Princess Royal Island, British Columbia
Calm air at night on the north Pacific coast often brings low fog in the morning. So it was this day. The waters of Graham Reach, which separate pristine Princess Royal Island from mainland British Columbia, were calm. A thin fog embraced the cool forest of western hemlocks, western redcedars and the first (for us) Douglas firs. We were searching for the mysterious white form of the black bear known as the Kermode bear (Ursus americanus kermodei). Now often referred to as the Spirit Bear, this unique colour morph has sparked public attention and has led to provincial government decisions to protect much of its limited range from logging and other commercial activities. We would scan the shoreline and open hillsides along the entire length of this lynchpin piece of the British Columbia’s Great Bear Rainforest, but to no avail. The Spirit Bear will survive here, and will welcome our return on some future day.
The fog thinned as we edged our Zodiacs onto the rickety docks at Butedale, an abandoned and crumbling salmon cannery village that, in the early 1900s rated among the largest of its kind on this coast. Up to 800 itinerant workers were housed here, including peoples of the coastal First Nations and many immigrants from Asia. During the summer to autumn salmon season, hundreds of tons of sleek fish would be offloaded, quickly processed and then canned for delivery to local and world markets. Caretaker Lou Simoneau, an Alberta oil worker originally from Quebec, welcomed us, as did his dog and cat. For seven years he has lived alone here, observing and accepting the natural decay of the cannery buildings and dormitories, but painstakingly maintaining the still-functioning hydroelectric generators which, for many years, powered the cannery operation.
We ventured off onto a “short” hike up to the lake that fed the penstocks and generators. The very best mud and slippery roots were probably the most challenging that most of us had attempted throughout this journey. But we made it to the lake. And the thin clouds burned off as we stepped gingerly onto huge logs left from early days of logging. They now float in a tangled mass around the lake’s outflow. Cables, blocks and pulleys were still wrapped around huge redcedar stumps, most of which had deep notches chopped into their sides where the fallers’ springboards had been hinged. The higher the fallers could stand above the flared buttress of these gigantic trees, the less push-me-pull-me sawing they would have to do.
Humpback whales have returned to British Columbia’s waters after the relentless killing that progressed through the early 1900s. We were able to approach very close to a few whales as we navigated south in the inside passage. A single northern elephant seal floated shoulders-high before submerging, perhaps for 45 minutes or more. They are champion divers. The lighthouse at Boat Bluff, crisply painted in red and white, and the First Nation village of Klemtu shone as we kept watch on the sunny deck or relaxed in the lounge. Our exposure to the open ocean both at Milbanke Sound and Queen Charlotte Sound could not have been gentler. We were enjoying Canada’s west coast at its finest.
Calm air at night on the north Pacific coast often brings low fog in the morning. So it was this day. The waters of Graham Reach, which separate pristine Princess Royal Island from mainland British Columbia, were calm. A thin fog embraced the cool forest of western hemlocks, western redcedars and the first (for us) Douglas firs. We were searching for the mysterious white form of the black bear known as the Kermode bear (Ursus americanus kermodei). Now often referred to as the Spirit Bear, this unique colour morph has sparked public attention and has led to provincial government decisions to protect much of its limited range from logging and other commercial activities. We would scan the shoreline and open hillsides along the entire length of this lynchpin piece of the British Columbia’s Great Bear Rainforest, but to no avail. The Spirit Bear will survive here, and will welcome our return on some future day.
The fog thinned as we edged our Zodiacs onto the rickety docks at Butedale, an abandoned and crumbling salmon cannery village that, in the early 1900s rated among the largest of its kind on this coast. Up to 800 itinerant workers were housed here, including peoples of the coastal First Nations and many immigrants from Asia. During the summer to autumn salmon season, hundreds of tons of sleek fish would be offloaded, quickly processed and then canned for delivery to local and world markets. Caretaker Lou Simoneau, an Alberta oil worker originally from Quebec, welcomed us, as did his dog and cat. For seven years he has lived alone here, observing and accepting the natural decay of the cannery buildings and dormitories, but painstakingly maintaining the still-functioning hydroelectric generators which, for many years, powered the cannery operation.
We ventured off onto a “short” hike up to the lake that fed the penstocks and generators. The very best mud and slippery roots were probably the most challenging that most of us had attempted throughout this journey. But we made it to the lake. And the thin clouds burned off as we stepped gingerly onto huge logs left from early days of logging. They now float in a tangled mass around the lake’s outflow. Cables, blocks and pulleys were still wrapped around huge redcedar stumps, most of which had deep notches chopped into their sides where the fallers’ springboards had been hinged. The higher the fallers could stand above the flared buttress of these gigantic trees, the less push-me-pull-me sawing they would have to do.
Humpback whales have returned to British Columbia’s waters after the relentless killing that progressed through the early 1900s. We were able to approach very close to a few whales as we navigated south in the inside passage. A single northern elephant seal floated shoulders-high before submerging, perhaps for 45 minutes or more. They are champion divers. The lighthouse at Boat Bluff, crisply painted in red and white, and the First Nation village of Klemtu shone as we kept watch on the sunny deck or relaxed in the lounge. Our exposure to the open ocean both at Milbanke Sound and Queen Charlotte Sound could not have been gentler. We were enjoying Canada’s west coast at its finest.
