From the Archipelago: Alex On Watch

August-September 1998

This is an article from WaveLength Magazine, available in print in North America and globally on the web.

by Alexandra Morton

As I approached the group of orca, a male breached five times, his huge black and white body sending mountains of water into the air with each landing. He was excited about something. As I drifted closer I counted nine whales, and identified the big male as Kwatsi from the transient mammal-eating group, 020. Nine is a big group for this type of killer whale and there were two males, so there was definitely more than one group here and they appeared to be feasting.

The youngest whales were porpoising about rambunctiously and these normally silent transient orca vocalized continuously for three hours. It was a fascinating encounter as it is rare to see transient orca so playful and vocal.

I never saw what they were eating, but it took over three hours to consume. Gulls that dipped among the whales came away gulping long strands of flesh. The local pair of eagles even got a few bites. Their kill was a big animal; seals and porpoises are usually eaten in a matter of minutes. I was hoping this wasn't the,elephant seal that had been hanging around. As it turned out it may have been him, as I have not seen or received a report of an elephant seal since.

In a community like Echo Bay there are few man-made distractions and so any new wildlife becomes a major topic for discussion. Last month everyone noticed a different type of fish schooling around our floats. In shimmery shades of blue, the large schools skimmed along just beneath the surface and every now and again simultaneously flashed their gill plates. They glimmered like stars, their silvery heads creating sub-sea constellations. After much debate we determined they were anchovies, the biggest schools since the fifties, according to local fisherman, honourary mayor and historian, Bill Proctor.

These anchovies combine with the already abundant schools of young herring to create a veritable smorgasbord for Pacific white-sided dolphins, but where were they? A small group of eight to ten has been spotted, but the big groups of a few years ago are still absent, frolicking elsewhere for reasons known only to themselves. A large humpback whale, however, did come through and spent the day feeding in the area.

The westerlies have been relentless for the past few weeks. Cold and foggy, the wind has brought my garden to a standstill. On one fierce day I walked up Viner Sound Creek with a couple of neighbours to have a look at the newest salmon arrivals fresh out of the gravel. Cold and hostile on the ocean, the wind became soft and sweet as it combed through the estuary meadow. Five bucks sprang out of a ravine, their antlers in velvet, and bounded across the lush wetland. When we reached the creek we could see the river bed was still packed tight with silt.

Further upriver the alders had been killed in hopes of speeding the return of logged conifers and the big trees are now tipping over. The soil once held by their roots pours into the river with each rainfall, paving over the once loose gravel. We would like to enhance the pink salmon in this river so they could dig the dirt out. Pinks are not only vigorous nest builders, they also help feed a river with their carcasses. Additionally, a good run of pinks will hide the less numerous coho or chinook from predators such as seals, bears, wolves and eagles.

We found a huge pile of bear dung and it was clear the bear had been feeding on grass! At first we didn't see any salmon fry, but then, as our eyes became accustomed, we found them everywhere. Tiny coho fry, with a distinctive white stripe down the leading edge of their dorsal fins and adorable black Parr marks, darted throughout the pools. Much larger cutthroat trout, a few coho smolts and sculpin were also visible. As we sat on the banks among the salmonberries we watched the baby fish leap and catch bugs on the water's surface. Somewhere upstream there was still a productive stretch of gravel which had harboured these tiny fish. I thought about their life's voyage ahead and wished them luck.

This summer is a pink salmon year for the Broughton. Our big runs come on the even years. A school several miles wide has been reported about thirty miles west of here by a prawn fisherman who said they were leaping everywhere. I am watching for them, hoping they will return in good numbers. Pink salmon are vital to watershed ecosystems. Their abundant phosphorous has been traced throughout the flora and fauna, and has even been found in mountain goat flesh. The eagles are watching for these two year old fish a thousand-fold more intently than me. Pinks are small enough for an eagle to fly away with, abundant enough to be relied on and visible enough to be caught from the air. These pinks will give us our first inkling of ocean conditions and its impact on salmon survival this cycle.

The first kayakers of the season have also been through. It was a small pod travelling north, just a male and female. They made good time up the pass and then just before entering Echo Bay, the male which was in the lead, paused and waited for the brilliant yellow female to catch up. It seemed they wanted to reenter civilization side-by-side to demonstrate their bond and reassure each other among strangers. I envy visitors a little for their uncomplicated view of this archipelago. They know nothing of local politics, the vanished chinooks, diseased farm fish, pesticides in watersheds, electro-shocking of salmon fry to count them, the plans to drill for oil, the young mother killer whales that vanished last summer.

I try to remember my own first impressions of this archipelago. It was a dark, rainy October and I was following the orca matriarch, Scimitar. She and her family were hunting in every place chum salmon might be hiding for this was chum season. The remote, wet beauty of the place captured my heart, underwater the whales voices echoed five, six times before fading away like distant thunder. Between calls it was so silent the rain drops were loud.

As I exited the eastern end of Fife Sound, I was stunned by the sight of a tiny floathouse, nestled against a cliff face, with a wisp of smoke curling from the chimney. I didn't know people lived among such beauty. Moments like that shape a person's life.

If I'd fallen in love elsewhere, the past fifteen years would have been very different. Watching one place for as long as possible unlocks secrets never noticed at first glimpse. I often see a fascinating headland or bay and wonder, what might I see if I sat there for fifteen years. Of course, given our lifespan you cannot take on many fifteen year watches. Ian and Karen McAllister, authors of The Great Bear Rainforest, have just begun their watch on the central coast and I thank them for their dedication. It is nearly impossible to dissuade corporations from destroying essential pieces of this planet, but I am certain that without the love of local inhabitants we would have far less of a planet than we have now.

The first summer I followed whales I met an extraordinary family. aboard a sailboat. I tied my zodiac alongside and talked with them a while. "Wow", I kept repeating stupidly in response to the descriptions of their life. Finally, Lodo, the skipper, looked at me and said, "you know, you could do this too." It hit like a ton of bricks, the light went on, my heart leapt and my mind began taking the steps. I highly recommend quitting your day job, picking a spot and beginning a watch. There is no way you can guess where that will lead, but one thing for sure, it will be a full and deeply satisfying life.

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My husband, Eric, builds small wood boats with local wood and we just launched one he built for me. She is an 18 foot rowboat and so beautiful to look at 1 can't believe she is mine. l didn't really need such an elegant craft, but Eric loves building boats and I am the happy recipient of his labours. Now instead of firing up ninety horses to get the mail, little Clio and 1 glide along in the peace and quiet paddlers are familiar with. Clio has a little boat on a stick and string which she pulls behind us. She demands that I sing "row row your boat" as we go with absolutely no deviations from the original score.

Alexandra Morton© is a marine mammal researcher and author living in BC's Broughton Archipelago, and a regular Wave-Length columnist