Four Seasons by the Salish Sea: Discovering the Natural Wonders of Coastal Living

By Carolyn Redl and Nancy Randall

Part travelogue, part natural history, this enchanting book explores life over the course of a year by waters that extend from Port Renfrew on the Strait of Juan de Fuca to Desolation Sound.

After moving to Vancouver Island from the Prairies in the early 2000s, Carolyn Redl made it her mission to learn as much as she could about life along the Salish Sea. She wanted to know about all the things that dig, float, swim, or merely grow in and around her new salt-water realm. With each passing day, she discovered answers to her many questions.

Four Seasons by the Salish Sea evolved over more than two decades of observation, curiosity, discovery, and delight at the natural wonders and seasonal ebbs and flows along this magnificent stretch of coastline.

This profoundly personal and deeply informative book contains facts about plants, animals, history, parks, and communities. It highlights events in nature, such as spring flower blooms and herring and salmon spawns, and reveals mysteries in the water and in the coastal cedar, hemlock, and Douglas-fir rainforest. It describes places as diverse as Malcolm Island, the Sunshine Coast, and Stamp Falls. Experiences range from viewing orcas in the distance to finding sand dollars, Turkish towels, and nudibranchs in the intertidal zone. While celebrating the area’s idyllic setting and warm climate, the book also recognizes potential threats such as earthquakes, water shortages, and challenges for gardeners.

Illustrated throughout with stunning photography, Four Seasons by the Salish Sea is a must-have book for anyone who dreams of living by the sea.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Heritage House
• Release date: May 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9781772034486

Carolyn Redl

Carolyn Redl taught literature and creative writing for over thirty years. During that time, she also wrote and published essays, short stories, poems, travel articles, and book reviews in publications such as The Edmonton Journal, AMA Insider, Prairie Journal of Canadian Fiction, and University of Toronto Quarterly. Redl is the co-producer of “A Woman I Know: Canadian Literature by Women,” an eight-part series of programs for ACCESS, the Education Channel. She has lived on Vancouver Island on the unceded territories of the coast Salish people since 2001.

Book preview

Cover: Four Seasons by the Salish Sea: Discovering the Natural Wonders of Coastal Living by Carolyn Redl.

Carolyn Redl

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Four

Seasons

by the

Salish

Sea

Discovering the Natural

Wonders of Coastal Living

Logo: Heritage.

For Hans

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I am grateful to and acknowledge theCoast Salish Peoples who have beenstewards of the lands and waters ofthe Salish Sea for millennia, and whoinclude the Hul'qumi'num, (CowichanTribes, Halalt, Lyackson, Ts'uubaa-asatx, and Penelakut) Klahoose, Lkwungen (Esquimalt and Songhees), Malahat (MALAXEt), Musqueam, OStlq'emeylem, Pentlatch, Scia'new (Beecher Bay), Tla'amin, shíshálh, Skwxwú7mesh, Stó:lo, Tsleil-Waututh, T'Sou-ke, WSÁNEĆ (Pauquachin, Tsartlip, Tsawout, Tseycum), and Xwémalhkwu (Homalco) Peoples.

Contents

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Preface

Spring

Summer

Fall

Winter

Acknowledgements

Selected Relevant Sources

Index

Preface

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Sunshine glitters off the waters of the Salish Sea on mid-Vancouver Island as my husband, Hans, and I lead our visitors to the shore. On this crisp December day, we have been given permission to cross a timber company’s land when the place is closed for business. Weekdays, trucks haul loads of raw logs to this yard to be sorted, tied together, and floated. In time, tugboats pull them to awaiting freighters. Whether the timber company is closed or open makes no difference to what we have come to see: dozens and dozens of California sea lions, packed like fat, bulging sausages so close in some places that a person could hop from one back to the next without tumbling into water. They lounge on the logs now held stationary in a floating boom beside the dock. As we approach, most of these magnificent beasts are settled down and seemingly in deep, motionless sleep. Then, one slowly lifts its snout to the sky and waves a flipper as if saluting the sun. Another one lethargically nudges into a vacant space while others slither and slowly push through the bulky bodies.

When I came from Alberta twenty years ago to live on Vancouver Island, my knowledge was shaped by books and brief, periodic holidays. I did not know where the Salish Sea started and ended. However, I knew residents and visitors were dependent on ferries to take them anywhere not on their island. I was aware that lighthouses along the coast warn mariners of dangerous obstacles. I had gazed at the tall ancient trees in Cathedral Grove and seen surfers ride the waves off Ucluelet’s and Tofino’s beaches. My experiences were limited to idyllic summer visits when I relaxed under clear blue skies, yet those periodic snapshots were enough to sharpen my deep-seated yearning to live by the sea. Once I reached mid-life, I could no longer resist the pull. How often have you heard someone say, When I retire, I’ll move to the island? Hurry, I want to urge them. "Life here is even more amazing than you can imagine. It is paradise."

California sea lions.

Photo Courtesy of Nancy Randall

Prior to moving, I especially looked forward to seeing rhododendron and cherry blossoms in spring. True, these flowers are breathtaking in the Butchart, Kitty Coleman, and Milner Gardens, public island gardens designed especially for tourists. But, look at typical neighbourhoods, and you will realize the entire island is one big garden. I learned, as well, that wildflowers and plants endemic to sub-tropical and tropical zones thrive in the island climate which is much more moderate than climates of any province east of here.

I was ignorant of the incredible diversity in simple everyday living and in nature itself, especially as consequences of the ever-changing seasons. I knew the island’s black-tailed deer are much smaller in size than their mainland cousins, the white-tailed and mule deer. But, I was ignorant of the wide range of differences everywhere in animals, plants, and landscapes. I did not know that several mammals commonly seen on the mainland are absent and have never lived here. Then, there are the creatures living in the waters of the Salish Sea, all foreign to my prairie, land-focused eyes.

Periodically, a sea lion slides from its spot at the edge and drops into the water. It swims a short distance out into the bay, swings around, and, using its front flippers to grip the wet logs, lunges its huge body up onto the boom. Then, taking advantage of its remarkable ability to shift its hind flippers forward from their usual backward swimming position, it crawls somewhat like a human baby into a comfortable position.

Not only is there constant movement, but the air is filled with continual, repetitive barking. The vocalizing is deafening as the chorus rises to a crescendo, then dips, only to rise again a few minutes later.

Someone in our group points to a resort across the bay. I hear they provide earplugs to guests who complain they can’t sleep.

Nose plugs, too? asks another. The smell downwind is as bad as the racket.

Vancouver Island black-tailed deer.

Photo Courtesy of Nancy Randall

Bald eagles watching.

Photo Courtesy of Nancy Randall

Herring spawn attracts a multitude of hungry birds.

Photo Courtesy of Nancy Randall

Must drive the neighbours around here nuts, comments someone else. I can attest to that. Some nights, we can hear them, too, at our house five kilometres away. Closer, their calls must be thunderous to an insomniac.

It’s a blessing that these fellows are transient and here only in winter, interjects the serious naturalist in the group. They’ve come for the salmon. And we are looking at mainly the immature and bachelor males that were unsuccessful during mating. The alpha males and females are on the breeding grounds along the California coastline. Our guys will go back there, too, in May when they’ve had their fill of salmon.

These majestic animals fascinate everyone who sees, hears, and smells them. They have the act of balancing and moving on logs down to an art. But, many more surprises await anyone who chooses to live by this sea.

Four Seasons by the Salish Sea describes contrasts between mainland and oceanside living that occur, season after season. It is not a nature guide per se; rather, it highlights a few choice natural features of each season and provides accompanying details on other possibilities for experiencing the island to its fullest. When relevant, bits of local history surface. It aims to provide information that I would have appreciated when I dreamt of moving to the island. And it is also handy for short-term visitors and tourists to glimpse a variety of unique places—some notable for specific fauna or flora, others for the history of Indigenous Peoples, and still others for the island’s recent settler history.

The book evolved from explorations over twenty years as my husband, Hans, and I moved from being novice to experienced islanders. With each passing day, we learned answers to the many questions we had about our new life beside the Salish Sea. Who were the first people to live here? Which fish were we likely to encounter? When? Would we see whales? Which ones? What about all the birds, reptiles, amphibians, molluscs, and other invertebrates? Plants—where could we find them, and what was edible? I wanted to know everything about things that squirt, dig, float, swim, or merely grow in, on, above, and beside our new saltwater realm.

As we learned the answers, more questions arose. Did we need to worry about earthquakes and tsunamis? Did rivers and marshes on the island differ from those inland? Are estuaries like prairie sloughs? And what about gardening? Could I grow any of the same plants that I grew in Alberta? You can understand how questions swirled around and around, demanding answers.

We found out that the watersheds of the Salish Sea include Puget Sound, Hood Canal, Strait of Juan de Fuca, Haro Strait, and Gulf and Strait of Georgia. We also realized that many of our travels on Vancouver Island took us beyond the Salish Sea and its watersheds, accessible within a day’s travel from its shores, on which we lived.

When the seasons revolved to what would be winter in central Canada, was there any place on the island to ski? Would we have snow at our house by the Salish Sea? Would anything be the same as before?

Some places, events, and functions have changed through the intervening years between our experiences and current times, but the island continues to project its renowned friendly welcome.

Disclaimer

Some people who appear in Four Seasons by the Salish Sea bear their legal names. The names of others have been changed, and places, actions, or circumstances may have been similarly altered to protect their identities. For events experienced by several individuals, composite characters are used.

Spring

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What do you see out there? Have the herring spawned?

I open the blinds and search the patch of ocean visible beyond our neighbour’s fence.

Not that I can tell. The water’s bluish grey. Could be.

Overcome by curiosity, we silently hurry breakfast and don winter jackets. Outside, the air is electric with expectation. Across from our house, six bald eagles sit on branches of one single Douglas-fir overlooking this little stretch of the Salish Sea. As we watch, three more swoop in to perch on adjacent trees. Hundreds of squawking glaucous-winged gulls circle overhead and then glide shoreward for a landing. The hoarse bark of a California sea lion jolts through the cacophony of gulls and eagles that almost muffle the steady, distant calls of Canada geese, Brants, mallards, and other waterfowl. The air is dense with an unrelenting frenzy and expectancy.

Have the herring finally spawned? We have been waiting patiently for days.

An early March storm has not completely worn itself out. The wind has died down somewhat, and skies have briefly cleared. Snow glistens on Mount Arrowsmith which, from our vantage point, looks like a sleeping lady. Choppy waves ride a heavy swell. Turbulence spreads as far as we can see, over the ten kilometres to Lasqueti Island. Beyond, heavy low clouds obscure the coastal mountains on British Columbia’s mainland. Muddy surf laps the pebbled beach. A flock of Brant geese bounce on waves and peck at floating eelgrass.

Sword ferns in Heritage Forest, Qualicum Beach.

Photo Courtesy of Nancy Randall

Think they’re eating herring roe? I ask as we approach the water’s edge.

A narrow wedge of creamy water threads its way parallel to the surf line. This might be the milt spread by male herring once the females have laid their eggs.

I think it’s just turbid waters released by the river, Hans notes.

Bank-full from recent heavy rains, the Englishman River empties into the ocean less than a kilometre from where we stand. The river disgorges its muddy contents in a thick strand that, even in the chop, can be sharply distinguished from the clear sea water.

There is no herring roe, only the froth of rushing river water mixing into the sea. In these rough waters, the roe would not have a chance to attach to the eelgrass that grows just beyond the low tide mark. Waves would immediately carry the eggs to shore. Against the mall of driftwood logs on the beach, they would form wide banks like the knee-high ridge of storm-driven seaweed that accumulates during autumn king tides.

The cold wind drives us back inside to huddle by the fireplace. We are as impatient as soon-to-be parents caught in the grip of the first labour pains.

Later, I meet a neighbour at the super mailbox and the conversation naturally turns to the noise on the beach.

I’m wondering, I query her, do herring, like salmon, spawn where they are born?

I know they spawn from Baja to Alaska in sheltered areas like our beach, she remarks, and afterwards, they return to the open ocean, returning year after year.

I’ve never noticed herring roe in this river.

Herring spawn only in saltwater and return year after year. My neighbour chuckles. Salmon, in fresh water. Chum and the odd coho spawn in our river and then die, but in autumn, not now.

Chum? Coho? When I first moved to the island, I started sorting out the confusing array of names. I googled salmon to find out when each type spawned and where we were likely to find them. I found that, once the chum return and spawn in late fall, the shoreline of the river can be littered with dead carcasses all the way up to the Englishman River Falls, a few kilometres upstream.

In Alberta, where I lived for over thirty of my adult years, beef was the favoured protein. I ate salmon only occasionally. Sometimes even fresh, but more often canned red or pink salmon. I lived with the misconception that these were the only types.

Islanders take their salmon seriously. For starters, they can identify each species on sight while all I see is a salmon. To confuse me even more, some go by more than one name—chinook or king, coho or silver, sockeye or red, and chum or dog. Also, pink or humpies because of the males’ characteristic hump during spawns. Then, there is the tyee, which is not a separate salmon, but spring or coho that weighs thirty pounds or more. Not one is labelled simply red, and few islanders stoop to eat pink, the choice for my mother’s prairie sandwiches.

On the other hand, in Alberta, I had eaten rollmops and salted herring, too, but knew less about herring than I did about salmon. Unknown to me was the role played in Vancouver Island’s fishing economy by this small—only twenty to twenty-five centimetres long—silver-coloured fish. Not to mention the importance of herring in the island’s ecosystem.

I have found over time that the movement of salmon and herring is linked at least in part to climatic events, especially rain. Incidentally, an Albertan first learns that winter on Vancouver Island means a long season of unremitting rain with periodic breaks of snow or, better, sunshine when everyone dashes outside to absorb some Vitamin D, however briefly. Predictably, there can be rain at some time on any day from the end of October to the beginning of April. Changes in barometric pressure exacerbate the accompanying downpours, prompting even formerly early risers like me to sleep until noon. But, rain also means a variety of fish will arrive in our salt and fresh waters.

Also, there is exponential growth everywhere during the rains. The summer lawns of dead grass turn miraculously lush. Front yards sport patches of winter pansies, primulas, snowdrops, and hellebores. In the forest, the understory of sword ferns gleams in vivid green beneath the tall Douglas-fir, hemlock, and cedar. Heathers flaunt their cream and violet-toned masses of bell-shaped flowers. Winter’s greenery and colour cannot, for me, mitigate the pervasive gloom that accompanies rain. Sometime in early March, when it seems like the storms will never cease and climate change has disastrously switched never-ending rain upon us, the miracle occurs: the herring spawn.

Trumpeter swans are winter visitors.

Photo Courtesy of Nancy Randall

A long platoon of surf scoters.

Photo Courtesy of Nancy Randall

Not that the rain definitively ends. Throughout the spawn, the rain often stops and starts as it does throughout winter. A spawn may even be accompanied by snow. Our attention shifts from the routine of weather-watching to the excitement of ocean activity. The air along the shore is so filled with masses of moving white and grey that I wonder if all the gulls of western North America converge at this time on eastern Vancouver Island beaches. Then, of course, there are the other attending sea birds and eagles, and mammals, most prevalent, California sea lions and seals. Thousands.

Soon after the spawn is over, the clouds disband, and the sun finds larger and larger spaces to shine through. Come May, the winter rains finally stop, and drought begins its summertime reign. Our neighbourhood of San Pareil changes from a place that was soggy and wet to a place that is increasingly dry and parched. Some might argue that, on Vancouver Island, we have only two seasons: rain and drought. Whatever the name of the season, the herring spawn definitively marks the beginning of a new phase.

I checked the Department of Fisheries and Oceans website. The herring fishery isn’t open yet, Hans greets me the next morning. I am reminded that the herring are important not solely to wildlife but also to people who make their livelihood from the sea.

The herring still have not spawned, but dawn brings completely clear skies and bright sunshine. For the first time in weeks, the entire jagged summit of Mount Arrowsmith is visible from our sunroom, unobscured by winter’s cloud cover. In the early morning rays, the mountain sports glistening snowpack flowing down to its protecting forested base. Perfectly outlined geometric shapes that are made visible by the snow cover reveal where clearcuts have been slashed by loggers. Soon the mountain will nourish the watershed with the melt of her winter hoardings.

When we look toward the ocean, the waters are still their usual colours. No sign of the milky azure-coloured waters spreading far along the shoreline to belie the presence of the male herrings’ milt.

Let’s go for a walk on the other side of the estuary, Hans suggests, no doubt sharing my impatience for the herrings’ annual ritual. If we don’t see evidence of spawn, at least, we’re sure to see waterfowl familiar to us on the prairies in summer.

Most of these winter visitors will be with us for a few more weeks—buffleheads, widgeons, teals, pintails, and sometimes even trumpeter swans. Although the swans can be seen in various wetlands on the island, the majority favour the Comox Valley. We see them most often foraging in potato fields alongside the road that parallels the Puntledge River estuary between Courtenay and Comox. Occasionally, they land in our estuary, too.

Windmill palms flourish by the Salish Sea.

Photo Courtesy of Nancy Randall

Top Bridge at Englishman River Regional Park, Parksville.

Photo Courtesy of Nancy Randall

Today’s trail hugs the banks for about a kilometre before it enters the spreading channels of the Englishman River estuary. Partway along, we stop to peruse the bigleaf maples and cottonwoods growing on the opposite bank. We are looking for one of the bald eagle nests carefully monitored by volunteers in the Wildlife Tree Stewardship Program. Always vigilant of predation and loss of fledglings, these people know the locations of all the island’s eagles and, in the spring, record the nesting success.

Two bald eagles perch on branches above the nest, but, from our location, we are unable to see if there are eggs. Eagles have a comparatively long nest occupancy period at ten to eleven months, from the initial territorial defence and nest-building to the fledging of their chicks. These birds could still be repairing the nest or already incubating the one to four eggs of their clutch.

The eagles’ reproduction capabilities through egg laying and hatching is dependent on not solely herring spawns but the spawns of other fish, too. Before the 20‚11 herring spawn, there were reports of starving eagles in the Comox Valley due to the weak salmon spawn over the previous months. Later in spring, the eagles feed the young hatchlings the spawn of plainfin midshipman, another small but lesser-known fish that, like herring, spawns in the intertidal zone. The herring are obviously a crucial intermediate link in the chain of spawns that guarantees the survival of eagles.

We soon reach the bend in the trail where the river enters the wide expanse of estuary. Because the tide is out, most of the landscape before us appears as mud and grass flats with only a distant line of sparkling water in a characteristic horizon that signals the presence of ocean. At high tide, what is now our foreground will be covered in water. Several tree stumps from long-ago logging are permanently lodged in various spots throughout the estuary.

The inevitable gravel bar that evolves in the sea beyond outlets of all rivers is distinguishable by the presence of an uninterrupted line of hundreds of resting gulls. Like the eagles, seals, and sea lions, they, too, await the feast. From our position, we hear the steady shriek of all the gulls’ anxious calls.

The path turns inland to pass through the prairie-like grassland that has populated the rich soils of the estuary. There has been no time yet for the appearance of the successive arrival of willows and alder saplings to this relatively new land. Like plants of inland sloughs, these grasses must adapt to extreme conditions accompanying floods and drought. Much of the area is subject to flooding during high tides and heavy rains; nevertheless, it is habitat for an increasing diversity of both plants and animals.

Landlubber that I once was, I am on the lookout for the savannah sparrows and meadowlarks of my childhood. Local birders say they have seen them in this pseudo-meadow, but, apparently, it is too early in the year for their return migration from their wintering grounds in the southern United States or Mexico.

I look hopefully at an old snag where we once saw a peregrine falcon. Who would not admire this aerial hunter, who, reaching dive speeds of 390 kilometres per hour is the fastest creature known?

I first encountered peregrine falcons in the 1970s when a pair nested atop the thirty-four-storey Alberta Government Telephones (agt) Tower, then Edmonton’s tallest building. Why the pair chose that location to raise their family is anyone’s guess. agt aimed an early version of today’s webcam on the pair and frequently shared images of the hatchlings’ development on local television stations. Ever since, I have had an affinity for this species which was almost wiped out by the widespread use of the pesticide ddt. We are hopeful that this island falcon, like the other opportunists, awaits, if not for spawn, then for easy prey of weaklings in other species drawn to the herring spawn.

By the time we have completed our hour-long hike through the estuary, the clouds have returned. The brief respite from the rain is over, prompting us to huddle in front of the fireplace to sip hot chocolate.

Even inside, we soon hear sounds from the beach reaching an even higher frenzied pitch than earlier. The air is riddled with frantic bird calls. I am overcome by that feeling pervading the air before a lightning storm, like something is about to snap.

There must be a spawn. I hear boats, too, maybe fishing boats, Hans remarks. Get your raincoat.

From the hundred metres separating our house from the sea, the only definitive sign of spawn is an unusual odour. The air smells distinctively fishy. When we get closer, we see that the water has turned the milky azure caused by the release of milt from the millions of male herrings congregating in the near-shore waters.

No doubt about it. The long wait is over. Herring gulls, so aptly named, swoop down to the surface and greedily gulp. California gulls and Brant geese bounce on the waves and scoop up herring eggs floating on the water’s surface.

Beyond, what looks with the naked eye like a thick dark swath in the sea, viewed through binoculars, is a long platoon containing thousands of surf scoters. They are here, too, enjoying a brief feeding flurry before continuing to their northern breeding grounds.

Calls from countless birds reach a screeching pitch. They are noisy and shrill as if engaged in unremitting and passionate argument. No prairie birding experience compares to these diners at the annual herring spawn.

What was not visible from the house are the dozens of boats scattered across the water as far as we can see. When we had stopped earlier in the week at the fish store, the harbour was crammed with fishing vessels.

They’re just waiting for the signal, the clerk told us. As soon as Fisheries and Oceans determines the herring are mature enough, the boats leave and fishing begins.

Today, the parking lot at French Creek is abuzz with human activity. One semi after another eases its trailer alongside others, already parked and ready to load the precious cargo for the journey to mainland processing plants. Agitated drivers honk and yell at other agitated drivers to clear a path to the loading area. Inquisitive onlookers parade from the parking lot to the shore. Above, there is the continuous swoop of squawking gulls. The grinding of dozens of engines aboard the many fishing vessels and the barking of hungry sea lions creates a scene of pandemonium that spellbinds spectators lining the shore.

We hurry through the rain to the breakwater where a few sports fishermen already cast. Silver fins flash in the sunlight as one herring after another takes the lure, is reeled shoreward, and flipped into an awaiting pail.

Further from shore, the commercial fishers are in full swing. From our vantage point, I hear someone say that