Growing up on the east coast, I became very familiar with black bears—the type that are mostly harmless, and more likely to be spotted breaking into a garbage can or pool. Grizzly bears were an entirely different beast: large, wild, dangerous, much less goofy. Throughout my career, I’ve traveled the world in order to see animals in their natural habitats. When I learned that more than half of Canada’s 26,000 grizzly bears live in British Columbia, I had to go. So last year, I finally embarked on a four-day trip around Vancouver Island in search of this protected species, expecting it to be easy.
British Columbia has over 27,000 square miles of mountains, fjords, rivers, islands, and coastline. Here, it’s often easier to get around by seaplane and boat, especially when it comes to the thick old-growth forests, ancient rainforests, and rugged coastlines. This province is home to roughly one-third of Canada’s First Nations, who have been connected to these lands for thousands of years.
The two-hour boat ride from Port McNeill (on Vancouver Island’s coast) took us through Kwakwaka’wakw First Nations territory to an island in Kingcome Inlet. Not everyone is allowed into this part of the world. Mike Willie, my guide, was a Kwikwasut’inuxw Haxwa’mis chief, so his tour company Sea Wolf Adventures can share the ecological and cultural significance of these traditional lands with visitors.
Bears are spiritual creatures in this region, symbolizing healing, leadership, and guardianship. A few days earlier in Vancouver’s Stanley Park, I noted bears carved into the intricate totem poles. At Tsa Kwa Luten (also known as Cape Mudge Resort) on nearby Quadra Island, bears appeared in both traditional and contemporary artwork. I scoured the 1100-acre forest and the Discovery Passage from the balcony there, coming across bald eagles and deer. Bears were all around me, but I had yet to see one on this trip.
Where were the bears? I tried to see the forest the way a bear would, which seemed to be the tactic Mike was taking. I narrowly avoided stepping on a banana slug, a slimy yellow creature the width of my palm with large black spots (like a banana well past its prime). Days earlier, I had seen my first banana slug on West Thurlow Island after a journey through the Discovery Passage. Jenefer Smalley, a Métis guide with Wild Waterways Adventures took me on a forest bathing hike to see the Tree of Life, an ancient western red cedar. Jen stopped to marvel at the twisting, sprawling trees and plants along the way to the ancient tree. Her enthusiasm was contagious, so when she insisted we wrap our arms around the Tree of Life and embrace it, I obliged, careful to avoid the gnarled root system bursting out of the ground below. For a brief moment, I felt the tree heat up—in acknowledgment and thanks, according to Jen. I looked at the forest differently on the way back, wondering for the first time if each tree was looking back at me.