“Surfers are even more territorial than grizzlies,” says Chris Darimont, Raincoast’s Science Director, as he waxes his board. As both surfer and grizzly bear conservation scientist, he would know. We’re off the windswept outer islands of Heiltsuk Territory bobbing in Wyatt, Raincoast’s cherished 17-foot Olympic, and Chris is getting ready to surf the chilly waters. Several sea otters, coasting in the bull kelp, duck away as we near. The water is thick with mats of seaweed that are silhouetted against the translucent green cresting waves. “For conditions Anne, this is a two out of ten,” Chris explains before his dark neoprene-clad body slips into the Pacific Ocean. You don’t say. Doug Brown, Raincoast field station manager and member of the Heiltsuk First Nation, watches as Chris paddles towards the horizon. “Oh he just high-fived an otter,” he jokes as Chris disappears behind a swell.
Just yesterday the Raincoast field crew collected the final bear hair samples from their 5,000 square kilometer study area and took down the last of their 72 baited hair snagging stations, parts of which are doused with pureed fish offal, unaffectionately dubbed “stink sauce” by the crew. The thick oily sauce is so damned fetching to wild animals that it’s stored in the Bait Shed, a small hut the size of a cubicle (“It is our office cubicle,” clarifies Raincoaster Christina Service) that floats just off the field station’s dock where just as an extra precaution, it’s encircled by an electrical fence.
I’m up here in the Bella Bella area imposing on the Raincoast crew to report on Central Coast science and environment stories for ScientificAmerican.com. Today Chris, Doug and Dean Azim, a Victoria-based photographer, and myself have boated to the outer islands to chase down some SFU researchers who are investigating the links between marine riches and terrestrial bird and plant diversity (which will inform the impacts of oil spills on the species that don’t necessarily come into direct contact with oil). We don’t have luck getting them on the radio but the guys do spot a decent sized wave for Chris to explore and “see what comes up”, as he puts it.
In the four days I’ve spent here the weather has been glorious, all sun and sparkling water. The wildlife has similarly put on an excellent show, no doubt aided by the quiet, sharp eyes of our guides, Doug and Chris. But today the raincoast has shown its true face. The clouds hang low and rain flecks the gunmetal water as we shoot for the outer islands. The air has a slippery wet smell.
Chris is about 200 meters out now past the bull kelp, well past the otters, straddling his board sitting upright like some half man, half surfboard creature. Back on the boat, Doug ties our blue nylon bowline to a rope of kelp and cuts the engine. The ocean seems much more gentle as we surrender to its sway, no idling Yamaha 90 engine fighting against the rhythmic swell.
Waving off a less-than-perfect set wave. Making choices carefully in the Great Bear Rainforest, where grizzlies and sea otters outnumber the small handful of local surfers along its 800 km coast
A wave starts to build and we see Chris barely stand up before, woomph, he goes under. “I worry now,” Doug says as the wave foams where Chris went under. “Oh he got thumped,” Dean says from behind his 200-400 telephoto zoom lens.
To the left of Wyatt is a tiny little island. A tuft of green grass rises above its high tide mark. Bands of red and green seaweed ring its jagged rocks. Doug and I joke about how maybe we should leave Canadian Prime Minister Stephen Harper there to contemplate his actions – especially relevant given the proposed Enbridge oil supertanker route that would trace a line of devastating environmental risk right through his people’s land. Ditto with our new premier Christy Clark.
“Spend a week on that little island right there – you could live like a king,” says Doug. “There’s a whole smorgasbord there on those rocks.” And that’s it right there. All across the board, this region is a smorgasbord of life. Rivers fed by snowmelt from the husky Coast Mountains careen over jagged granite cliffs before feeding countless estuaries at the heads of inlets, each a lush nursery for life. This is a landscape that nourished an estimated 30,000 Heiltsuk people before Europeans arrived. Under the mats of moss and bunchberry that carpet the inky green forests of this territory lie no less than 56 village sites – the island that forms the backdrop to Chris’ surfing being just one example.
Finally on this third of fourth attempt Chris surfs the wave, meaning as the first person to do so he gets dibs on christening it. He slowly makes his way back to the boat. “That was a lot harder than it looked, man,” he says as he climbs in. “There were rocks all over the place, it was freaky.”
Fast forward to dinner time back at the field station. Everyone is gathered around the big trestle table ready to dig into some spring salmon that Raincoast field member Howard Humchitt gifted this evening (from the man who has written on his tackle box in black Sharpie “A woman loves me. Fish FEAR me”).
Inaugural ride at "Bait Shed"
So what are you gonna call your wave Chris? The table waits for his reply. “I’m thinking Bait Shed,” he says thoughtfully. Bait Shed: a fishy smelling lure for those territorial surfers. Or Bait Shed: a homage to the key ingredient in Raincoat’s long term study investigating the relationship between salmon abundance and grizzly bear populations to inform conservation and management in this precious corner of the world. Or maybe it’s none of the above. Kyle Artelle, a member of the field crew, wonders aloud tongue in cheek: “Is that because you were imagining us cleaning the bait shed when you were surfing?
Aloha ! Great wave