of any benefits); plus a “BEST Mode Shift Membership” for transportation planning. I also get other assistance for making the switch, such as a Car Co-op and/or Zipcar membership, bicycle rain gear or safety gear if I need it, safe-cycling courses, a discount on an ecycle and transit passes. I haven’t decided yet exactly what help I need, but I have 30 days from the time of my donation to figure it out, given that the AutoObesity program is tailored specifically to the family or household making the car donation.

MyWW: It’s not easy giving up the extra wheels, eh?

"The average car costs between $8000 and $10,000 per year to own and operate, taking into account insurance, licensing, financing, maintenance, fuel and depreciation of value. So anything that saves me that much money is worth looking into." –Drew Lemen

DL: Actually, the decision was fairly simple. Having my own car is convenient, but it also has its downside. I’d really like to lose this afternoon-coffee-hour gut, for example, and cycling and walking regularly will help me do that.

MyWW:Any other payoffs?

DL: Even eliminating just one car helps reduce traffic and noise outside our apartment. I’d like the neighbourhood to be more livable, and this is a step toward that, something I can do myself. It’s hard to see so much of the public space around here dedicated solely to cars – without the same consideration for  walkers, cyclists, skateboarders and rollerbladers. Giving up my car will help make the streets a little friendlier. It also helps make the air cleaner. I want to do my bit to fight climate change and reduce my GHG footprint.

MyWW: And the cost savings aren’t too shabby, either, right?

That was one of my prime motivations. In fact, it was the cost-breakdown analysis of car ownership on the AutoObesity website (based on data from the CAA 2009 Driving Costs pamphlet) that eventually convinced me to give up my car altogether and start biking and taking transit. The average car costs between $8,000 and $10,000 per year to own and operate, taking into account insurance, licensing, financing, maintenance, fuel and depreciation. Anything that saves me that much money is worth looking into, and I’m definitely looking forward to saving that money every year. Plus, it’s a lot easier to donate my vehicle and do some good, rather than deal with the hassle and uncertainty of trying to sell it on my own.

MyWW: So how’s the “gut-reduction” program going?

Ha! Well, I’m still commuting twice a week to Kitsilano and once a week to Burnaby to tutor English to ESL high-school students, which is about  100 km per week. But now I’m using transit or cycling and walking. So it’s different, definitely. Still, I’m enjoying getting more fresh air and exercise, without having to drive to the beach or the gym. I also like how my travel options have actually increased. When people become car dependent, they tend to see their vehicle as the only viable option for doing chores, going to appointments, commuting, going out to dinner, for everything. Now I’ve got more flexibility. So yeah, “it’s hard to let go.” But after taking a couple of weeks to “say goodbye” to the old wheels, I’ve let ‘em go.

Photos courtesy Martin Gunst, BEST AutoObesity program coordinator

On a dark and rainy Vancouver evening, I paid a visit to the trio behind the Clean Bin Project. Jenny Rustemeyer, Rhyannon O’Heron and Grant Baldwin are housemates who more than a year ago decided they’d simply had enough of  ”stuff.” They also realized that if they could cut down on all their stuff they could drastically reduce the amount of garbage they were sending to the landfill. And thus their Clean Bin Project was born.

The Clean Bin Project after one year: That's it, garbage-wise.

The challenge was this: produce zero landfill-bound waste for one year (or as close to zero as possible). With individually labelled bins, Rustemeyer, O’Heron and Baldwin would also compete for the honour of generating the least amount of garbage in their household.

Though this sounds like a simple challenge, if you were to pick apart your garbage and examine its origins, you’d see that the society we live in makes it rather difficult to truly achieve zero waste. So many of the things we buy are not compostable or readily recyclable. As well, certain types of recycling are not necessarily better for the environment.

Project Evolution

The Clean Bin Project, Vancouver, B.C.: Meticulous recycling.

The group knew from the beginning that recycling would not be the complete answer to the challenge. While they would meticulously separate recyclables (they’d even stash a bin for “metal bits” under their sink), the first “R” in waste management, Reduce, would be embraced as the guiding principle for the project. Soon, buying things – consumption – would come to a standstill; ground rules on consumption would be laid (food and personal hygiene necessities were exempt, for example); Rustemeyer would start a blog to share the group’s progress and Baldwin (a professional videographer) would document the experience on video.

Because of the project, Rustemeyer also became much more involved with food and food production. “Food packaging generates a lot of waste,” she notes, so she became a dedicated customer of farmer’s markets (where one can purchase unpackaged goods) and learned to can her own sauces and preserves. “Gardening also really took off,” says Rustemeyer. Cultivating just 70 square feet in their yard, she and O’Heron were able to harvest potatoes, garlic, onions, lettuce, kale, spinach, four varieties of tomatoes, beets, peas, cucumbers, zucchini, rhubarb, basil, oregano, thyme, mint, blood sorrel, lemon sorrel, parsley, chives, radishes, cilantro, carrots and sunchoke through the year. Oh – and berries were planted for next year.

O'Heron holds up her bin.

Friends and acquaintances were also educated on the project. Even so, receiving gifts turned out to be a challenge. The three would gladly give and accept gifts of experiences, such as dining or live entertainment, yet still took care to be gracious by accepting occasional material gifts. “Some get it and some don’t,” explains O’Heron, who, like her housemates, occasionally brings home “incidental” packaging to be properly disposed of. “We didn’t want to make people feel bad,” adds Rustemeyer. “This was a personal challenge for us; we didn’t want to preach.”

The Clean Bin challenge ended in July of 2009, but it would appear the behaviours have stuck. Once the systems and routines were put in place, it made sense to continue the low-consumption lifestyle, and their lives have been enriched for the better. Then and now, instead of buying stuff, “we do more. We go out; eat better. We go on bike trips on weekends.” Sounds like a decent trade off!

The Documentary

Baldwin had always wanted to film a documentary, and this was the perfect project. “We want to make it fun and entertaining; to inspire people,” says Baldwin, who acknowledges that the recent onslaught of environmental films may have alienated potential zero-waste converts. “There are so many issues: global warming, animal cruelty, eating local; we don’t want to tackle everything. We want to go after something tangible. This is something that people have control over.”

His and hers: Baldwin and Rustemeyer compare garbage.

And they’ve inspired their fair share, with engaged readers of the Clean Bin’s blog posting tips and advice on topics as varied as baking soda deodorant to recyclable toothbrush heads. Rustemeyer has even been informed of others starting their own zero-waste challenges.

So, in the end, who was the winner of the Clean Bin Project? I was told that the housemates averaged just four pounds of garbage each – for an entire year. But to find out who won, we’ll have to wait for the documentary, which comes out this summer. In the meantime, we can all get a little inspired by watching the trailer below.

Resources

The Clean Bin Project lists a number of recycling resources for things like soft plastics, scrap metals, and electronics. Here is a short list:

RCBC – Recycling Council of British Columbia

Pacific Mobile Depot

Happy Stan’s Recycling

Metro Vancouver Recycles

Lead image courtesy Jenny Rustemeyer

by Dave Quinn

Background

The Flathead River rises in the often overlooked southeast corner of British Columbia like some mythical creature born in the shadows of imagination. From here it ripples south across the U.S. border, mingles momentarily with Montana’s historic Clark Fork River, then joins the great Columbia in the race to the Pacific. Protected by a ring of jagged Rocky Mountain peaks and logging roads with triple-digit kilometre markers, the far reaches of the Canadian Flathead are a bone-jarring, tire-puncturing two-hour drive from the nearest town, the East Kootenay community of Fernie. Understandably, the headwaters of the transborder Flathead have only recently begun to share their secrets.

The 158,000-hectare watershed is considered by many to be the lynchpin for wildlife diversity in the southern Rocky Mountains. The Flathead shelters more grizzly bears than any other non-coastal region in North America, the highest number of vascular plant species in Canada and some of the purest water on the planet. Perhaps most important, the largest unpopulated valley in southern Canada provides critical breeding habitat, particularly for wide-ranging carnivores such as grizzlies, wolverine and lynx whose home ranges can encompass thousands of square kilometres. The high mortality rates of carnivores due to hunting or human encroachment on habitat makes breeding grounds crucial pieces in the conservation puzzle. The Flathead is possibly the most important such wildlife refuge in the southern Rockies.

“No other region along the Canada-U.S. border sustains such a diversity of wildlife and ecosystems.”

–Mark Angelo, Rivers Chair/Outdoor Recreation Council (ORC) of B.C., and Order of Canada and Order of B.C. recipient

Unfortunately, remoteness does not equal protection. Sprawling clear-cuts now claw their way to meet the alpine, the scars of increasing off-road vehicle traffic are seen even in the valley’s farthest reaches and so-called “mountaintop removal” open-pit coal mines are being proposed for this unique drainage. “No other region along the Canada-U.S. border sustains such a diversity of wildlife and ecosystems,” notes Mark Angelo, Rivers Chair for the 120,000-member Outdoor Recreation Council (ORC) of B.C., and an Order of Canada and Order of B.C. recipient. Yet despite ever-increasing human incursions over the last 10 years, the Flathead appears to have been abandoned by government decision-makers.

It has taken Cline Mining Corporation’s proposal of a two-million-tonne-per-year open-pit coalmine in the upper Flathead to bring tensions to a head, reigniting a century-old debate over the fate of this wild valley. In March 2007, ORC placed the Flathead atop its annual list of endangered B.C. rivers, ahead of more famous coastal cousins such as the Fraser, Skeena and Stikine. Contaminated runoff from large-scale open-pit mining would poison the Flathead, which flows directly into Montana’s Glacier National Park and Flathead Lake. “While mining is a major industry in our province, many British Columbians have expressed the view that there are some places just not appropriate to mine. The Flathead River is one of them,” says Angelo.

“While mining is a major industry in our province, many British Columbians have expressed the view that there are some places just not appropriate to mine. The Flathead River is one of them.” 

The Flathead River rubs shoulders with wilderness royalty: bounded to the east by Canada’s Waterton Lakes National Park and to the south by Glacier National Park, crown of the U.S. national park system. In 1932, these transborder parks were united to form the world’s first International Peace Park and have since received a UNESCO World Cultural Heritage Site designation. But conservationists insist a critical chunk is missing in the Waterton-Glacier complex. A glance at a map reveals what looks like a bite taken out of the preserve’s protected core – in the B.C. portion of the region.

Discussions about a park in the Flathead are not new. As early as 1911, conservationists such as Kutenai Brown, Waterton’s first park superintendent, acknowledged the superlative wildlife values of the Flathead Valley. In his March 1911 Report of the Superintendent, Brown wrote, “It seems advisable to greatly enlarge this park . . . to have a preserve and breeding ground in conjunction with the United States’ Glacier Park.” But it has taken the advent of modern wildlife biology survey methods, including radio collaring and DNA hair snagging, for scientists to truly understand the Flathead’s contribution to the southern Rockies ecosystem.

The Environmentalists’ View

Biologist Bruce McLellan has spent much of the past 25 years raising his family in a cabin in the Flathead Valley while working on one of the world’s longest-running grizzly bear studies. “On the coast, salmon are a major food source, so that determines where you find significant grizzly populations. Here in the Interior, it is huckleberries,” says McLellan, “and the Flathead has a lot of huckleberries. Yet huckleberries are just one reason why the Flathead supports such an uncommonly high density of grizzlies. The valley is also the breeding ground for grizzlies in all the surrounding areas,” notes McLellan.

Yet despite nearly a century of advocacy, the southeast corner of B.C. is noticeably free of what conservationists call “green blobs” – nature sanctuaries that serve as breeding grounds for neighbouring wildlife populations. 

Grizzlies aren’t the only members of the “claw and fang” clan to call the Flathead home, however. Sixteen species of carnivores, ranging from tiny weasels and badgers to wolverine and cougar, thrive here, in one of the most diverse carnivore populations on the continent. Without the Flathead, many surrounding valleys would no longer have a source of carnivores and other wildlife to replace those lost to trapping, hunting and natural mortality. Yet despite nearly a century of advocacy, the southeast corner of B.C. is noticeably free of what conservationists call “green blobs” – nature sanctuaries that serve as breeding grounds for neighbouring wildlife populations. To rectify the situation, a coalition of grassroots, national and international conservation interests is working overtime to focus B.C.’s political eye on this neglected corner of the province.

“Core protected areas are a key concept in conservation,” notes Harvey Locke, the visionary behind the Yellowstone-to-Yukon Conservation Initiative (Y2Y) and advisor for the Canadian Parks and Wilderness Society (CPAWS), a national conservation group that has helped protect more than 400,000 square kilometres of Canadian wilderness. “To secure a future for wide-ranging species such as grizzlies and lynx, which are both protected by the U.S. Endangered Species Act, large, core sanctuaries with no hunting or trapping are critical – and biologists have identified the Flathead as perhaps the single most important basin for carnivores in the Rocky Mountains.”

"Provincial parks are not truly protected. And even if they were, they don’t have the staff to police them. Hunting, snowmobiling and even heli-skiing are allowed in some, and B.C. Parks has only one staff member for every eight parks. How can you call that 'protected.' "

Not surprisingly, uncertainty over the Flathead’s future has sparked ongoing debate among the East Kootenays’ 56,000 residents. National Park proponents cite underfunding and poor management in provincial parks as the rationale for a national park. “Provincial parks are not truly protected,” explains John Bergenske, executive director of the grassroots East Kootenay conservation group Wildsight. “And even if they were, they don’t have the staff to police them. Hunting, snowmobiling and even heli-skiing are allowed in some provincial parks, and B.C. Parks has only one staff member for every eight parks. How can you call that ‘protected’?”

Parks Canada, for its part, is interested in stepping in. In 2002, it identified the Flathead as “an area of interest” for expansion of Waterton National Park – a proposal that initially garnered huge local interest. The city council of Fernie, the local Regional District of East Kootenay and the Ktunaxa First Nation (in whose traditional territory the Flathead is found) subsequently called for a park feasibility study. But for local hunting groups and ORV users, the word “park” can be a four-letter word.

National Park Designation: Those Opposed 

Sparwood, B.C.’s Kent Petovello, president of the East Kootenay Wildlife Association, draws on 30 years of outdoor experience in the Flathead when he says, “A national park is something most hunters would never consider. Why?  Most locals call Banff and Jasper ‘tourist pits.’ It goes beyond common sense to promote ski hills, golf and condominiums in a place like the Flathead. Some hunters might accept a Class A Provincial Park or wilderness area with legislated designations, but nobody wants a national park.”

Fernie’s Mike Sosnowski, owner-operator of a local snowmobile tour company, is similarly opposed. “Local input into the management of the Flathead is the answer to maintaining a healthy valley,” he insists. “A park would exclude a majority of the current users of that land base. It’s already managed by provincial and federal laws and standards that have worked very well so far. Leave it be.”

Economic Benefits of National Park Designation

“But the problem with ‘leaving it be,’” says Wildsight’s John Bergenske, “is that the current land use regime leaves the valley open for mining. We have an open-pit coal mine proposed for the headwaters of the Flathead right now, with more to come. This special place needs a special plan that includes a sanctuary like a national park in part of the valley and a ban on mining in the rest of it.”

“Such a plan would also be good for the B.C. economy,” says Harvey Locke. “We live in a world where the most rapidly disappearing commodity is wilderness. Protected areas are now economic drivers and diversifiers. And this is especially true for regions like the Flathead, which has one of the least diverse economies in B.C. – one susceptible to the booms and busts of highly unpredictable resource extraction markets.” He notes that towns such as Invermere, Canmore and Kalispel have booming economies simply because they are close to Kootenay, Banff and Glacier national parks. “People like living, and raising their families, near permanently protected nature. Such towns benefit not only from increased tourism, but from increased numbers and a diversity of residents.”

When the number of jobs that would be potentially lost was balanced against potential new Parks Canada jobs and the predicted influx of new families, the net annual benefit for the region was estimated at an impressive $1.44 million, with 23 additional full-time jobs generated.

To test this theory, Bergenske and Locke hired an independent economist in 2005 to evaluate the economic impact of a national park designation for the Flathead. When the number of jobs that would be potentially lost was balanced against potential new Parks Canada jobs and the predicted influx of new families, the net annual benefit for the region was estimated at an impressive $1.44 million, with 23 additional full-time jobs generated.

Currently, the East Kootenays boast five immense open-pit coal mines that collectively produce 25 per cent of the world’s “shipped” steelmaking coal. Hunters, conservation interests and even many local miners agree that another mine is not what the region needs. They may disagree on the proposed park expansion, but they see eye to eye on Cline Mining Corporation’s proposal to haul two million tonnes of coal annually from the Flathead’s headwaters down 40 km of forestry road to a rail siding on the Elk River. When Cline officials held public open houses this January in Elko, Fernie and Sparwood, the sentiment at the packed venues was clear: No, thanks. Local opinion was equally adamant in the more than 60,000 emails and faxes that subsequently crashed the email server of the governor of Montana and flooded B.C.’s Office of the Premier.

Overwhelming negative response such as this does not bode well for Cline Mining or for any future proposed mines in the Flathead. And if the public remains galvanized around keeping the Flathead wild, the future may well turn out bright for B.C.’s most endangered watershed. For conservationists such as John Bergenske and Harvey Locke, this would mean an expanded Waterton-Glacier International Peace Park. For Kent Petovello and other hunters it would mean a Flathead free of open-pit mines but with status-quo management of hunting and off-road-vehicle access. For its part, Parks Canada needs only the approval of the provincial government to proceed with a feasibility study for a national park (the province has so far declined to respond to calls to protect the Flathead).

Meanwhile, after more than a quarter century spent working and living in the Flathead Valley, Bruce McLellan is watching change edge slowly but surely into the valley where he has raised his family. “I’m not sure what the future holds for the Flathead. I’m only sure there have been changes, in human presence, off-road vehicle use, hunting pressures – all of which is not great for grizzlies,” he observes. “But I want to see the Flathead stay the same as it was 10 years ago, just like everybody else. And the only way to keep what still exists there today is to provide some measure of protection for tomorrow.”

Dave Quinn is a Kimberley, B.C.-based wildlife biologist, wilderness guide and author whose work takes him from the Kootenays to remote regions of the Arctic and Patagonia.

>>For more information on the transboarder Flathead Valley and the struggle to keep it wild: flatheadwild.ca; peaceparkplus.net

>>Related reading: B.C.’s Latest RAVE Focuses on the Flathead; Northern B.C.: The Last Wild River

by Dave Quinn

In 1879, legendary American naturalist and wilderness advocate John Muir paddled B.C.’s lower Stikine River, which from its headwaters on the Spatsizi Plateau carves a 250-km path through the Coast Mountains between Telegraph Creek, B.C., and Wrangell, Alaska — a remote waterway described by Muir as a “Yosemite 100 miles long.”

Some 130 years later, the Stikine’s lower half has survived the salmon wars, plans to dam its “Grand Canyon” and a proposed open-pit gold mine in a major tributary. But the threat of coal-bed methane (CBM) development in its headwaters — which requires a particularly destructive fossil-fuel extraction technique — still looms. The good news: local First Nations and conservationists such as David Suzuki and Wade Davis have united to “save the sacred headwaters” of the Stikine, Nass and Skeena, three of the province’s most important salmon-producing rivers. The collapse of B.C.’s southern salmon stocks in the summer of 2009, resulting in closures to commercial and First Nations fishing on the Fraser and dramatic decreases in grizzly populations on the south coast, only reinforces the urgency of their struggle.

>>Related reading: 2010 update on the Stikine + excerpt from Gary Fiegehen’s photography book Stikine: The Great River; Northern B.C.: Swim the Skeena;

B.C.’s Latest RAVE Focuses on the Flathead ; Flathead on the Mind

>>Tame the Wild Facts? Reader Comments:

On the whole, Westworld magazine has been a very interesting and informative read over the years. Occasionally though, an article appears that really “gets my goat” – usually when a story’s focus leads readers to believe something that is more sensational than factual, such as winter 2009’s Landmarks column (“The Last Wild River” by Dave Quinn).

It’s a beautiful river and deserves protection. However, while I am uncertain what is meant by “wild,” I’m sure the Stikine is not the last wild river – in B.C., Canada, the U.S. or the world. Also, the last sentence has two errors. First, there was a much lower return in the sockeye runs than anticipated, but the other species have returned in good and, in some cases, record numbers on the south coast. In fact, the biggest single effect on these returns is ocean survival, something we have little control over. Second, the coast’s grizzly populations are dependent on returning salmon, but why does their range seem to be expanding on the south coast? Grizzlies are swimming from the mainland to Vancouver Island because there’s not enough territory for them.

–Laurence Brown, via email

The collapse to which Dave Quinn is referring involves sockeye salmon, specifically the Chilko River run. There are five species of salmon – six if you count steelhead, which are now included in the same genus – and the numerous runs of these species in literally thousands of streams in the province did not all “collapse” this summer. (All the “southern” runs did not collapse, either.)

–Geoff Chislett, via email

Writer’s Note: For years, news reports have noted declining and less predictable salmon returns along the southern west coast. According to the CBC, for example: “On the U.S. west coast many salmon runs have completely collapsed; in B.C. the situation is only slightly better. But in the north Pacific . . . many salmon runs are at or near all-time highs.” In fact, the 2009 sockeye collapse on the Fraser (and the Chilko, according to Mr. Chislett) led to a judicial inquiry. Some returns of other species were larger than expected, as Mr. Brown correctly asserts, but the situation is frighteningly similar to the prelude to the collapse of the east coast cod fishery.

Re: B.C.’s grizzlies – these bears swim from the mainland in a natural process called “dispersal.” They rarely, if ever, survive the first humans they encounter after “island hopping” to Vancouver Island.

>>Do you have an update on the fight to save the Stikine, Nass and Skeena? Let us know!

Photo courtesy Dave Quinn.