Great Bear Rainforest (2 page)

My dad was all wound up and went on and on about the paints he would use and the colors he would mix and how he would display the canvases at his winter exhibit. Eventually, I stopped listening. My interest is not in art. It’s in science.

Recently, my brother and I had received a letter from the Youth Exploration Society, thanking us for the reports we had provided on the environment of the Kalahari Desert and Okavango Delta of Botswana.

“The field notes you submitted make for a wonderful addition to our library,” the letter read. “Your thoroughness and attention to detail provide a valuable documentation of this unique region of Africa, and for that, the Youth Exploration Society is grateful.”

Receiving such a letter from one of the world’s foremost authorities on exploration was certainly a boost to the ego. So much so, I was already anxious to send in my next set of field notes. This trip would give me a chance to do just that.

Even more exciting, this trip would allow me to meet and study with a scientist who was at one time considered the best in his field. And to do it in a place like the Great Bear Rainforest, well, to an aspiring scientist, that’s better than winning the lottery.

SEPTEMBER 18
VANCOUVER, BRITISH COLUMBIA


Immigration … Vancouver, Canada

Okay, we’ve made it to Canada, our fine neighbor to the north. Right now we’re sitting in the Vancouver International Airport waiting for a shuttle or taxi or something to take us to a floatplane that will fly us to the Great Bear. Here’s the thing about traveling to another country, even a place as friendly as Canada: they don’t just roll out the welcome mat when you get there. At least, not right away. There’s always the process of getting approved by some kind of border patrol, which, for someone like me who likes to joke around, can go good or bad, depending.

I’d be willing to bet my last dollar that they teach “intimidation” to all border agents. Get tied up with an especially curious agent and you could wind up answering questions for about a day and a half, give or take. Sounds simple enough, answering questions, but it’s not and here’s why: when you answer a border patrol’s questions, they stare at you as if you’re lying to their face. I mean, they’re so good at what they do they can make you feel guilty of a crime you never committed. Below is an example. Okay, I made it up, but it’s very realistic.

BORDER AGENT: How are you today?

ME: Good.

The agent stares at me, disbelief in his eyes.

ME: Pretty good.

The agent stares even harder. A drop of sweat runs down my forehead.

ME: Truth is, I could be better.

BORDER AGENT: Are you bringing anything illegal into this country?

ME: No.

BORDER AGENT: Are you sure?

ME: No … I mean, yes. I mean, I don’t know …

BORDER AGENT: Detain this boy at once!

I guess it’s understandable. After all, they are the first line of defense and their job is to protect their country by keeping the bad people out and that’s pretty important stuff, so, of course they are going to be serious about what they do, but I’d much rather be playful than serious and in this sort of situation that can have good or bad results, as I said.

Walking up to the agent at the Immigration and Customs desk, I suddenly remembered a Canadian movie where the actors kept saying “eh” at the end of almost every sentence and that just cracked me up, so I figured talking “Canadian” would be as good a way as any to break the ice.

“How’s it going, eh?” I said.

Turns out, it wasn’t such a good idea. Given the way the agent stared at me without saying a word, it was obvious he didn’t find it very amusing. Apparently, not all Canadians speak that way.

“Are you visiting for business or pleasure?” he finally asked.

“Pleasure,” I said.

“And research,” Wyatt added. “We’re going to view the wildlife in the Great Bear Rainforest.”

“Brave young men,” the agent said.

He leaned over the counter and looked us in the eyes.

“I have some advice,” he whispered.

“We’re all ears,” I said.

“Try not to get mauled by a grizzly or torn to pieces by a pack of wolves.”

Wyatt and I looked at each other, our eyes wide with fear.

“Yeah, we’ll do our best,” Wyatt said.

The agent winked as he stamped our passports.

“Thanks for the advice,” I said.

“No problem … eh.”

SEPTEMBER 18, 2:51 PM
VANCOUVER, B.C.
23° CELSIUS, 73° FAHRENHEIT
MOSTLY SUNNY, WIND CALM


After clearing customs and immigration in Vancouver, a van took us to a marina on the northeast side of the city. From the docks, I looked to the sky and spotted a small aircraft flying over the mountains. On the bottom of the plane, where you normally find wheels, were two large pontoons. They looked a lot like big water skis. The plane flew in low and touched down, skipping a few times across the water’s choppy surface before settling. The pilot passed the dock and made a quick U-turn. As the plane drifted toward us, the propeller slowed and came to a stop.

The seaplane that flew us to the GBR

The door swung open and the pilot stuck his head outside. His shirt was unbuttoned below his chest and his brown hair was shaggy and disheveled, as if he’d just rolled out of bed. He was wearing flip-flops.

“You the group that’s headed up to Bella Bella?” the pilot asked.

“That’s us,” my dad said.

“Excellent. I’m Brad. I’ll be your pilot today.”

Brad threw us a rope and we secured the plane to the dock.

“Hop aboard!” he said.

As usual, my mom was nervous about getting on a small aircraft and went about interrogating the pilot.

“How old is this plane, Brad?” she asked, sternly.

“It’s an A185F floatplane, ma’am,” Brad answered, cordially. “Built in 1976.”

“How frequently do you service the engine?”

“Whenever service is needed.”

“Is it needed often?”

“Not really.”

“How do you know when it’s needed?”

“I just know.”

Judging by the look on my mom’s face, I thought she was about to cancel the trip all together. As a seasoned flight attendant, she’s logged more flying time than most people. She has no problem with jumbo jets, but small planes have always spooked her. Sensing her unease, Brad attempted to calm her nerves.

“Don’t you worry, ma’am,” he said, “This plane is old, but she runs as good as new.”

Brad’s reassurance wasn’t enough. The grilling continued.

“Where is your co-pilot?”

“Ma’am,” he replied. “It’s just me.”

She turned to us.

“What if something happens to Brad during the flight?” she whispered.

“Like what?” my dad asked.

“Like he gets sick or passes out or has a heart attack? We’ll crash!”

“He’s not that old. I doubt he’ll have a heart attack.”

“You never know.”

She turned to Brad.

“Brad,” she said, “how’s your heart?”

“My heart?” he asked.

“Yes, your heart.”

Brad put his hand over his chest.

“Still beating, as far as I can tell.”

It’s true, pilots along the western coast of British Columbia have a long and spectacular history of crashing. But, it’s not because they have heart attacks. Mostly, it’s due to weather. The storms in this area are frequent and can be fierce, making the conditions for air travel less than ideal. But today in Vancouver, there wasn’t a storm cloud in the sky.

“It’s a perfect day to fly, Mom,” I said and hopped aboard, leaving my dad to further convince her that it was safe. It took a few minutes, but my dad was finally able to coax her onto the plane.

Brad fired up the engine and put on his headset. After idling into the channel, he turned to us.

“Everyone buckled?” he asked.

We all gave the thumbs up.

“Good! Off we go!”

Brad pressed the throttle forward and we quickly gained momentum. The pontoons thumped hard atop the rough waters, rattling the plane like an earthquake. Then, suddenly, the earthquake was over. We were airborne.

It’s been smooth sailing ever since.

Time to put away the journal and enjoy the scenery …

Aerial view of the GBR

MID-FLIGHT


Wow, what a view! Spread out a few thousand feet below us is the southern boundary of the Great Bear Rainforest—a huge mountainous wilderness carved up by channels and inlets and tributaries and spotted with hundreds of lakes and dozens of small, tree-covered islands. Further inland there are mountains so high trees can’t even grow and between many of these high jagged peaks, gray and white glaciers snake their way into the valleys.

It’s really kind of mind-blowing to think that hidden somewhere within this coastal wilderness, somewhere underneath the water and the trees, are some of the world’s most impressive creatures—humpback and orca whales, stellar sea lions, grizzlies, black bears, wolves, moose, bald eagles, and hundreds of other species. It’s even more amazing to think that somewhere in that forest down there is the mythical spirit bear!

SEPTEMBER 18, 3:23 PM
FLOATPLANE, APPROACHING BELLA BELLA, B.C.
CLOUDY SKIES


Below us right now is a section of land that has almost no trees, just lots of stumps and fallen trunks. In such a lush forest, it looks like a terrible scar on the earth.

I guess this remote wilderness isn’t as “undisturbed” as I thought. I can see a crane on one side loading a massive truck with trees. It’s obviously a logging operation. Through my binoculars I can see the name “Halliman Timber” printed on the crane.

Witnessing this makes it pretty clear to me why some people devote their lives to saving the earth’s forests. I understand that timber is needed. We use it to build homes. We use it for fuel. It’s a valuable resource. I just have a hard time believing there isn’t a way to protect the world’s last old growth forests from clear-cutting, and still address the needs of humans.