From the Archipelago: Hopeful Signs

August-September 2003

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

When I got a radio call this spring— “Blackfish Sound, Boy Toy... there are whales out here!”—I had no idea I was in for one of the rarest whale sighting treats on this coast. As I came on scene, dorsal fins just kept rising to the surface. One, two, three... ten... twenty, thirty... wow! At least forty whales were milling off Viner Sound in the Broughton Archipelago.

I lowered the hydrophone to confirm my suspicions, as there is only one group of whales that comes into these inlet waters in these big numbers. I had to tweak, twist and fiddle with the underwater microphone cables. The connections were fragile after a winter lying unused in the bottom of my boat, but finally the unfamiliar calls, with strong alien accent of the ‘offshore’ population of orca reached my ears. The whales were milling on the surface, tail slapping and spy-hopping. They seemed uncertain which way to head, until finally they made a concerted move to the west and headed out to Queen Charlotte Strait.

I moved to the Broughton Archipelago in 1984 to study whales and the 19 years since then have taught me not to take them for granted. Each siting is precious and I make certain my movements around them are careful and respectful of their needs, because I have witnessed the disappearance of whales.

Scimitar, matriarch of the A12s, had first led me into Fife Sound on a cool October day in 1984. The place is so beautiful, remote and wild, I felt as if I was traveling off the edge of the known world. Mist clung to deep green hills and beneath the water was silence so profound that the whales’ voices were all that existed. I made Echo Bay my home that day.

For the next six years the whales led me on a continuing voyage of discovery. I watched as the families broke down into their smallest divisible units every winter to forage in the kelp beds and winter chinook habitat. And I watched transient mammal-eaters—a completely different society of whales. I learned these waters ‘belonged’ to the A-clan resident whales and they fished it with the same precision and success as the best fishermen of my community. In the spring they arrived to meet the chinook salmon coming down from the heads of the inlets after feeding on oolichans. There is no better tasting salmon than an oolichan fed salmon. Then the whales returned mid-summer to fish the pink salmon that poured through here on their way to the rivers, Kakweikan, Ahta, Glendale and Klinaklini. In fall, they returned with members of G-Clan to feed on the Viner River chums.

I watched the tall-finned males cruise with just the tips exposed, like little sharks, in the pale jade-green spring glacier meltwater, looking for chinook which hang just below this silty water. I saw birth and death and lived my life on the whales’ schedule, always ready to join them... and then they left.

When salmon farms began blasting 198 decibel sounds underwater, no one knew the impact this would have, the deep ripple of disruption that would occur. Acoustic Harassment Devices were considered a benign way of ridding the farms of unwanted attention by hungry seals—better than shooting. But whales depend on their hearing and I learned they will not risk it, even if they have to abandon prime territory. One by one the families encountered the noise and turned away, never to return.It was as if a door had been slammed in their face (Morton and Symonds, ICES 2002).

The noise continued for five years and then was turned off. But in that time many of the older females, who often lead the families, died—and with them the knowledge of how to fish these waters. Two years ago a pod of only three brothers (A36s) began using the inlets again and now I have hope others will follow them. This winter members of the A5 group flashed through and I hung back, so happy to see them, hoping they would find this place to their liking again. The transient numbers are back to normal, the humpbacks and dolphins are here, but seven years after their displacement, we still have a long way to go before the resident whale traffic here normalizes. If it ever does.

Looking south, to the region frequented by the southern cousins of the northern resident orcas, I see some hopeful signs. From my perspective, the proposal to make Orca Pass a Stewardship Area should be embraced before the whales leave. It is easy to take even the magnificent orca for granted, but I can report that when they leave there is no guarantee they will ever return. Hindsight is so clear, but it’s no way to steer a course. It is up to us. We can have whales, or we can drive them out.

© Text and photos by Alexandra Morton (R.P.Bio). Alex is a marine mammal scientist and author in British Columbia's Broughton Archipelago. www.raincoastresearch.org.

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