sank on a gusty night in 2006. The Natives claimed that if a similar accident happened involving one of the oil tankers, the resulting spill would devastate the ecosystem their community has relied upon for thousands of years. Talking it over, we agreed that together we were uniquely suited for an expedition
through the Great Bear. I had two decades of kayaking experience, Spencer had extensive knowledge of the flora and fauna we would encounter, and Daniel had expertise preparing for multiday adventures. There was just one little problem—our combined sea kayaking experience was essentially zero.
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e started our trip near the city of Kitimat, where the proposed tanker route would begin. An industrial town planned and built by aluminum smelting giant Alcan in
the 1950s, Kitimat is not commonly used as a departure point for kayak trips so there’s no paddle shop. Luckily, we found a passionate advocate for the rainforest in Joe Paolinelli, owner of Skeena Kayaking in Prince Rupert. Paolinelli had boats and equipment waiting for us in Kitimat, but in our inexperience we didn’t grab enough waterproof neoprene hatch covers, which is how our satphone arrived at its salty demise. After sealing my leaking hatch with duct tape and a garbage bag, we were in high
spirits as we navigated the rough water of Douglas Channel, drinking in the warm air and spectacular scenery. One of the area’s most beautiful features is also one of its most significant hazards—the shoreline is predominantly vertical rock cliffs with impenetrable vegetation beginning at the high tide mark. Getting off the water is often impossible. Kayaking through this flooded mountain range, we wondered what might be gazing
back at us from the thick curtain of woods. The Kermode, or spirit bear, is a black bear that possesses a recessive gene rendering it completely white. Found only in this area, the ghostly bears feature in Native folklore and the hope of spotting one fishing for salmon spawning up the creeks kept us close to shore. Eager to support our film project, the Haisla community had given us permission to
use the tiny trapper’s cabins they have built throughout the region. The cabins are only eight feet by 10 feet and locating them amongst the thick vegetation was difficult. Reach- ing Coste Island, we couldn’t find the cabin at all and ended up tenting on a cliff over- looking the distant lights of Kitimat.
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he Coste Rocks are 150-foot pillars that rise from the ocean floor to just break the surface as craggy islets. I hoped to film harbor seals hauling out and sunbathing on
the rocks so we set off at sunrise to reach them on a favorable tide. Without our charts, we congratulated ourselves for calculating the tidal period using our knowledge of the sun and moon. But we prairie boys soon found ourselves paddling against the current as a thick fog and heavy rain rolled in. As we neared the rocks, dozens of seals slid into the water. I set up a camera and we ate lunch in the drizzle, waiting. But the shiny little heads only stared sulkily at us from the water. To escape the funnelling wind and waves of Douglas Channel, we turned down shel-
tered Devastation Channel and pushed on through the fog. Low tide revealed mussel- coated rocks and we aimed for Hugh Creek with mounds of the molluscs on our decks. Paddling up into the fresh water, Spencer pointed into the coniferous jungle and gave a welcome cry, “Cabin!” The wooden cabin stood on three-foot piers above the mossy ground. One tiny window barely illuminated two sets of rustic bunks and an inviting wood stove. Within minutes, we had converted it into a sauna as we steamed mussels and listened to rain drumming on the roof. A bright morning revealed three huge crabs in our crab trap and the soggy truth that nothing dries in the rainforest. As the crabs boiled, we watched eagles scanning the con- fluence of the shallow creek and the ocean for their own breakfasts. Eating from the sea and drinking from the creek, we felt a connection to the indigenous people who have been doing just that, probably right there, for thousands of years. As hard as it was to leave, we couldn’t resist the allure of a nearby hot spring. Like the ver-
dant forests, the Great Bear’s abundance of natural hot springs owe their existence to the re- gion’s copious rainfall. Rain seeps down through the mountains’ sedimentary bases where it’s heated geothermally, and the hot water is forced back to the surface through natural fissures. That night we decided to adjust our ambitious route plan. I needed footage of the Great
Bear’s wild inhabitants to show others what was at stake, but trying to cover as much dis- tance as possible meant that we hadn’t seen a lot of wildlife. The map showed a lake high up in the mountains behind our cabin. We would spend the next day hiking to it.
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