No Place for Wolverines

by Dave Butler

  “Hey lady, chill,” said the young man, holding up his hands and showing his palms. He tilted his head to one side. “I was only asking a question.”

  Ilsley looked at the man for a moment. As experienced as she was, the question had shocked and surprised her. And she was angry at herself for not anticipating it, or something like it. She realized then that everyone in the room was staring at her, confused, as if they were children waiting for direction. The young man’s outburst had dramatically changed the mood of the evening.

  “Uh … I think it’s time we called it a night,” she said. “We’ve made a good start. Thank you all for your partici­pation. I’ll organize these notes and then get them out by email. Let’s get together here again next week, same time, same night.”

  Eleven people shuffled out the door into the frigid darkness, leaving Ilsley standing in her open doorway, frozen in place with the heavy wood door at her back. Unconsciously, she again folded her arms across her chest as she watched the procession of red tail lights disappear down her driveway. A truck, the young man’s, was the last to leave. She glimpsed his face as the truck slowly passed her house with its lights off. After locking and bolting the door behind her, Ilsley leaned against it, pondering the young man’s question … and the dark pits where his eyes should have been.

  CHAPTER 6

  DECEMBER 3

  “Hello, and welcome to the Top of the World open house,” said the man standing inside the front door of the Golden Senior Centre. “My name is Hank Myers. I’m with Collie Creek Resorts Limited. Feel free to wander around the display boards. I or my partner will answer any questions.”

  Myers was a tall, muscular man, with tightly curled black hair and a skier’s goggle tan. His dark slacks were pressed, his brown loafers shined, and his blue blazer looked new and expensive. To Willson, he seemed more like a bouncer at an exclusive club than a land developer hosting an open house.

  “Thanks,” she said, taking a brochure without introducing herself or her mother.

  “Could I ask you both to please sign the visitor sheet?” Myers asked.

  “You could, but we’d rather not,” said Willson, moving past him.

  Willson and her mother slowly circled the bright room, moving from one display to the next. Willson paused at a large wall map showing the project’s location. As expected, a bold line captured the upper Collie Creek drainage. But the map also showed that the proponent had his eye on parts of the Ayesha, Des Poilus, Yoho, and Wapta glaciers in the Yoho River valley, as well. She carefully traced her finger along the boundary of Yoho National Park and stopped at the point where she knew the new Mountain Club hut was located. She tapped the map once, twice. Shit, at least a third of the project is inside the national park, and the hut is in the centre of it all.

  Willson’s mother, oblivious to her daughter’s musings, pointed her own finger at the adjacent drainages. “This is so close to the huts in Wildcat Creek and Amiskwi River, Jenny. You remember when your father used to take us hiking and skiing there? I wonder what they think about this.”

  “I can’t imagine they’re happy,” Willson said. “If the idea goes ahead, it might create better access for them and their guests, but that whole area is going to be a very different place.”

  As they circulated around the room, she was surprised by how many of the people there knew her mother. She was introduced many times. “This is my daughter, Jenny. She’s a park warden and just found out today that she’s moving back to town …”

  The two Willsons continued their tour, reading charts about the local economy and graphs showing how the global ski market was changing. They looked over lists of site details like vertical drop, aspect, and snowfall; artist renderings of lift towers and cables crossing ridges and peaks; a map showing the overlap with traditional territories of the area’s indigenous peoples; and a stylized illustration of a future resort base. In the absence of a critical eye, it may have seemed exciting, full of hope and promise, like Disneyland for skiers. A magic ski kingdom.

  But Willson was a cynic. Instead, she saw a significant change to the park and to the wild area to the north of it. The project was no longer a rumour, no longer something conceptual casually discussed across a desk with her boss. And she could tell that the applicants had put impressive amounts of time, effort, and money into the proposal. It was no half-assed scheme sketched on the back of an envelope with a crayon. These guys really are serious about this, she thought. And with that, the implications of her deal with Frank Speer took on a new reality.

  Her meeting with Jack Church the previous afternoon had confirmed her fears. After he’d approved her secondment to the park, he had, without any prompting from Willson, expounded on the benefits of the proposed ski area, showing himself to be as much a champion of the project as Speer had painted him to be. She’d had to use every ounce of self-control to not question or contradict him.

  She felt her mother’s touch on her arm. “Are you okay, Jenny?”

  “I’m good, Mum,” she said, her trance broken. “I’m trying to decide how I feel about this.” She was supposed to be her mother’s security blanket for the evening, comforting and calming in this public setting. She was fine with that. Now, with a gentle hand on her arm, her mother had returned the favour.

  They moved on to a display about the environmental impacts of the project. Willson mentally ran through her own checklist of items she thought the proponent should address. Wildlife and habitat issues? Check. Fishery issues? Check. Water quality and quantity? Check. Vegetation? Check. Geology and soils? Yup. Impacts of new road access and traffic on Collie Creek and the Blaeberry River? Nope. Missing. Climate change and receding glaciers? Nowhere to be seen. Are they only going to tell us the good news? she wondered.

  Suddenly she felt a tap on her shoulder. “Hi, ladies,” said a bearded man, his voice revealing the lilt of a Swiss accent. “I’m Albin Stoffel.” He glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice. “I don’t work for the proponent. I’m actually studying wolverines in the central Rockies.” He was wearing stained Carhartt pants and a badly pilled fleece jacket, and he had a wild shock of curly, dark hair that looked as if hadn’t seen a brush in days. “I’m trying to speak with everyone who comes in tonight, even though the proponent would prefer I not be here.”

  “Hi, Albin,” Willson said. “I’m really sorry about what happened to your office … and your assistant. Have they confirmed that it was her?”

  “Not yet,” Stoffel said, his face darkening.

  “I wanted to ask you some questions when I saw you there yesterday, but I figured you had other things on your mind.”

  “What did you want to ask me?”

  “There must be wolverines in the project area, right?”

  “There are,” he said. “From hair samples, we know we have at least one male that uses Collie Creek as part of his home range. He moves in and out of the park. And we have GPS collars on two females in the main Blaeberry drainage. There’s likely a den site in there somewhere.”

  “Interesting,” Willson said, turning back to the display. “I don’t see that mentioned here anywhere.”

  “No, you don’t. I think the proponent wants me and the wolverines to disappear.” Stoffel stopped speaking for a moment. Willson guessed he was thinking about the fire and its fatal results. “The animal is endangered under federal species at risk legislation, and that creates a problem for the project,” he continued.

  An older couple joined them at the display board. Stoffel turned his attention to them. “Hi, I’m Albin …”

  Leaving him to his pitch, Willson and her mother moved to the final display, completing their circuit of the room. This one was titled Project Benefits and consisted of three panels. Standing beside the display was a very large man wearing pressed blue jeans, polished cowboy boots, and a black western-style blazer over a checked blue shirt. His skin was pale, his red hair showing the telltale ring of a hat recently removed. “Thanks for coming
to our open house tonight,” he said. “I’m Stafford Austin, and I’m proud to be the proponent for Top of the World.”

  He launched into a speech about the project benefits, the investments, the jobs, the new tourism profile for Golden. He talked about the five hundred million dollars to be invested over the life of the project. He mentioned the many organizations that were already supporters. He waved his hands for emphasis as he spoke, making his two large gold rings, one on each hand, glint in the light.

  Willson watched him through narrowed eyes. So you’re the guy, she thought, my target, the focus of my waking hours for the next while. You don’t know it yet, buddy, but I’ll be poking and prodding and peering into places you don’t want me to go.

  At that moment, Stoffel appeared. “All you ever talk about is benefits,” he said to Austin loudly. “This is a crazy idea and you know it!”

  The room went quiet as all heads turned to look at the two men. Willson saw her mother’s face flush as she moved away to avoid the confrontation.

  “What about the wolverines? What about the grizzly bears? What about the mountain goats?”

  “Mr. Stoffel. I assumed you would show up tonight to disrupt things,” said Austin, his smile like that of a jackal.

  “I’m not here to disrupt anything,” said Stoffel. “I want to make sure people understand that not everything about this project is good news. There are many issues that people should be concerned about. It’s a bad project in the wrong place.” He pointed to the display board. “If this ridiculous idea goes ahead, there’ll be serious environ­mental impacts — which you’re trying to hide.”

  Like the good interrogator she was, Willson studied Austin carefully, watching his reaction to Stoffel’s outburst. His smile did not waver, but his eyes narrowed and his face flushed slightly. His arms were still and tight against his side, his fists clenched. He was not a happy man.

  “We’ve been open about the project impacts and bene­fits,” Austin said, more to the onlookers than to Stoffel. “We believe that the significant benefits of a development in this area will far outweigh a few minor impacts. But the beauty of this process, Mr. Stoffel, is that you don’t get to decide if the project goes ahead or not. That will be left up to experts, people who know what they’re doing.”

  “I know what I’m doing,” said Stoffel, his voice more strident. “I’m talking about science. I’m standing up for the environment. I’m making sure that everyone knows about the importance of the Blaeberry and Howse River drainages to wolverines and other wildlife, and to the parks next door. About the value of large, wild places.”

  Austin’s smile was gone. “Feel free to do that,” he said. “I know that your little study, with your little team of volunteers, all well meaning I’m sure, will be just one small piece of the information about Top of the World to be reviewed. We’ve hired a reputable environmental consulting firm to study the wolverines, bears, mountain goats, and lots of other things. They’re professionals. They’ll be following standards created by federal and provincial government scientists, not by some left-wing university. In my humble opinion, that’s where the truly useful and accurate information about this project will come from.”

  “No one is going to believe anything that comes from someone you hire,” said Stoffel. “I want you and everyone here to know that we’re going to oppose you, every step of the way.” He turned and walked out of the hall, staring at Austin and bouncing off Hank Myers as he passed him.

  “I apologize for that unfortunate disturbance,” said Austin, his smile returning. “As you can tell, Mr. Stoffel is passionate … and I must say, misinformed. Are there any questions I can answer for the rest of you?”

  “Why another ski hill in this area?” asked one middle-aged man who was standing beside Willson. “We’ve already got Kicking Horse and Panorama and Kimberley in the valley here, Lake Louise and Sunshine just over the border in Alberta, and then Revelstoke to the west. Won’t you be poaching skiers from our existing resorts?”

  “Great question,” said Austin. “We’ve done detailed market analyses. Based on those, we know that there are thousands of skiers around the world who don’t come to British Columbia. We believe that many of them will choose to come visit for a new resort of this calibre. Wealthy skiers like trying new experiences. It will be unlike anything else in the area, with great snow and glaciers and incredible views. And we’ll operate year-round. Because of that, we don’t see those hills competing with this project in any way. In fact, I believe they’ll all benefit from having more skiers in this area in general.”

  “Hmm,” said the man, looking less than convinced.

  “The site is far from here,” said the woman beside him. His wife? “Who’s going to pay for the road to get there?”

  “That’s something we’ll have to talk with government about,” said Austin. “But it’s my understanding that taxpayers won’t be on the hook for any of it.”

  “I don’t buy that for one minute,” said the woman. “We taxpayers always end up paying for projects like this.”

  Austin did not respond.

  A young woman stepped up beside Willson. She was red-haired, thin as a rail, and wore a black T-shirt with Keep Collie Wild scrawled across the front in what appeared to be white paint. “Was it you who burned down Stoffel’s office?” the woman asked, pointing right at Austin, her eyes blazing.

  “I had nothing to do with that,” Austin said. “And you should be very careful about making accusations, young lady, or you’ll end up in court.”

  Myers stepped toward the protestor with his arms out like he was trying to herd an angry farm animal, clearly intending to usher her out. But she took one look at him and started to head for the exit on her own.

  “We’ll see you in court, all right,” she retorted. “The same day your idiotic project gets booted out of town.” She turned back at the door to yell at Austin, “We’re coming for you!”

  “I’ve got a question for you,” Willson said. She waited for Austin to turn back to her, and when he did, he looked rattled. “This appears to be an ambitious project, one that’ll be very expensive to build and operate. Where’s the money coming from?”

  “Ah,” Austin said, “the money question. We’re a private company created for this project. Our initial investors are excited about it. As it proceeds through the approval processes, more investors will come on board.”

  “Do you have any of your own money invested in the project?”

  “What did you say your name was?” asked Austin.

  “I didn’t,” said Willson with a smile. “Call me curious.”

  CHAPTER 7

  DECEMBER 20

  Enjoying the wind in her face and the sound of the fat tires humming on hard-packed snow, Willson savoured riding her mountain bike for the first time in weeks. Golden was like that. It could be full-on winter elsewhere in the mountains, but if there was enough sun by noon to burn off the valley fog, then the town — at just under eight hundred metres elevation in the Rocky Mountain Trench — could be balmy and pleasant by comparison.

  After Jack Church had given her secondment the nod two weeks earlier, Willson had quickly moved into an old house in Golden. It was owned by Parks Canada and needed lots of work, but she had no intention of doing anything besides live in it for a year. She’d been able to get her clothes, bike, skis, and beloved Bose sound system from Banff in a single tight load in her Subaru. It was all she owned and all she needed.

  Over two evenings, she’d helped her mother decorate for Christmas. It was the first time in five years that they had hung ornaments on the tree together. During the day, Willson patrolled every main and side road in the park, walked through now-closed campgrounds, met the owners of most of the park’s commercial businesses — hotels, lodges, restaurants — and reviewed a large stack of old case files and court documents. She wanted to understand the law-enforcement issues she might be facing in Yoho, and she needed to get a read on the exper­ience
and capabilities of the other wardens she would be working with.

  Now, on her first day off since arriving, she cruised through her new neighbourhood. Swinging by her old high school brought a flood of memories rushing back — some good, some less so. The best memories were of sports, at which she’d excelled: track and field, volleyball, cross-country skiing. Then there was the supportive biology teacher, Mr. Baumbrough, who’d been a father figure to her after her dad passed away. He’d given her much-needed advice at a time when her life could have gone downhill. Uncle Roy, her father’s brother, had done the same. With their constant encouragement and timely words of wisdom, she’d found her way through months of grief and uncertainty. Her most difficult memory was of crossing the stage to receive her high school diploma without her father there to see her, her mother a teary mess in the front row and barely aware of what was happening.

  She continued west along 9th Street, passing the hospital where she’d said her final goodbyes to her father, then cut north along 8th Avenue to the Kicking Horse pedestrian bridge. It was Canada’s longest free-standing timber-frame bridge, and because it hadn’t been there when she was growing up, she marvelled at the Douglas fir beams stretching across the river. Strong, beautiful, it was as much art as it was engineering. Now, it was the second crossing of the Kicking Horse River, which cut the town of Golden in two. Most of the residential area was on the south side; on the north were the commercial and industrial area and the busy highway corridor.

  She walked her bike halfway across the bridge, then stopped to look down into the river. The fast-flowing water was milky with silt scoured from glaciers high in Yoho Park. Two kilometres downstream from where she stood, the Kicking Horse joined the much larger Columbia River, which picked up the waters of the Blaeberry River and dozens of other drainages along the way as it flowed toward Astoria, Oregon; there, it emptied into the Pacific Ocean.