History in the Rings
A tree’s rings can tell a much deeper story than just the number of years it has lived.
Convergence Snow-kissed mountains plunge into the sea along a dramatic fjord west of Bella Coola on British Columbia’s remote central coast. © Kiliii Yüyan
Anthony Roberts leads me down a narrow path through the coastal rainforest of British Columbia, Canada. Roots twist underfoot and the sound of rushing water grows louder with every step as we approach a river that should be alive with salmon.
As we break from the cover of the trees, a metal fence spans the current like a dam. We walk along its edge and peer into the water. Nothing.
For Roberts, the absence is a warning. Salmon are the lifeblood of this coast, feeding forests, wildlife and communities. Their return signals balance; their decline affects everything.
First Nations are using generations of knowledge to steward their traditional lands and waters.
Speaker: Nuxalk voices shine as Umq’umklika Evangeline Xanius speaks on Nuxalk Radio © Kiliii Yüyan
River Guide: Lip’tsutlaycana Shanti Tallio-Milton works as a river guide. © Kiliii Yüyan
Culturekeeper: Culturekeeper Snxakila Clyde Tallio honors eulachon fish in ceremony. © Kiliii Yüyan
Wei Wai Kum Guardian: Wei Wai Kum Guardian Payton Wilson-Wells wears his Nation’s logo with pride. © Kiliii Yüyan
Roberts is a Guardian Watchman for the Wei Wai Kum First Nation, part of a growing network of Indigenous-led stewardship initiatives across the region. His job: monitoring salmon runs, collecting data and protecting part of their ancestral territory now known as Heydon Bay. The camp here, tucked in a remote cove a couple hours north of Campbell River by boat, hosts Guardians for weeklong shifts.
The fence temporarily halts the salmon’s migration. When fish congregate, Roberts and other Guardians open a small gate, channeling the fish into a pen on the other side. There, the Guardians take scale samples and record the overall condition of the fish, before releasing them upstream.
“They should be here any day now,” he says. He should know—by his estimate he’s spent four full years of his life at this camp.
Roberts is a fifth-generation commercial fisher. He grew up eating salmon four meals a week. “All anyone talks about is how it used to be,” he says. “The abundance was crazy compared to what it is now.”
Along the Great Bear Sea—a vast marine corridor from northern Vancouver Island to the Alaska border—and through the coastal rainforest, salmon populations have struggled for decades. This crisis threatens not just ecosystems but also food security, livelihoods and the cultural traditions of Indigenous communities who have stewarded these waters for millennia. More than 70% of salmon populations in British Columbia are below their long-term average abundance. The richness that once defined this coast is now a memory.
“All I’ve ever known is a salmon crisis,” says Trinity Mack, a 22-year-old marine stewardship officer for the Nuxalk Nation based in the Bella Coola Valley of British Columbia’s Central Coast. She’s heard stories about the old days. She knows that at one point salmon sustained the Nation. Today, salmon restoration takes precedence, which means fewer fish for local families.
As the Great Bear Sea enters a new era of Indigenous-led conservation, Wei Wai Kum Guardians are leading efforts to safeguard these waters.
Watchmen: Wei Wai Kum Guardians inspect bull kelp at a newly established kelp farm near Campbell River, Canada. © Kiliii Yüyan
On Duty: Wei Wai Kum Guardians work on restoration projects in Homayno Bay. © Kiliii Yüyan
Salmon Revival: The team supports salmon recovery through a broodstock program at the Quinsam River Hatchery, where eggs and milt are mixed for fertilization. © Kiliii Yüyan
Next Generation: Milt is collected from male salmon. © Kiliii Yüyan
The Great Bear Sea is one of the most ecologically rich cold-water marine environments in the world, home to kelp forests, whales, sea otters and five species of Pacific salmon. But decades of overfishing, logging, warming waters and increased commercial shipping have severely impacted these critical ecosystems. For generations, Indigenous communities have been excluded from coastal planning and conservation decisions, despite their deep ecological and cultural ties to the land and sea. The loss of access to traditional harvest areas and the degradation of this unique ecosystem have left many communities struggling to maintain food sovereignty and cultural practices.
Now, in an unprecedented move, 17 First Nations across coastal British Columbia have come together—along with Canada’s federal government, the provincial government and nonprofit partners like Nature United, the Canadian affiliate of The Nature Conservancy—to continue to reclaim stewardship of their ancestral waters. The challenge is formidable, but the collective vision could reshape marine conservation in Canada and beyond.
Walk alongside some streams in coastal British Columbia in the fall, and there’s a good chance you’ll see a lot of salmon. It’s a spectacle of abundance that tourists from around the world travel to see. But it’s also an illusion.
Along the Pacific coast, many wild salmon populations have declined by 50–90% since the mid-20th century.
And salmon are not the only species in trouble. Several populations of eulachon, an oily fish central to many coastal First Nations’ diets, traditions and trade networks, are listed under Canada's national Species at Risk Act as endangered. In total, 84 wildlife species in the region are now at risk.
For Snxakila Clyde Tallio, director of culture and language for the Nuxalk Nation, these declines stem from a long history of colonial extraction—despite more than 14,000 years of First Nations stewardship. “We had our own system of managing the river and it worked,” he says. “We supported thousands of people through this local abundance.”
Colonialism brought not only resource extraction but also disease and forced cultural assimilation. Across Canada, more than 150,000 Indigenous children were forcibly sent to Indian Residential Schools, where they were stripped of their language and traditions, a brutal practice that continued until 1996 and claimed thousands of lives. In addition, policies like the Fisheries Act and Indian Act restricted First Nations’ fishing and land rights, criminalized cultural practices and severed communities from places central to their identities.
“Our elders have suffered greatly from colonialism, including the loss of culture and language, and the mental torture of that,” says Tallio.
For many coastal First Nations, the loss of fisheries meant not only diminished food security but also economic hardship—by 2021, median income for First Nations living on reserve in British Columbia was 34% lower than that of non-Indigenous residents in the province. And First Nations are still fighting for recognition of their governance authority and cultural ties to land and water.
Meanwhile, industrial logging carved into the Great Bear Rainforest, one of the most intact temperate rainforests on Earth. Clear-cutting fragmented habitats for grizzlies and spirit bears, destabilizing watersheds and threatening rivers that sustain salmon runs—lifelines for wildlife and people.
The collision of these three crises—vanishing salmon, falling forests and the systematic erasure of Indigenous rights and access—forced a reckoning. It began on land. Between 2006 and 2016, the Great Bear Rainforest agreements established collaborative management across 15 million acres, including nearly 3 million acres on Haida Gwaii, an archipelago off British Columbia’s north coast. The agreement became a global model for conservation rooted in Indigenous leadership—and it set the stage for what would come next.
After checking the salmon fish fence, I board a boat at camp to join a group of Guardians monitoring rockfish and crabs, while also catching us dinner. We motor out into the bay as Pacific loons and common mergansers take flight, surrounded by lush rainforest cloaked in clouds.
We stop and drop lines from fishing rods, jigging methodically until rockfish begin to bite. Soon the Guardians are measuring yelloweye rockfish, a species that resembles a supersized goldfish and is known for its flaky, white meat. It feels idyllic, but the legacy of logging still shapes these waters. From the boat, we can’t see the clear-cuts beyond the shoreline.
Decades after the logging boom ended, sediment and pollutants from clear-cutting and road building still wash downstream, smothering salmon spawning beds and degrading estuaries that feed species like rockfish and crabs.
This ecological link between land and sea is why many First Nations viewed the landmark Great Bear Rainforest deal as only the beginning. True protection, they believed, meant safeguarding not only the forests but also the marine ecosystems that sustain their communities.
That vision took shape in 2024, when 17 First Nations, the province of British Columbia and the government of Canada signed the Great Bear Sea Project Finance for Permanence (PFP), a model designed to secure durable funding for conservation and community well-being. Through this agreement, $335 million Canadian dollars in new investment will finance stewardship, management and economic development. Over 20 years, this financing is expected to leverage an estimated $750 million to create thousands of jobs and conserve approximately 25 million acres of ocean—30% of the Great Bear Sea. The initiative is part of a growing global movement of PFPs that are locally designed and led, and supported by Enduring Earth, a collaboration between The Nature Conservancy, The Pew Charitable Trusts, World Wildlife Fund and ZOMA LAB.
Central to this vision is the establishment of Canada’s first Marine Protected Area Network—a system of ocean sanctuaries often described as “national parks of the sea.” These Marine Protected Areas (MPAs) set aside critical habitats where industrial fishing, oil and gas drilling, and other potentially harmful activities are restricted. The goal is to protect biodiversity, support sustainable fisheries and preserve ecosystems and economies for generations to come.
“This is Canada’s first Marine Protected Area Network and the largest co-governed by Indigenous people in the world,” says Jenn Burt, marine program director for Nature United. “It really is about supporting a First Nations’ vision for stewardship, management and governance.”
That vision draws on an innovative blend of Indigenous-led science and Traditional knowledge. “This agreement is a recognition that it is Indigenous communities who have stewarded their traditional territories for thousands of years and are the best caretakers of their land,” says Christine Smith-Martin, CEO of Coastal First Nations. “This finally allows us to work together for the betterment of our oceans.”
While MPA networks have long been a global conservation tool, the Great Bear Sea agreement is the largest that is Indigenous led and, as community members often say, “made by the coast, for the coast.” First Nations and government partners are using Indigenous knowledge and the best-available science and technology to shape management plans, define permissible activities and set boundaries on protected areas. Unlike prevailing approaches that focus narrowly on managing fisheries, this network aims to safeguard entire ecosystems.
“Indigenous nations are holistic people,” says Merv Child, executive director of Nanwakolas Council, an alliance of First Nations for coastal stewardship. “Going forward, the relevant nations will negotiate the status of individual marine protected areas along the coast. The nations will have a say on what goes and what doesn’t go on in these areas.”
The stench of rotting fish is heavy in the air as Lip'tsutlaycana Shanti Tallio-Milton guides our raft down the Atnarko River. Hundreds of salmon fight their way up the riffles, the final push in their spawning run. Grizzlies are never far behind.
We slip into a side channel. The shore is littered with half-eaten bodies of salmon and the unmistakable tracks of bears. Very large bears.
“My grandma used to tell me she could smell when bears are around and I thought it was nonsense,” says Tallio-Milton. “But I can tell, I can smell bears. I think we’re going to see one today.”
At 23 years old, Tallio-Milton, a member of the Nuxalk Nation—one of the 17 Nations leading the historic Great Bear Sea initiative—already has a reputation as a bear finder extraordinaire. As we swing around the next bend, she points ahead. A large sow grizzly and her cub stand on the opposite bank scanning the water. We keep a respectful distance as the bears fish, tearing into salmon with deep-orange flesh. Other rafts line the bank, with tourists busily snapping photos of the spectacle—a major draw for the region.
Tallio-Milton has been guiding since she was 16 years old and currently works for Tweedsmuir Park Lodge, but she dreams of launching her own guiding business.
“There are logistical barriers, but I think I can offer an experience that combines nature with the cultural history of this area,” she says.
That vision—linking conservation with community prosperity—is at the heart of the Great Bear Sea agreement. Over the next 20 years, the deal is projected to create more than 3,000 new jobs and 200 new businesses in eco-cultural tourism, marine stewardship, transportation and renewable energy, as well as sustainable fisheries and kelp farming.
For many, the connection is deeply personal. Trinity Mack values time spent harvesting salmon with family and laughing around the smokehouse. And in the fish’s annual migration, she sees a story of resilience.
“Salmon have faced immense amounts of pressure, from logging their streams to commercial fishing,” she says. “But they’re still here. They’re so resilient in the face of so much hardship. I see the First Nations as the same way. We had to deal with colonialism, residential schools and persecution. But we are still here. We still have a voice.”
Now, that voice is shaping the future of her community and so many like it.
“We are at a time when we can actually make changes, where we can have a future where we don’t have to worry about not having enough food fish,” says Mack. “This is what our ancestors prayed for."
Matt Miller, based in Idaho, is the director of science communications for The Nature Conservancy and editorial lead for its Cool Green Science blog.
Kiliii Yüyan is an award-winning photographer and National Geographic Explorer based in Seattle. His work is informed by his Chinese and Nanai ancestry.
Sign up for the Nature News email and receive conservation stories each month.