In the Valleys of the Noble Bey - John Zada Page 0,26

find them. And experience bears that out.

The rhythms of life here are also different. People are more relaxed. They walk slowly and tread lightly. Dialogue is easygoing and peppered with natural pauses. It is also not hampered by loud ambient noises—traffic, construction, music, and the ruckus of crowds—that compel people in cities to raise their voices unconsciously. More than once, embarrassingly, I have to ask people to repeat themselves because I can’t hear their quiet words.

Because of their hard opposition to the Big Oil projects on the coast, the Heiltsuk have garnered a reputation, a stereotype even, among those who don’t know them, for being naturally antagonistic. But I find Bella Bellans to be friendly, open-minded, and extroverted. Nearly every driver who passes me in the street waves. People strolling by on the road also say hello and ask how I’m doing. If a conversation is struck up, and I mention that I’m staying with Alvina, who is widely respected, there is an instant happy glimmer of recognition. My interest in Sasquatch further bridges any real or perceived chasms. I quickly gain the nickname “Sasquatch Man,” which I wrongly believed was Alvina’s coinage and usage alone.

But just when I think I’ve reached acceptance in the community, I’m reminded of the limits of being an outsider. Rumors reach my ears that some people in town think I’m an informer, trying to infiltrate the community to report on any threatening activist opposition to those Big Oil megaprojects. My supposed affiliations vary depending on the person harboring the suspicion: the police, the government, the Big Oil companies. Most of the rumors have me working for Enbridge, the Canadian multinational energy-transportation company, whose Northern Gateway pipeline program the Heiltsuk and other First Nations are determined to stop at any cost. The whole “Sasquatch getup,” I am told, is believed to be a clever ruse to help me gain access to the community.*

One Saturday night, I head to the Fisherman’s Bar and Grill in nearby Shearwater—the main watering hole in the area. Dance-floor revelers bounce to a live band playing 1980s covers, while scruffy-looking commercial fishermen from out of town, wild-eyed and worn by time, brood idly in the corners, nursing their beers.

I grab a drink at the bar and get invited to a game of pool with some new friends I’ve made. Sasquatch almost invariably comes up, and throughout the night people share names of contacts and places related to Bigfoot sightings. I jot down the small leads and anecdotes in my notebook.

Within days word gets back to me that I’ve acquired a new nickname: “The Notetaker.” And I hear from some that my scribbling in the bar that night has aroused further suspicions. Perhaps I’m reporting on certain people?

In the more conspiracy-prone Middle East, I faced similar allegations—the often good-humored, half-joking quips about espionage made by local friends and colleagues that are de rigueur in that part of the world. As in the Middle East, the history here of damaging interactions with exploitative outsiders makes the reflex understandable. But it also makes me wonder what would happen if a critical mass of suspicion were to gather around me. I do my best to shake these thoughts and redirect my attention to an important and promising meeting.

If anyone knows the mazelike interstices of the Great Bear Rainforest, it’s environmentalist Ian McAllister. Originally from Victoria, the award-winning photographer, filmmaker, and author of several books on the Great Bear is also the director of Pacific Wild—a coastal conservation group he cofounded with his wife, Karen, in 2008. Ian was part of a clique of environmentalists who came to prominence during the Vancouver Island anti-logging protests of the 1980s and 90s and went on to wage the campaign that eventually created the Great Bear Rainforest in 2006. He also coined the area’s name.

Ian’s famous, jaw-dropping photos of coastal wolves and grizzlies come at the price of weeks alone in the bush, often sitting hidden with his camera in estuary grasses or in stands of old growth—endlessly watching and waiting. Much of his work takes place in some of the areas where sightings of Sasquatches have been reported.

Ian’s forty-six-foot catamaran and field operations center, Habitat, docked at his Denny Island home, is strewn with diving equipment and gizmos. He and an assistant are on board packing duffel bags. Sunburned from his time out on the water, the forty-nine-year-old, with his curly red hair and freckles, projects the image of a relaxed surfer. But there’s also something imposing and