The Visitation

There are six of us in the Zodiac. A constant rain dances on top of the water. We have spent the last hour exploring this estuary, but now Greg has cut the motor, and we are drifting towards the pebbled shore. The browned sedge grass is flattened along the bank by the September rain. The ground of the mudflats is rank with the scent of mottled salmon carcasses and the funk of spongy earth and mud. Mist gives the landscape a ghostly haze and blurs the lines of the forest into layers. The treetops of western red cedars are greyed out by the enveloping fog. In the silence and raw wildness of this place, I could almost imagine we had reached the ends of the earth. 

We left our ninety-two-foot schooner, the Maple Leaf, moored in the bay. The rain has been falling for two days, but it’s not the autumn deluge I’m used to. This rain falls soft. It barely moves the treetops, just bends the tips of the shrubs at the river’s edges. This is our first day out, and we’ve come a long way to be this damp. 

We divided into landing parties of eight guests and four crew: our seasoned Captain Greg, first mate- Given, our naturalist- Matt, and deck hand- Grace. Most guests are over fifty, well-travelled, and sturdy. We’ve already bonded over the thrill of our turbulent flight to Bella Bella. We’ve all waited a year for this journey, and rain will hardly dull our enthusiasm.

Matt slips over the side of the Zodiac. He steps into the water and pulls the long rope tight, tugging the first boat to the shore. Grace follows and pulls the other one in alongside ours. Both hold the Zodiacs in place against the current as we adjust our rain gear, settling in for a thorough drenching. Greg stands. He brings his binoculars to eye level and scans the horizon. 

We are quiet. Waiting. Sitting in the boat with the rain running down our faces, our nervous excitement is palpable. My eyes dart from person to person. We meet each other’s gaze with hopeful smiles and speak in nods and head shakes, one of us occasionally pointing out an eagle in flight or a rustling in the trees at the shoreline. We float in this peaceful cove in a small portion of the twenty-one million acres encompassing the world’s largest temperate rainforest, and it’s here— in Canada! 

The rain lets up only enough to take the thrumming on the water to a gentle hum. I tuck my chin into my collar and reach under my life jacket for a cloth. I wipe the lens of my camera again and check the settings. On land, flocks of seagulls harangue one another in a high-pitched cawing as they squabble over the carcass of fish left behind in the sedge. This is salmon breeding season. The salmon that spawn in these rivers will provide sustenance to over one hundred and ninety species of plants and animals, from small aquatic insects to Orca whales, sea lions, and grizzly and black bears. The whole of this ecosystem is inextricably linked to the survival and protection of the salmon. 

All around us, water trickles down from the cliff sides. It runs along the edges of stone outcroppings and, in time, wears away the rough banks of the estuaries. It pools in deep ditches and marshy areas. Then, some waterfalls appear as frothy white lines between the cedars, smoothing the gray rock faces as they cascade from great heights and crash into the stream below. 

I settle the binoculars against my face and slowly scan the tree line. A young eagle sits atop a high branch, its mottled brown wings held out wide. He shifts and flutters, trying to shake off the rain. Through the lens, his eyes are still brown; he’ll have another few years before they take on the bright yellow of a mature adult. Still, a Bald eagle is a magnificent sight; here, unlike at home, they are as common as ravens. 

We are surrounded by towering walls of western red cedar and massive Sitka spruce, their peaks seeing to pierce the grey haze of the heavy sky. The mist makes it seem that the forest is breathing, an earthly manifestation that feels so holy I am speechless by this place’s splendour and silence.

Given points to the curve of the estuary, Greg nods and smiles. All heads turn. There! Beneath the hemlocks, a brawny humped silhouette disturbs the lower branches. I adjust my binoculars until I bring the shadow into view. I gasp— it’s a Grizzly bear! The great bear plunges into the water and swims remarkably to our side of the bank. When it climbs onto the shoreline and shakes the water from its fur, it is clear this in no yearling. A full-sized Grizzly inspires awe. By adulthood, a male can weigh as much as three hundred and sixty-two kilograms and stand one hundred and six centimetres at the shoulder. The sound of camera clicks erupts all around me as everyone on board attempts to capture the most dynamic photo of this magnificent animal. 

The bear is on the move. Greg quietly reminds us to stay still, no talking, and no flash pictures. There isn’t time to be afraid. The Grizzly saunters in our direction, his mighty head swaying back and forth as he scans the mudflat for fish. He pauses and lifts his twitching nose into the air. A Grizzly can scent another animal from thirty-two kilometres away; their sense of smell is over two thousand times stronger than ours. Undoubtedly, he’s picked up our scent and that of the spawning salmon, and now he’s come across the water to investigate. 

As the bear strides toward us, I remember its Latin name: Ursus Arctos Horribilis. The earliest human experiences with bears would have been filled with a fearful sense of awe. Earlier, Greg assured us there are no known attacks on groups of six or more people. Yet, as this hulk of muscle, claw, and fur strides ever closer, all I can think of are the stories I’d read about the ferocity of their attack. 

Our Grizzly is now within five meters of our Zodiac. This bear’s wildness is palpable. He slows his pace. Up close, his mahogany-coloured fur is thick with lighter tips at the edges, his relatively small and rounded ears seem almost comical on such a mighty beast, and his black-brown eyes stare intently at our boats. As the bear steps onto the sedge grass, I take note of the long-curved claws on its feet, and with the size of its paws, it’s easy to see how it could scoop a swimming salmon from a fast-running stream. 

This is autumn, the time of eating. A Grizzly must eat enough food to last its long hibernation, sometimes gaining as much as three pounds daily. Now he’s close enough. We can hear his breathing: a cross between snuffling and a low huff. He’s checking us out, nose up, slow walking right in front of the Zodiacs. If an average dog’s sense of smell is one hundred times better than a human’s, a bear’s sense of smell is thought to be seven times that of a bloodhound. It seems he has caught our scent as he approaches the shoreline. I try not to tense as he saunters within easy striking distance of Matt and Grace, who still hold their places ropes in their hands. Matt drops his shoulders and gives the Grizzly a sideways glance. As the bear passes, we meet his stare, and his flaring nostrils are the only acknowledgement of our presence. Still, I’m holding my breath as I aim my camera and focus on his face. He’s so close. I get a whiff of the rank wetness of his fur. 

As the Grizzly walks by, he is almost within touching distance of Grace, and she slowly sinks into a crouch nearer the Zodiac so as not to appear threatening. The bear ambles past her, down the bank, slips back into the cold water and swims away. Someone whispers, “Wow!” The silence is shattered by laughter and excited chatter as we share the thrill of our close contact with this tremendous beast. We had no idea this was only the beginning; unbelievably, we spotted over twenty-eight Grizzly bears in a matter of days. 

Mid-trip, we are advised to dress for a day away from the schooner. We will travel by Zodiac for at least half an hour, then head deep into the rainforest on foot. Where we’re going lives a great spirit of ancestry and legend. The location is intentionally kept secret, one of a few things protecting this place and its beings, resulting from the collaboration between generations of the Kitasoo/Xai’xais Indigenous people and now, the conservation scientists. 

The water is relatively calm, and we’ve brought small packs, camera gear, food, and enough enthusiasm to carry us through what may be a long day. Greg explains what to do as we make land if we encounter an animal as we hike deep into the bush toward the bear stand in a grove of alder trees. We are in black bear territory, but we’ve set our sights on a rare visitor.

We each sling our gear around the neck and shoulder and start the climb from the bank to the path. Greg, Given, and another guest are in front. They are all long-legged, and I must keep a swift pace to avoid falling behind. The first ten minutes are uphill. My breathing becomes shallow and quick as I try to lengthen my stride, always keeping the three men in view. 

The forest is eerily beautiful, fragrant with a loamy dampness of fallen leaves and decaying undergrowth. I inhale deeply. I think this must be the purest air I’ve ever breathed. The path unexpectedly splits. There is an echo of running water. I adjust my camera case over my shoulder and then lose sight of the others in the dense forest. My heart starts to race, and I can hear the footfalls of the others coming behind me on the path. However, when I turn, they are still quite a distance away. I increase my speed and huff and puff uphill. I want to see a bear, but not alone on the path. 

Then, Greg appears. He reaches out, grinning as he puts his finger to his lips and motions me forward in silence. He pats my shoulder and then points through the tall stands of alder saplings. There! It’s Moksgm’ol – the name that was given to the sacred white bear by the Tsimshian coastal First Nations. This bear is a being of story and legend. I turn. Eyes wide, mouth open, and vigorously point. The next hiker followed my finger, gasped, and then put a hand over her heart, tears forming at the corner of her eyes. The sequential gasps of delight and acknowledgment echo behind me. 

We make our way forward and into the bear stand where our Indigenous guide, Chris Stewart, awaits. He tells us we’ve just seen The Boss, a bear notable for his size and the scar on his nose, resulting from a territory fight with a black bear for fishing rights. 

We’re told long ago, settlers and later trophy hunters came to this area and inquired about the whereabouts of the mysterious white bear. Chris said that Coastal First Nations people intentionally deceived them, leading them to believe that the white bear they sought was a myth. Because of their wisdom, the Spirit Bears and their descendants were protected. Chris explained how everything is related: the forest, the bears, the salmon, and the water. Most importantly, these lands are the territory and home to 26 Indigenous Nations.

We spend the rest of our day in the bear stand as The Boss appears and disappears into the forest. Every time he breaks through the undergrowth and wades into the river to fish, it is a breath-taking shock to the heart. 

Hours pass in a reverie. The rush of water cascading over rock and fallen Hemlock is hypnotic. The dappled forest and mossy undergrowth seem to envelop this glade in a cloak of greens and damp air. The sun is setting. We must pack up and go to make it back to the Maple Leaf before dark. We thank Chris and set off through the trees in a single line. 

At the shoreline, before I step into the Zodiac, I turn away from the water and look to the forest one last time. What earlier seemed an impenetrable wall of evergreen now seems an enchanted doorway. I’m conscious of the feeling that I entered the rainforest as one person, but I’m departing as another. 

We shared a feast on deck on the final evening and toasted the captain and crew. The sky was dazzling blue; the water mirrored the heavens in the glassy stillness of the bay. The murmurs and laughter of our shipmates mingled with the occasional call of ravens and eagles. I couldn’t imagine returning to the city with its constant backdrop of sound and movement. I hadn’t missed being tethered to my phone. I hadn’t missed the updates, the news, or the virtual noise. There had never been a time in my life when I felt more grounded and at peace with the world.

There was a geologist onboard who told me he’d taken this journey three times. Dave told this story over dinner our first night, and I remember asking him why he’d come back? Weren’t there other wilderness places he’d like to explore? He just smiled and said he’d give me an answer— later.

And here we were at the end of our journey, a few hours from departure for home. Dave leaned against the wooden railing, coffee mug in hand. I picked up my cup and sidled in next to him. We both stood there gazing out at the water. I took a deep breath, feeling the crisp air fill my lungs. Dave did the same. We exhaled simultaneously and then laughed. 

He said, “So, still curious?” 

“Yes.” I sipped my tea. 

Dave said, “Months after I’d returned from the first trip, I was trying to explain to my wife what it was like to be here. I was just dumbstruck, and then I felt a tear slide down my face.” He shook his head. His eyes tearing up again. “I mean, how do you—” He gestured toward the rainforest and the waterfall in the distance. “Once you’ve been here, how do you describe it? It’s the wildness of this place. It never leaves you; you’ll see.” He gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze. The ship’s motor started up. We turned together as the forest retreated from our view. 

It’s been years, yet I often find myself yearning for the stillness of those forests, the gentle lapping of the water against the side of the boat, or the tympani of water on water as the rain renews the estuaries, the thrill of seeing bioluminescent algae beneath a canopy of stars, and I long for the melancholy songs of a pod of humpback whales calling to one another in Bishop’s Bay. 

Now I’ve been to the Great Bear Rainforest, I think I understand— how protecting the rainforest protects them all, for I’ve seen the spirits that live there, and they visit me still.

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