Weathering Life's Storms: A Lesson from the Great Bear Rainforest

In 2018 my husband, Tom, and I sold most of our belongings—including our apartment and car—and moved aboard our first sailboat, a 40-foot Beneteau Oceanis named Marigold. With our Alaskan husky, Micah, we left behind over a decade of mountain biking, ski touring, and snowboarding in British Columbia's Coast Mountains to sail into the sunset of the Salish Sea. In our minds, trading those snow-capped peaks for shimmering waves wasn’t just a change of scenery—it was an opportunity to rediscover ourselves and shape the next chapter of our lives as a couple.

Over six years, the sea became my refuge. The wind and waves gradually smoothing out some of the rough edges of my childhood, reshaping both me and the way I see the world. Yet, despite all that growth, one stubborn habit clung to me like a barnacle latched to a rock. 

Fortunately, the Great Bear Rainforest (GBR) was about to pull out a shucking knife.

In late spring and early summer of 2024, we sailed deep into the GBR—a “global treasure” spanning 6.4 million hectares along British Columbia’s north and central coast. Located 346 nautical miles north of Vancouver and 139 nautical miles south of Alaska, this vast region is scientifically and culturally significant for its rich diversity of plant, animal, and marine life, as well as its varied geography and climate.

Our primary destination within the GBR was the K’ootz/Khutze Conservancy, within the asserted traditional territory of the Gitga’at and Kitasoo First Nations. This Provincial Park, co-managed by both Nations and BC Parks, safeguards the expansive watershed of the Khutze River—a remarkable ecosystem where salmon streams weave through ancient forests, Sitka spruce dominate the lowlands, and coastal brown bears (commonly called grizzlies) thrive. Due to its very remote location, the K’ootz/Khutze Conservancy can only be accessed by boat or floatplane.

Before continuing, let me clarify what is meant by “coastal brown bear.” In Canada, there are three species of bear: black bear, brown bear, and polar bear. Coastal brown bears live exclusively along the coast and have snouts and paws adapted to their marine diet; and this protein-rich diet of seafood—including clams and salmon—makes them significantly larger than their inland counterparts, the grizzlies. Grizzlies, currently classified as a subspecies of brown bear, inhabit mountainous subalpine forests, where their diet and physical traits reflect that environment. However, there is still a lot of debate amongst scientists as to whether the two are genetically distinct enough to warrant a subspecies designation. I was very fortunate to meet a lovely conservation biologist, via Instagram, who specializes in bear research and explained the difference to me.

Now, back to the story. Years ago, a stranger shared a proverb with me: “When a storm approaches, cows run away, prolonging their suffering. But buffaloes charge into it, cutting their misery short.” For as long as I can remember, I’ve lived like the buffalo—facing challenges head-on, powering through difficulties with unrelenting determination and little rest. Has it served me well? That’s debatable. Has it left me exhausted? Absolutely. Is there a better way? 

That was the question the GBR was about to help me answer.

We anchored in a cove beneath a terraced waterfall that tumbled into an estuary alive with wildflowers and wildlife. Eager to see the bears, we spent two hours scanning the shoreline with binoculars. Hours passed, we saw nothing and I began to wonder if we had mistimed our visit. Residing to the fact that nobody was there, we suited up for a consolation sunset dinghy ride through the estuary waterways. I had halfheartedly picked up my camera on the way out, a decision that would have tortured me had I not, because that’s when we saw him.

At first, it was just the rounded tips of a bear’s ears, swaying slightly as he combed through the sedge grass. Next his hump came into view, then the light, scraggly fur down his spine, an adorably sturdy posterior, and finally his little nub of a tail tucked tight into his body. He was a massive coastal brown bear, easily 1,200 pounds. His sheer presence had such an impact on us that Tom and I, instantly, and in sync, both just called him "Big Guy".

For half an hour, we watched from the water as Big Guy used his giant paws and long claws to excavate the earth in the estuary. He barely acknowledged us, chewing the starchy roots of the sedge grass like a dairy cow at feeding time. Even as storm clouds began to gather, he seemed utterly unfazed.

Minutes later, the skies opened, and rain blurred the outlines of the valley. I scrambled to zip my jacket, pull up my hood, and shield my camera from the downpour. Tom shot me a look that said, “we should head back.” But Big Guy didn’t flinch. He continued on, calmly grazing, the only that had changed was that he was now wet. Which was clearly of no concern. The stark difference between his reaction to the storm and mine felt like a lesson I didn't yet know I needed.