KWAGUL INTO THE MIST: ANISALAGA

Kwagu'ł  into the Mist

Kwagu'ł  into the Mist. This painting shows the  Cadwallader Chilkat woven by Anisalaga (Mary Ebbets Hunt) for her daughter Jane Charity Hunt (Born 1873). She is the little sister to William Hunt through whose line I descend.

Jane married Harry Tennyson Cadwallader (1874-1932). Together, they had three daughters, Francis, Edna Leonora, and Annie Beatrice; and four sons, Clarence Chester (Nick), Walter, Calvin, Robert Stephen Eugene and William Isaac. 

Their son William Isaac married Bernice Crystal Spencer. It was their son George Allan (Dusty) Cadwallader who inherited the blanket and eventually donated it to the Museum of Anthropology at the University of British Columbia, Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada. 

The Chilkat has taken a new name as MOA ID Number: A17007. It was last danced at the Isaac Family Potlach in Alert Bay, 'Ya̱lis, in May 2018 & will be danced again. I got to spend some time with the Chilkat to do studies this past year. This piece is the result.

​The mist is the unknown, the veils that lift as we take our steps forward. The figure you see is at once my Grandma Betty and also Jane Charity.

It is an invitation to walk with our ancestors, hi'helus, into a future of possibility.

Anisalaga, The All-Mother

Anisalaga / Anis'laga / Ansnaq / Anain / Anéin / A'naeesla'ga / Mary (Ebbets) Hunt held many names. Her given Kwak'wala name was Musgemxàala. 

She belonged to the Raven/Yéil phratry of the Gigalgam Kyinanuk Tlingit of Tongass. Anisalaga is the blood that binds all the Hunts, Hendersons and more than 1,200 cousins on the West Coast of British Columbia. 

Anisalaga was a descendant of the Head-Chief of Wrangell (Anisalaga's father's father) and Chief Shaawatshook'u Eesh Keishíshk' Shakes IV (her mother's father), whose wife was S’eitlin II, a Deisheetaan of the Raven moiety whose principal crest is the Beaver/S'igeidí, Gaanax.ádi Drifted Ashore House, Xutsnoowú (a.k.a. Xudzidaa) Ḵwáan, Brown Bear Fort (Burnt Wood Tribe) of the Hootchenoo from Aangóon which roughly translates in Łingít to "isthmus town" of Admiralty Island, Lingit Anni, Alaska.

Anisalaga's mother was Aanseet, Chief-of-All-Women, Drifted Ashore House and Chief Ebbets Andáa Neakoot/Nenkoot, Teikweidi Shaanax Hit, Valley House, Taanta Kwaan, was her father.

The Chief Ebbets Pole (the Dogfish Kootéeyaa Pole) was erected in 1892 in Old Tongass Village for her father then moved, re-carved and re-painted at Saxman Totem Park in 1938. An RFP went out in early 2022 to have this pole re-carved. 

​Anisalaga's mother, Aanseet drowned on the Nass River in 1870. Two memorial poles were raised in her honour — one in Old Tongass Village, Alaska, Princess-Shining-Copper (that was stolen and taken to Seattle to stand in Pioneer Square) and one in Tsaxis, Fort Rupert, raised by Anisalaga to overlook Beaver Harbour.

I grew up a few hundred feet away, just up the hill and less than 20 steps from Anisalaga's grave. My father (through whom I get my Tlingit Kwakiutl blood) moved my Norwegian mother here when they left the float camps up the coast. I lived in Fort Rupert and later moved to M&B subdivision in Port Hardy. My strongest memories from childhood are playing on the beach and hillside with my sister—walking in our ancestor's footsteps.

 Anisalaga's childhood would have been much harder. She had five siblings, Yaashút' (her brother who died in 1876), her sister Gaachnéin married Kucheesh III, her sister Abbie (Atk'géigee) married W. H. Bond, her brother Keenanúk married Xanséek and her sister Kéilsháawat married Xaashgáaksh II.

At the time of her birth in 1823, life was very different in Tongass, Lingit Anni, now Alaska. The Russians still controlled much of the coast and had not yet negotiated its sale to the USA.

Anisalaga was a skilled weaver from a long line of Chilkat master weavers — some originally Tsimshian of Wrangel now family through marriage. When she was fourteen, she was put in seclusion according to Lingit tradition. A painter was engaged to create a Naaxein pattern board behind where she worked. A female elder described the figures as Anisalaga wove them into her own Naaxein/naaxiin. 

They might be a Raven/Yéil with a pronounced beak, paired on each side, the Killer Whale/Dakl'aweidi/Kéet underneath and a Grizzly-Bear/Xóots in the centre with faces of other bears to illustrate the Bear Mother story or include other designs — but always with a central family crest figure showcased for when the robe was danced.

​She was taught to prepare all of the materials for weaving — gathering cedar bark, gathering and dyeing of mountain goat wool with bark, lignite, wolf moss Evernia vulpina and copper.

Over the years, she grew famous for her Chilkat weavings — an art the evokes the smell of smoke, the beating of the drum, the shared singsong voices of the Winter dances. She guarded her Chilkat learnings closely but shared with family. She worked in yellow, turquoise, black and white — including an abstract design in the bottom corner that is her kwéiy/signature.

​Her Chilkat weaving, now famous, were photographed by Edward Curtis and Franz Boas, the father of ethnography, who worked with her and her children, particularly her first son George Hunt.

Anisalaga married Robert Hunt at Fort Simpson at Lax-Kw'alaams on the Nass River. They lived in the north then relocated to Fort Rupert where they had eleven children — seven daughters and four sons. Mary wove a Naaxein Chilkat blanket for each of their children. Their second son, William, married Annie Wilson, Kwakiutl, Smoke of the World, and together they had (Robert) Vivian Hunt, my great grandfather. The Chilkat you see my grandmother Betty dancing comes from William to Vivian to her. It's sister blanket woven for Jane Charity is held in collections at the Museum of Anthropology in Vancouver. 

​Anisalaga brought Tlingit songs, stories and the Chilkat weaving tradition from the north to the coast. Through the Ravens of Tongass, her marriage and move to Fort Rupert she brought Kyinanuk totem pole carving traditions to both Tsaxis, Fort Rupert and Namgis First Nation cousins in Alert Bay — influencing the use of the Thunderbird, the Raven, the Sun, Ts'o'noqoa, Sisiutl and Sea Lion.

A replica of Anisalaga's (du tláa/abas) mother's Princess-Shining-Copper Tongass Kootéeyaa 

pole — erected on her mother's grave at Tongass, Lingit Anni, now southern Alaska — was raised in Tsaxis, Fort Rupert as a visual symbol that the Hunt family equally honoured both Tlingit and Kwakwaka'wakw. North and South had found their peace.   

The Hunts you meet on the west coast are her descendants and my family. In 1992, Uncle Hutch Hunt, Auntie Gloria, Uncle Bill Hunt, Irene Hayman, cousins Lily Alfred, Leslie Hunt, Corrine Hunt along with Wayne Alfred Hunt & William Wasden went to Ketchikan to visit Chief Shakes IX, Jonathan DeWitt (Uncle Cookie), younger brother of Charlie DeWitt. They enjoyed a feast at the home of Forestt DeWitt. 

​Many potlatches/ku.éex' have been held to gather the descendants of Anisalaga & Robert Hunt — now more than 1,200 hundred strong. Our beautiful cousins from the north, including Chris Makua and J.K. Samuels and his sister Louise, joined us for those feasts. We held a potlatch and pole raising in 2013 in Tsaxis, Fort Rupert to honour Anisalaga, our All-Mother.  

NOOTKA FOSSILS AND FIRST NATIONS

Nootka Fossil Field Trip. Photo: John Fam

The rugged west coast of Vancouver Island offers spectacular views of a wild British Columbia. Here the seas heave along the shores slowly eroding the magnificent deposits that often contain fossils. 

Just off the shores of Vancouver Island, east of Gold River and south of Tahsis is the picturesque and remote Nootka Island.

This is the land of the proud and thriving Nuu-chah-nulth First Nations who have lived here always. 

Always is a long time, but we know from oral history and archaeological evidence that the Mowachaht and Muchalaht peoples lived here, along with many others, for many thousands of years — a time span much like always. 

While we know this area as Nootka Sound and the land we explore for fossils as Nootka Island, these names stem from a wee misunderstanding. 

Just four years after the 1774 visit by Spanish explorer Juan Pérez — and only a year before the Spanish established a military and fur trading post on the site of Yuquot — the Nuu-chah-nulth met the Englishman, James Cook.  

Captain Cook sailed to the village of Yuquot just west of Vancouver Island to a very warm welcome. He and his crew stayed on for a month of storytelling, trading and ship repairs. Friendly, but not familiar with the local language, he misunderstood the name for both the people and land to be Nootka. In actual fact, Nootka means, go around, go around. 

Two hundred years later, in 1978, the Nuu-chah-nulth chose the collective term Nuu-chah-nulth — nuučaan̓uł, meaning all along the mountains and sea or along the outside (of Vancouver Island) — to describe themselves. 

It is a term now used to describe several First Nations people living along western Vancouver Island, British Columbia. 

It is similar in a way to the use of the United Kingdom to refer to the lands of England, Scotland and Wales — though using United Kingdom-ers would be odd. Bless the Nuu-chah-nulth for their grace in choosing this collective name.  

An older term for this group of peoples was Aht, which means people in their language and is a component in all the names of their subgroups, and of some locations — Yuquot, Mowachaht, Kyuquot, Opitsaht. While collectively, they are the Nuu-chah-nulth, be interested in their more regional name should you meet them. 

But why does it matter? If you have ever mistakenly referred to someone from New Zealand as an Aussie or someone from Scotland as English, you have likely been schooled by an immediate — sometimes forceful, sometimes gracious — correction of your ways. The best answer to why it matters is because it matters.

Each of the subgroups of the Nuu-chah-nulth viewed their lands and seasonal migration within them (though not outside of them) from a viewpoint of inside and outside. Kla'a or outside is the term for their coastal environment and hilstis for their inside or inland environment.

It is to their kla'a that I was most keen to explore. Here, the lovely Late Eocene and Early Miocene exposures offer up fossil crab, mostly the species Raninid, along with fossil gastropods, bivalves, pine cones and spectacularly — a singular seed pod. These wonderfully preserved specimens are found in concretion along the foreshore where time and tide erode them out each year.

Five years after Spanish explorer Juan Pérez's first visit, the Spanish built and maintained a military post at Yuquot where they tore down the local houses to build their own structures and set up what would become a significant fur trade port for the Northwest Coast — with the local Chief Maquinna's blessing and his warriors acting as middlemen to other First Nations. 

Following reports of Cook's exploration British traders began to use the harbour of Nootka (Friendly Cove) as a base for a promising trade with China in sea-otter pelts but became embroiled with the Spanish who claimed (albeit erroneously) sovereignty over the Pacific Ocean. 

Dan Bowen searching an outcrop. Photo: John Fam

The ensuing Nootka Incident of 1790 nearly led to war between Britain and Spain (over lands neither could actually claim) but talk of war settled and the dispute was settled diplomatically. 

George Vancouver on his subsequent exploration in 1792 circumnavigated the island and charted much of the coastline. His meeting with the Spanish captain Bodega y Quadra at Nootka was friendly but did not accomplish the expected formal ceding of land by the Spanish to the British. 

It resulted however in his vain naming the island "Vancouver and Quadra." The Spanish captain's name was later dropped and given to the island on the east side of Discovery Strait. Again, another vain and unearned title that persists to this day.

Early settlement of the island was carried out mainly under the sponsorship of the Hudson's Bay Company whose lease from the Crown amounted to 7 shillings per year — that's roughly equal to £100.00 or $174 CDN today. Victoria, the capital of British Columbia, was founded in 1843 as Fort Victoria on the southern end of Vancouver Island by the Hudson's Bay Company's Chief Factor, Sir James Douglas. 

With Douglas's help, the Hudson's Bay Company established Fort Rupert on the north end of Vancouver Island in 1849. Both became centres of fur trade and trade between First Nations and solidified the Hudson's Bay Company's trading monopoly in the Pacific Northwest.

The settlement of Fort Victoria on the southern tip of Vancouver Island — handily south of the 49th parallel — greatly aided British negotiators to retain all of the islands when a line was finally set to mark the northern boundary of the United States with the signing of the Oregon Boundary Treaty of 1846. Vancouver Island became a separate British colony in 1858. British Columbia, exclusive of the island, was made a colony in 1858 and in 1866 the two colonies were joined into one — becoming a province of Canada in 1871 with Victoria as the capital.

Dan Bowen, Chair of the Vancouver Island Palaeontological Society (VIPS) did a truly splendid talk on the Fossils of Nootka Sound. With his permission, I have uploaded the talk to the ARCHEA YouTube Channel for all to enjoy. Do take a boo, he is a great presenter. Dan also graciously provided the photos you see here. The last of the photos you see here is from the August 2021 Nootka Fossil Field Trip. Photo: John Fam, Vice-Chair, Vancouver Paleontological Society (VanPS).

Know Before You Go — Nootka Trail

The Nootka Trail passes through the traditional lands of the Mowachaht/Muchalat First Nations who have lived here since always. They share this area with humpback and Gray whales, orcas, seals, sea lions, black bears, wolves, cougars, eagles, ravens, sea birds, river otters, insects and the many colourful intertidal creatures that you'll want to photograph.

This is a remote West Coast wilderness experience. Getting to Nootka Island requires some planning as you'll need to take a seaplane or water taxi to reach the trailhead. The trail takes 4-8 days to cover the 37 km year-round hike. The peak season is July to September. Permits are not required for the hike. 

Access via: Air Nootka floatplane, water taxi, or MV Uchuck III

• Dan Bowen, VIPS on the Fossils of Nootka: https://youtu.be/rsewBFztxSY
• https://www.thecanadianencyclopedia.ca/en/article/sir-james-douglas
• file:///C:/Users/tosca/Downloads/186162-Article%20Text-199217-1-10-20151106.pdf
• Nootka Trip Planning: https://mbguiding.ca/nootka-trail-nootka-island/#overview

VANCOUVER ISLAND'S ELUSIVE COASTAL WOLVES

Along the storm-lashed shores of Vancouver Island, the west coast wolves move like shadows—silent, salt-streaked, and born of the sea. 

Their paws leave fleeting prints on sand swept by tide, their eyes glint with the wild hunger of untamed rainforests. 

Hunters of both land and surf, they dive into kelp beds for seal and salmon, ghosts of cedar and mist, bound to the roar of waves and the deep solitude of the Pacific.

Wolves are among the most iconic predators of the northern hemisphere—intelligent, social, and adaptable creatures that have roamed the wilds of North America for hundreds of thousands of years. 

But their story begins long before that, deep in the fossil record, when canids first began to evolve.

The ancestors of today’s wolves can be traced back more than 30 million years to the early canids of the Oligocene. One of the earliest known members of the dog family is Hesperocyon, a small, fox-like carnivore that lived in what is now North America. 

Over millions of years, these early canids diversified into various forms, including the dire wolf (Aenocyon dirus) and the gray wolf (Canis lupus), which appeared around 1 to 2 million years ago.

The gray wolf evolved in Eurasia and migrated into North America via the Bering land bridge during the Pleistocene. Once here, it quickly became a dominant predator across the continent, adapting to a wide range of environments—from the Arctic tundra to the deserts of Mexico.

Today, Canis lupus is still widely distributed across North America, although its range has contracted significantly due to human expansion, habitat loss, and historical persecution. Wolves are found in:

• Alaska – home to the largest populations in North America.
• The Rocky Mountains – including parts of Montana, Idaho, and Wyoming.
• The Western Great Lakes – especially Minnesota and Wisconsin.
• Canada – particularly British Columbia, Alberta, and the boreal forests of the northern provinces.
• Vancouver Island – which hosts a distinct coastal population.
• The Pacific Coast – small populations in Washington and Oregon are making a comeback.

Wolves are apex predators and essential for maintaining healthy ecosystems. They primarily prey on large ungulates such as deer, moose, elk, and caribou. 

In coastal regions, particularly on British Columbia’s Central Coast and Vancouver Island, wolves have adapted their diets to include salmon, intertidal invertebrates, and even seals. I have seen them eat their way along the tide line, scavenging whatever the sea has washed up for their breakfasts. 

These wolves have been observed swimming between islands in search of food, a behavior rarely seen in inland populations. If you explore the coast by boat, kayak or other means, you can see their footprints in the sand, telling you that you are not alone as you explore the rugged coast.

Wolves help control herbivore populations, which in turn benefits vegetation and can even influence river systems, as famously demonstrated in Yellowstone National Park after wolves were reintroduced in 1995.

Wolves on Vancouver Island

Vancouver Island is home to a small but resilient population of coastal wolves, often referred to as coastal sea wolves. 

These wolves are genetically and behaviorally distinct from their inland counterparts. While exact numbers fluctuate, current estimates suggest approximately 350 wolves live on Vancouver Island.

In Kwak'wala, the language of the many Kwakwaka'wakw First Nations of Vancouver Island, wolves are known as atła'na̱m, u'liga̱n or wišqii. They symbolize loyalty, strength, family, and the spirit of unity. 

Wolves are highly respected as wise, cooperative, and powerful hunters, often seen as spirit guides. 

They play a role in our ceremonies and are prominently featured in our art on totem poles, jewellery and ceremonial masks. We have dances with the dancers wearing wolf headdresses called xisiwe' that are impressive to behold.

In the wild, wolves are elusive and tend to avoid human interaction, making them difficult to study and count accurately. Much of what we know comes from the work of wildlife researchers and photographers such as Ian McAllister, whose documentation of coastal wolf behavior has been instrumental in raising awareness.

If you are looking to see more of these coastal predators, search out the work of photographers like Liron Gertsman, Ian Harland, and Sandy Sharkey, who have captured stunning images and footage of these elusive creatures in their natural habitat, along our beaches and old-growth forests. 

Despite their adaptability, wolves face a number of threats:

• Habitat Loss and Human Encroachment: As logging and development continue to fragment wild areas on Vancouver Island, wolves are pushed into closer proximity with humans, increasing the likelihood of conflict.
• Hunting and Trapping: Wolves are not protected under the Wildlife Act in much of British Columbia and can be hunted or trapped in many areas. Although controversial, some view wolf control as a means to support ungulate populations for hunting.
• Poisoning and Culling: In parts of Canada, wolves have been poisoned or culled in misguided efforts to protect caribou herds, despite ecological evidence showing that habitat preservation is more critical to caribou survival.
• Decline in Prey: As deer populations fluctuate due to climate change, human hunting pressure, and habitat alteration, wolves may face food scarcity.
• Public Misunderstanding: Myths and negative stereotypes about wolves still persist, sometimes fueling unnecessary fear and policy decisions not based on science.
• Wolves have been on this land longer than humans. Their long evolutionary journey has shaped them into highly specialized, intelligent animals with complex social structures. But their survival now depends on us.

On Vancouver Island and across the continent, conservation efforts, education, and science-based wildlife management are essential to ensuring wolves continue to howl in the wild for generations to come.

Vancouver Island local, Gary Allan, who runs the SWELL Wolf Education Centre in Nanaimo and is known for his extensive work in wolf advocacy and education is a good resource of up-to-date information on our coastal wolves. 

He has been educating the public about wolves since 2006, both through the Tundra Speaks Society and the education centre. Allan's work involves interacting with wolves, including his wolf-dog Tundra, and sharing his knowledge with schools, community groups, and First Nations organizations. 

Have you seen one of our coastal wolves up close and in person? It is a rare treat and for me, generally on an early morning walk. I hope we keep the balance so that the wolves live in peace and continue to thrive.

Further Reading and Resources

McAllister, Ian. The Last Wild Wolves: Ghosts of the Rain Forest. Greystone Books, 2007.

Mech, L. David, and Boitani, Luigi (eds.). Wolves: Behavior, Ecology, and Conservation. University of Chicago Press, 2003.

Fossil Canids Database – University of California Museum of Paleontology

Raincoast Conservation Foundation – https://www.raincoast.org

TIKTAALIK, ELPISTOSTEGE AND MIGUASHA

Elpistostege watsoni

In the late 1930s, our understanding of the transition of fish to tetrapods — and the eventual jump to modern vertebrates — took an unexpected leap forward. 

The evolutionary a'ha came from a single partial fossil skull found on the shores of a riverbank in Eastern Canada. 

Meet the Stegocephalian, Elpistostege watsoni, an extinct genus of finned tetrapodomorphs that lived during the Late Givetian to Early Frasnian of the Late Devonian — 382 million years ago. 

Elpistostege watsoni — perhaps the sister taxon of all other tetrapods — was first described in 1938 by British palaeontologist and elected Fellow of the Royal Society of London, Thomas Stanley Westoll. Westoll's research interests were wide-ranging. He was a vertebrate palaeontologist and geologist best known for his innovative work on Palaeozoic fishes and their relationships with tetrapods. 

As a specialist in early fish, Westoll was asked to interpret that single partial skull roof discovered at the Escuminac Formation in Quebec, Canada. His findings and subsequent publication named Elpistostege watsoni and helped us to better understand the evolution of fishes to tetrapods — four-limbed vertebrates — one of the most important transformations in vertebrate evolution. 

Hypotheses of tetrapod origins rely heavily on the anatomy of but a few tetrapod-like fish fossils from the Middle and Late Devonian, 393–359 million years ago. These taxa — known as elpistostegalians — include Panderichthys, Elpistostege and Tiktaalik — none of which had yet to reveal the complete skeletal anatomy of the pectoral fin. 

Elpistostege watsoni

None until 2010 that is, when a complete 1.57-metre-long articulated specimen was found and described by Richard Cloutier et al. in 2020. 

The specimen helped us to understand the origin of the vertebrate hand. Stripped from its encasing stone, it revealed a set of paired fins of Elpistostege containing bones homologous to the phalanges (finger bones) of modern tetrapods and is the most basal tetrapodomorph known to possess them. 

Once the phalanges were uncovered, prep work began on the fins. The fins were covered in wee scales and lepidotrichia (fin rays). The work was tiresome, taking more than 2,700 hours of preparation but the results were thrilling. 

Origin of the Vertebrate Hand

We could now clearly see that the skeleton of the pectoral fin has four proximodistal rows of radials — two of which include branched carpals — as well as two distal rows organized as digits and putative digits. 

Despite this skeletal pattern — which represents the most tetrapod-like arrangement of bones found in a pectoral fin to date blurring the line between fish and land vertebrates — the fin retained lepidotrichia (those wee fin rays) distal to the radials. 

This arrangement confirmed an age-old question — showing us for the first time that the origin of phalanges preceded the loss of fin rays, not the other way around.

E. watsoni is very closely related to Tiktaalik roseae found in 2004 in the Canadian Arctic — a tetrapodomorpha species also known as a Choanata. These were advanced forms transitional between fish and the early labyrinthodonts playfully referred to as fishapods — half-fish, half-tetrapod in appearance and limb morphology. 

Up to that point, the relationship of limbed vertebrates (tetrapods) to lobe-finned fish (sarcopterygians) was well known, but the origin of major tetrapod features remained obscure for lack of fossils that document the sequence of evolutionary changes — until Tiktaalik. While Tiktaalik is technically a fish, this fellow is as far from fish-like you can be and still be a card-carrying member of the group. 

Tiktaalik roseae

Complete with scales and gills, this proto-fish lacked the conical head we see in modern fish but had a rather flattened triangular head more like that of a crocodile. 

Tiktaalik had scales on its back and fins with fin webbing but like early land-living animals, it had a distinctive flat head and neck. He was a brawny brute. The shape of his skull and shoulder look part fish and part amphibian.

The watershed moment came as Tiktaalik was prepped. Inside Tiktaalik's fins, we find bones that correspond to the upper arm, forearm and even parts of the wrist — all inside a fin with webbing — remarkable! 

Its fins have thin ray bones for paddling like most fish, but with brawny interior bones that gave Tiktaalik the ability to prop itself up, using his limbs for support. I picture him propped up on one paddle saying, "how you doing?" 

Six years after Tiktaalik was discovered by Neil Shubin and team in the ice-covered tundra of the Canadian Arctic on southern Ellesmere Island, a team working the outcrops at Miguasha on the Gaspé Peninsula discovered the only fully specimen of E. watsoni found to date — greatly increasing our knowledge of this finned tantalizingly transitional tetrapodomorph. 

E. watsoni fossils are rare — this was the fourth specimen collected in over 130 years of hunting. Charmingly, the specimen was right on our doorstop — extracted but a few feet away from the main stairs descending onto the beach of Miguasha National Park. 

L'nu Mi’gmaq First Nations of the Gespe’gewa’gi Region

Miguasha is nestled in the Gaspésie or Gespe’gewa’gi region of Canada — home to the Mi’gmaq First Nations who self-refer as L’nu or Lnu. The word Mi’gmaq or Mi’kmaq means the family or my allies/friends in Mi'kmaw, their native tongue (and soon to be Nova Scotia's provincial first language). They are the people of the sea and the original inhabitants of Atlantic Canada having lived here for more than 10,000 years. 

The L'nu were the first First Nation people to establish contact and trade with European explorers in the 16th and 17th centuries — and perhaps the Norse as early as the turn of the Millenium. Sailing vessels filled with French, British, Scottish, Irish and others arrived one by one to lay claim to the region — settling and fighting over the land. 

As each group rolled out their machinations of discovery, tensions turned to an all-out war with the British and French going head to head. I'll spare you the sordid details but for everyone caught in the crossfire, it went poorly.

North America Map 1775 (Click to Enlarge)

Cut to 1760, the British tipped the balance with their win at the Battle of the Restigouche, the last naval battle between France and England for possession of the North American continent — Turtle Island. 

The bittersweet British victory sparked the American War of Independence. 

For the next twenty years, the L'nu would witness and become embroiled in yet another war for these lands, their lands — first as bystanders, then as American allies, then intimidated into submission by the British Royal Navy with a show of force by way of a thirty-four gun man-of-war, encouraging L'nu compliance — finally culminating in an end to the hostilities with the 1783 Treaty of Paris. 

The peace accord held no provisions for the L'nu, Métis and First Nations impacted. None of these newcomers was Mi'kmaq — neither friends nor allies.

It was to this area some sixty years later that the newly formed Geological Survey of Canada (GSC) began exploring and mapping the newly formed United Province of Canada. Geologists in the New Brunswick Geology Branch traipsed through the rugged countryside that would become a Canadian province in 1867. 

It was on one of these expeditions that the Miguasha fossil outcrops were discovered. They, too, would transform in time to become Miguasha National Park or Parc de Miguasha, but at first, they were simply the promising sedimentary exposures on the hillside across the water —  a treasure trove of  Late Devonian fauna waiting to be discovered.

In the summer of 1842, Abraham Gesner, New Brunswick’s first Provincial Geologist, crossed the northern part of the region exploring for coal. Well, mostly looking for coal. Gesner also had a keen eye for fossils and his trip to the Gaspé Peninsula came fast on the heels of a jaunt along the rocky beaches of Chignecto Bay at the head of the Bay of Fundy and home to the standing fossil trees of the Joggins Fossil Cliffs. 

Passionate about geology and chemistry, he is perhaps most famous for his invention of the process to distil the combustible hydrocarbon kerosene from coal oil — a subject on which his long walks exploring a budding Canada gave him a great deal of time to consider. We have Gesner to thank for the modern petroleum industry. He filed many patents for clever ways to distil the soft tar-like coal or bitumen still in use today.

He was skilled in a broad range of scientific disciplines — being a geologist, palaeontologist, physician, chemist, anatomist and naturalist — a brass tacks geek to his core. Gesner explored the coal exposures and fossil outcrops across the famed area that witnessed the region become part of England and not France — and no longer L'nu.

Following the Restigouche River in New Brunswick through the Dalhousie region, Gesner navigated through the estuary to reach the southern coast of the Gaspé Peninsula into what would become the southeastern coast of Quebec to get a better look at the cliffs across the water. He was the first geologist to lay eyes on the Escuminac Formation and its fossils.

In his 1843 report to the Geologic Survey, he wrote, “...I found the shore lined with a coarse conglomerate. Farther eastward the rocks are light blue sandstones and shales, containing the remains of vegetables. (...) In these sandstone and shales, I found the remains of fish and a small species of tortoise with fossil foot-marks.”

We now know that this little tortoise was the famous Bothriolepis, an antiarch placoderm fish. It was also the first formal mention of the Miguasha fauna in our scientific literature. Despite the circulation of his report, Gesner’s discovery was all but ignored — the cliffs and their fossil bounty abandoned for decades to come. Geologists like Ells, Foord and Weston, and the research of Whiteaves and Dawson, would eventually follow in Gesner's footsteps.

North America Map 1866 (Click to Enlarge)

Over the past 180 years, this Devonian site has yielded a wonderfully diverse aquatic assemblage from the Age of Fishes — five of the six fossil fish groups associated with the Devonian including exceptionally well-preserved fossil specimens of the lobe-finned fishes. 

This is exciting as it is the lobe-finned fishes — the sarcopterygians — that gave rise to the first four-legged, air-breathing terrestrial vertebrates – the tetrapods. 

Fossil specimens from Miguasha include twenty species of lower vertebrates — anaspids, osteostra-cans, placoderms, acanthodians, actinopterygians and sarcopterygians — plus a limited invertebrate assemblage, along with terrestrial plants, scorpions and millipedes.

Originally interpreted as a freshwater lacustrine environment, recent paleontological, taphonomic, sedimentological and geochemical evidence corroborates a brackish estuarine setting — and definitely not the deep waters of the sea. This is important because the species that gave rise to our land-living animals began life in shallow streams and lakes. It tells us a bit about how our dear Elpistostege watsoni liked to live — preferring to lollygag in cool river waters where seawater mixed with fresh. Not fully freshwater, but a wee bit of salinity to add flavour.  

• Photos: Elpistostege watsoni (Westoll, 1938 ), Upper Devonian (Frasnian), Escuminac formation, Parc de Miguasha, Baie des Chaleurs, Gaspé, Québec, Canada. John Fam, VanPS
• Origin of the Vertebrate Hand Illustration, https://www.nature.com/articles/s41586-020-2100-8
• Tiktaalik Illustration: By Obsidian Soul - Own work, CC BY 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=47401797

References & further reading:

• From Water to Land: https://www.miguasha.ca/mig-en/the_first_discoveries.php
• UNESCO Miguasha National Park: https://whc.unesco.org/en/list/686/
• Office of L'nu Affairs: https://novascotia.ca/abor/aboriginal-people/
• Cloutier, R., Clement, A.M., Lee, M.S.Y. et al. Elpistostege and the origin of the vertebrate hand. Nature 579, 549–554 (2020). https://doi.org/10.1038/s41586-020-2100-8
• Daeschler, E. B., Shubin, N. H. & Jenkins, F. A. Jr. A Devonian tetrapod-like fish and the evolution of the tetrapod body plan. Nature 440, 757–763 (2006).
• Shubin, Neil. Your Inner Fish: A Journey into the 3.5 Billion History of the Human Body.
• Evidence for European presence in the Americas in AD 1021: https://www.nature.com/articles/s41586-021-03972-8

PHAEOLUS SCHWEINITZII: THE BILLION-YEAR HUE

Phaeolus schweinitzii

A popular and widely used fungus for making natural dyes is the dyer’s polypore, Phaeolus schweinitzii, sometimes called the velvet-top fungus.

It’s a large, woody bracket fungus often found growing at the base of conifers, especially pines and spruces. 

When used in dyeing, it produces an impressive range of colours — from bright yellows and golds to rich browns and olive greens, depending on the mordant (the fixative used, such as alum, iron, or copper).

Among natural dyers like myself, Phaeolus schweinitzii is especially beloved because it’s common, easy to identify, and produces reliably beautiful hues — truly one of nature’s master colourists.

Other interesting dye fungi include:

• Dermocybe (Cortinarius) species – These vividly coloured mushrooms yield brilliant reds, oranges, and purples, though some species are rare or toxic and should be handled with care.
• Hypholoma fasciculare (Sulphur Tuft) – Produces bright yellows.
• Inonotus hispidus – Can give orange to reddish-brown tones.

Phaeolus schweinitzii

Fungi like Phaeolus schweinitzii belong to an ancient lineage with roots deep in Earth’s history. 

The earliest fossil evidence of fungi dates back over 900 million years, with well-preserved examples from the Proterozoic and early Cambrian periods showing that fungal life was already thriving long before plants colonised land. 

Fossilised wood from the Devonian (around 400 million years ago) reveals evidence of wood-decaying fungi much like today’s bracket forms — the ancestors of modern polypores. 

These early decomposers helped shape entire ecosystems, breaking down tough plant material and recycling nutrients, paving the way for the lush forests that followed.

It is awe inspiring to consider that when we are working with Phaeolus schweinitzii, you are creating colour in collaboration with a lineage nearly a billion years old — part of the ancient chemistry that connects the forest floor to the fabric of human culture.

BLUE ALCHEMY: INDIGO

Natural dyes are colourants derived from plants, invertebrates, or minerals — gifts from the natural world that have brightened human life for millennia. 

Their hues range from earthy and subdued to gloriously vivid, bringing warmth and richness to our textiles and art since time immemorial.

Most natural dyes are vegetable in origin, drawn from roots, berries, bark, leaves, and wood, though some come from more unusual sources such as fungi and lichens. 

I have been experimenting with lichen dyes for some time and have found one — growing on the rocks that surround the parking lot of the Banff Centre for the Arts — that turns a lovely pink or pale blue depending on whether it oxidizes in the light. Serendipity!

One of the most celebrated fungi in the dyer’s world is the dyer’s polypore, Phaeolus schweinitzii, also known as the velvet-top fungus. This striking, shelf-like fungus grows at the base of conifers, particularly pines and spruces, and is instantly recognisable by its rich golden-brown surface and velvety texture. 

Phaeolus schweinitzii

When used in dyeing, it rewards the maker with an earthy palette that ranges from sunlit yellows and warm golds to deep olives and browns, all depending on the mordant employed. 

Found across much of the temperate Northern Hemisphere, Phaeolus schweinitzii has long been a favourite of mine for its generous colour yield and its connection to the forest — from beautiful decay, beauty continues to bloom.

Archaeological evidence of textile dyeing stretches back to the Neolithic period. Evidence comes from a combination of archaeological textiles, mineral residues, and microscopic analysis of ancient fibres. 

Although few prehistoric fabrics survive, some remarkable finds give us direct proof that humans were colouring textiles thousands of years ago.

• Çatalhöyük, Turkey (c. 7,000 BCE): One of the earliest known uses of colour on textiles comes from this Neolithic settlement. Fragments of woven cloth show traces of red ochre (iron oxide), a natural pigment likely used to dye or paint the fibres.

• Nahal Hemar Cave, Israel (c. 6,000 BCE): Archaeologists discovered preserved fibres and textiles that had been treated with plant-based dyes, possibly derived from madder (Rubia tinctorum), which produces red hues. Chemical analyses revealed organic colourants consistent with early dyeing.

• Swiss Lake Dwellings (Egolzwil and Robenhausen, c. 3,500 BCE): These waterlogged Neolithic sites preserved linen textiles dyed with plant-derived pigments, including blue from woad (Isatis tinctoria) and yellow from weld (Reseda luteola).

These finds show the talents of Neolithic peoples spinning and weaving fibres and experimenting with natural pigments — a fusion of art and chemistry that marks the very beginnings of textile dyeing.

In China, the use of plants, barks, and insects for dyeing can be traced to more than 5,000 years ago — by all accounts, one of humanity’s earliest experiments in the art and science of chemistry.

The essential method of dyeing has changed little through the centuries. The dyestuff is placed in a pot of water, the fabric added, and the mixture heated and stirred until the colour binds to the fibres. In some traditional practices, the stirring was once accomplished not by tools, but by workers with strong, marching legs — an image as lively as the colours they helped to create.

Traditional dye works still operate in many parts of the world. There is a revival of using natural indigo in modern Egypt — although their indigo dye is mostly imported. The same is true further south in Sudan. They've been importing cloth from Upper Egypt as far back as we have written records and continue the practice of the cloth and dye imports today. Clean white cotton is more the style of western Sudan and Chad, but they still like to throw in a bit of colour.

Traditional Dye Vats

So do the folk living in North Africa. Years ago, I was travelling in Marrakesh and saw many men with noticeably orange, blueish or purplish legs. It wasn't one or two but dozens of men and I'd wondered why this was.

My guide took me to the top of a building so I could look down on rows and rows of coloured vats. In every other one was a man marching in place to work the dye into the wool. Their legs took on the colour from their daily march in place in huge tubs of liquid dye and sheared wool. 

This wool would be considered textile fibre dyed before spinning — dyed in the wool — but most textiles are yarn-dyed or piece-dyed after weaving. In either case, the finished product is quite fetching even if the dyer's legs are less so. 

Many natural dyes require the use of chemicals called mordants to bind the dye to the textile fibres; tannin from oak galls, salt, natural alum, vinegar, and ammonia from stale urine were staples of the early dyers.

Many mordants and some dyes themselves produce strong odours. Urine is a bit stinky. Not surprisingly, large-scale dyeworks were often isolated in their own districts.

Woad, Isatis tinctoria

Plant-based dyes such as Woad, Isatis tinctoria, indigo, saffron, and madder were raised commercially and were important trade goods in the economies of Asia and Europe. 

Across Asia and Africa, patterned fabrics were produced using resist dyeing techniques to control the absorption of colour in piece-dyed cloth.

Dyes such as cochineal and logwood, Haematoxylum campechianum, were brought to Europe by the Spanish treasure fleets, and the dyestuffs of Europe were carried by colonists to America.

Throughout history, people have dyed their textiles using common, locally available materials, but scarce dyestuffs that produced brilliant and permanent colours such as the natural invertebrate dyes. Crimson kermes became highly prized luxury items in the ancient and medieval world. Red, yellow and orange shades were fairly easy to procure as they exist as common colourants of plants. It was blue that people sought most of all and purple even more so.

Indigofera tinctoria, a member of the legume or bean family proved just the trick. This lovely plant —  named by the famous Swedish botanist Carl Linneaus, the father of formalized binomial nomenclature — grows in tropical to temperate Asia and subtropical regions, including parts of Africa.

The plants contain the glycoside indican, a molecule that contains a nitrogenous indoxyl molecule with some glucose playing piggyback. 

Indigo dye is a product of the reaction of indoxyl by a mild oxidizing agent, usually just good old oxygen.

To make the lovely blue and purple dyes, we harvest the plants and ferment them in vats with urine and ash. The fermentation splits off the glucose, a wee bit of oxygen mixes in with the air (with those sturdy legs helping) and we get indigotin — the happy luxury dye of royalty, emperors and kings.

While much of our early dye came from plants — now it is mostly synthesized — other critters played a role. Members of the large and varied taxonomic family of predatory sea snails, marine gastropod mollusks, commonly known as murex snails were harvested by the Phoenicians for the vivid dye known as Tyrian purple.

While the extant specimens maintained their royal lineage for quite some time; at least until we were able to manufacture synthetic dyes, it was their fossil brethren that first captured my attention. There are about 1,200 fossil species in the family Muricidae. 

They first appear in the fossil record during the Aptian of the Cretaceous. Their ornate shells fossilize beautifully. I first read about them in Addicott's Miocene Gastropods and Biostratigraphy of the Kern River Area, California. It is a wonderful survey of 182 early and middle Miocene gastropod taxa.

References:

George E. Radwin and Anthony D'Attilio: The Murex shells of the World, Stanford University press, 1976, ISBN 0-8047-0897-5

Pappalardo P., Rodríguez-Serrano E. & Fernández M. (2014). "Correlated Evolution between Mode of Larval Development and Habitat in Muricid Gastropods". PLoS ONE 9(4): e94104. doi:10.1371/journal.pone.0094104

Miocene Gastropods and Biostratigraphy of the Kern River Area, California; United States Geological Survey Professional Paper 642  

THE SCIENCE OF SHELLS, CALCIUM AND COASTAL PRESERVATION

These past few years, I have found myself exploring the western edge of central Vancouver Island—the traditional, unceded territory of the Kʼómoks First Nation more and more.

This is a land where the forest meets the sea in a symphony of cedar, fir, and arbutus, their driftwood limbs worn smooth by the relentless rhythm of Pacific waves.

It’s easy to see why people have called this rugged coastline home for millennia.

Anyone who lives by the ocean knows the magnetic pull of natural treasures—smooth stones, curious fossils, and shells that beg to be picked up and admired.

These are nature’s souvenirs, tokens of geologic and biological processes that have been shaping our planet for hundreds of millions of years. My own home, a small shrine to these curiosities, features several abalone shells that now serve as nacre dishes for ceremony and collections of beach-found beauty.

But shells are far more than decoration. In coastal archaeology, they tell a story—of diet, settlement, and preservation. For countless generations, Indigenous coastal communities left behind shell middens—accumulations of discarded shells, bones, and other remnants of daily life. Far from simple refuse, these middens are time capsules.

Comox Foreshore, Kʼómoks First Nation / Photo: Kat Frank

As the shells break down, calcium carbonate (CaCO₃) leaches into the surrounding material, creating an alkaline environment that slows decay and can “embalm” organic matter like bone and antler. 

This remarkable natural chemistry is one reason we know so much about early toolmaking traditions—antler needles, for instance, survive beautifully in such conditions.

Calcium carbonate is one of Earth’s most abundant compounds, forming chalk, limestone, and marble. It’s the same substance that makes up seashells, coral skeletons, and even the exoskeletons of tiny marine plankton. In chemistry, CaCO₃ is a mild base—it neutralizes acids, which is why it’s found in antacids like Tums.

When exposed to stronger acids, it reacts to release carbon dioxide, as in the reaction:

CaCO₃(s) + 2HCl(aq) → CaCl₂(aq) + CO₂(g) + H₂O(l)

At high heat (above 840°C), calcium carbonate decomposes into quicklime (CaO) and carbon dioxide—a reaction used for thousands of years in lime kilns.

In a more natural setting, decaying bone absorbs calcium carbonate from surrounding shells.

The process gradually replaces the bone’s original organic components, strengthening it and making it more resistant to decay—a miniature version of fossilization.

Over centuries, the shells even enrich the soil, increasing alkalinity and preserving a record of meals, tools, and lives once lived along these shores.

Abalone have a surprisingly ancient and fascinating lineage in the fossil record! These marine gastropods belong to the genus Haliotis, within the family Haliotidae, and are part of the larger molluscan class Gastropoda—the same great evolutionary family that includes snails, limpets, and whelks.

The oldest confirmed Haliotis fossils appear in rocks from the Cretaceous, roughly 100 to 70 million years ago. Fossils have been found in marine deposits in places such as Europe, Japan, California, and New Zealand, showing that by the Late Cretaceous, abalones were already widely distributed across the world’s shallow coastal seas.

Comox Glacier viewed from the foreshore

Their distinctive ear-shaped shells and the characteristic row of respiratory holes (used for breathing and expelling waste) make them relatively easy to identify in the fossil record. 

While the earliest fossil abalone were generally smaller and less ornamented than modern species, their overall body plan hasn’t changed much—a testament to a highly successful design.

Abalones descend from ancient archaeogastropods, an early and primitive lineage of marine snails.

Over millions of years, they specialized for life clinging to rocky shorelines, developing their broad, muscular “foot” and strong grip to withstand crashing surf.

Their shell structure—a mix of aragonite and protein arranged in microscopic tiles—became one of the toughest biological materials known, inspiring modern materials science.

Because abalone shells are made of nacre (mother-of-pearl), they fossilize beautifully when conditions are right, sometimes preserving their iridescence even after tens of millions of years.

That shimmering interior you see in a beach-found abalone shell? It’s built of the same mineral layers that have been dazzling paleontologists since the age of the dinosaurs.

The second/central photo of shells from Comox, shared here by my cousin Kat Frank of the Kʼómoks First Nation, captures that same enduring beauty—a reminder that science, art, and culture are all written in the language of nature’s chemistry.

THE BLACK SANDS OF VESTRAHORN: MIST, WHALE BONE AND A VIKING VILLAGE

The wind sweeps low across the Stokksnes Peninsula, carrying with it the hiss of the North Atlantic and the scent of salt and volcanic ash. 

Ahead, rising like a serrated crown from the sea, stands Vestrahorn — Iceland’s most cinematic mountain. 

Its jagged peaks slice into the moody sky, the rock shifting from obsidian to gunmetal gray as clouds churn overhead. In the early morning, they are often pink shading to orange, capturing the best of the sky here. 

At its feet lies a stretch of black sand so stark, so primal, that it feels like stepping into another world — a place where Earth’s raw power is laid bare. There are dunes with hardy beach grass that contrast spectacularly with the black sand. 

And, if you are very lucky — and I was on this most recent trip — you can find whale bones on the beach.

Whale Bones at Stokksnes

The beach at Stokksnes is no ordinary shore. Instead of white or golden sand, the ground is composed of fine volcanic grains — pulverized lava from ancient eruptions that shaped this corner of southeastern Iceland. 

Underfoot, the sand is soft but heavy, absorbing light like velvet. When the tide pulls back, the wet surface mirrors the mountains perfectly, turning Vestrahorn upside down in a glassy reflection that seems too symmetrical to be real. 

It’s one of the most photographed scenes in the country, yet no image can fully capture the living drama of standing there, feeling the wind claw at your jacket as the surf crashes in slow, thunderous bursts.

Vestrahorn itself rises about 454 meters above sea level, its dark ridges composed primarily of gabbro and granophyre — intrusive igneous rocks formed deep within the Earth’s crust. 

Over millions of years, glacial erosion carved its sharp ridgelines and spires, leaving behind the distinct horn-like shapes that give the mountain its name. 

To the east, a smaller but equally brooding peak called Brunnhorn is sometimes referred to as “Batman Mountain,” thanks to its twin pointed ridges that resemble the caped silhouette of Gotham’s hero. Together, these peaks form a dramatic amphitheatre for the ocean’s endless performance.

But it’s not just geology that makes this place magnetic — it’s the atmosphere. On some days, the air is so still that the beach becomes a mirror, every dune and ripple duplicated in the wet sand. On others, storms roll in from the Atlantic, shrouding the mountains in fog and turning the world monochrome. 

The mood shifts by the hour, so you'll want to linger for days, waiting for the moment when the light breaks through — when the low Arctic sun glows amber across the dunes and the peaks ignite with colour.

The moody rust view you see here of the Viking Village was taken at first light. You can see how dense the mist is before it burns off, creating a Zen, off world feel.

In summer, the long daylight hours cast a golden halo that lingers late into the night. The coastal grasses, which grow in tufts among the black dunes, turn bright green and dance in the wind, creating waves of colour that contrast beautifully with the darkness of the sand. 

In winter, Vestrahorn becomes a place of deep stillness and magic. 

Snow drapes the mountain’s ridges while the beach remains bare, creating a striking juxtaposition of white and black. When the Northern Lights shimmer across the sky, the entire landscape becomes electric — the aurora’s green ribbons reflecting off the wet sand in surreal, shifting patterns.

The Stokksnes Peninsula, where this scene unfolds, lies near the town of Höfn in southeastern Iceland. It’s part of a headland that juts into the sea, guarded by a narrow causeway and a small radar station that dates back to the Cold War. 

Visitors pay a small entrance fee to cross the private land and walk the beach — a ticket that also gives access to the nearby Viking Café, a cozy stop at the foot of the mountain. The café serves steaming coffee, hot chocolate, waffles, and homemade soups, perfect for warming up after braving the coastal winds. 

Beside it lies a fascinating replica Viking village — originally built as a film set — with turf-roofed wooden houses, carved beams, and an authentic Old Norse atmosphere that feels like stepping back a thousand years.

For travelers wishing to linger, camping is permitted on site near the Viking Café, making it one of the most unique wild-like camping experiences in Iceland. The small campground overlooks the dunes and offers basic facilities — showers, restrooms, and access to the café during opening hours. 

Waking up here is unforgettable: imagine unzipping your tent to see Vestrahorn glowing in the dawn light, the first rays of sun painting the peaks while seabirds wheel overhead and the tide whispers across the black sand. In the evening, you can sit by your tent or campervan watching the last light fade behind the mountains, with nothing but the sound of the wind and waves for company.

The isolation adds to the mystique — there are no crowds here, only the rhythm of the sea, the cries of Arctic terns, and the occasional fox padding across the dunes. Vestrahorn is a place to feel small, to stand between sea and sky and sense the ancient heartbeat of the Earth. The combination of volcanic black sand, razor-edged peaks, and shifting Icelandic light makes it one of the most visually arresting landscapes on the planet.

As the sun dips low, painting the horizon in shades of copper and violet, the waves creep forward once more. Vestrahorn stands unshaken — a monument to time and fire, watching over the restless sea. And as darkness gathers on the black sands below, you realize that this is Iceland distilled: wild, raw, and achingly beautiful.

Know Before You Go

This site is one of my personal favs. You can camp here overnight. They have showers and cabins to rent. There is a cooking area in the parking lot with a microwave and hot plates. 

The overnight fee includes the showers (no need to have change), washrooms open 24 hours and access to the beach sites for parking to walk to the Viking Village or take amazing photos at sunrise and sunset on the beach. Beach access is 24 hours but the best photos for light are the beginning and end of day. 

Viking Village Cafe: Awesome service, friendly staff and the 2nd Best Coffee in Iceland at 900 Kr for a latte. 

Of interest, the very BEST coffee in Iceland (hands down) is at Skool Beans Cafe in Vik at Klettsvegur, 870 Vík, Iceland. Check them out at skoolbeans.com or @skool_beans.  They were the best part of several mornings on my trip. They have wonderful specialty coffees, hot chocolate variations and teas.   

Eating at Höfn

I recommend two places in Höfn to enjoy a meal, Pakkhús Restaurant at Krosseyjarvegur 3, 780 Höfn í Hornafirði, Iceland and Kaffi Hornid at Hafnarbraut 42, 780 Höfn í Hornafirði, Iceland.

If you head to Kaffi Hornid, try their Monster Burger (with delicious mushrooms) or the steak sandwich. Both are hearty and very satisfying, especially after a day hiking in the wilds of Iceland. 

PAPIKA MOUNTAIN WHISTLERS: MARMOTS

High in the misty alpine meadows of British Columbia’s Coast Mountains, the much beloved marmot, Marmota vancouverensis, whistles its name to the Pacific wind. 

These plump, chocolate-brown rodents—often mistaken for oversized squirrels by first-time hikers—are Canada’s most endangered mammal and one of the rarest in the world. 

With their expressive faces, social chatter, and luxurious fur coats, they’ve become beloved mascots of the region, yet their story stretches far beyond the ski hills—deep into the Ice Age and the fossil record.

Marmots live only in a few scattered pockets of alpine habitat on Vancouver Island. 

They’re burrowers by trade, digging deep tunnels into the rocky soil of meadows that blossom with lupines and sedges in summer. Above ground, they’re social creatures—touching noses, grooming one another, and giving high-pitched warning whistles whenever a golden eagle or wandering cougar appears on the horizon. 

They fatten themselves through the brief mountain summer, storing energy for their long, seven-month hibernation beneath the snow.

Each colony is a close-knit family unit, with older marmots helping younger ones learn where to dig and when to hide. They even recognize one another’s voices, an important trick when you’re living in echoing valleys where one chirp can bounce for kilometres.

The marmot’s lineage reaches far back into the Pleistocene, around 2.6 million to 11,700 years ago. Fossil evidence from North America shows that their ancestors, early marmotine rodents, thrived across cooler steppe and tundra landscapes when glaciers waxed and waned over the continent. 

Fossilized marmot bones—particularly jaw and skull fragments—have been found in Ice Age deposits in Yukon, Alaska, and Alberta, revealing that marmots were already well adapted to cold, alpine life long before modern humans reached the Pacific Northwest.

The Whistler marmot’s closest relatives today include the hoary marmot (Marmota caligata) and the Olympic marmot (Marmota olympus), both descendants of those hardy Ice Age pioneers. Genetic studies suggest that the Whistler marmot’s ancestors became isolated on Vancouver Island after sea levels rose at the end of the last glaciation, creating an island-bound species uniquely suited to its misty mountaintop home.

A Comeback Story

Once reduced to fewer than 30 individuals in the wild, the Whistler marmot is making a slow but steady comeback thanks to dedicated breeding and reintroduction programs. Today, over 200 roam the high meadows once more. Their cheerful whistles echo through the alpine air—sometimes feeling like a bit of heckling as you meander up the trails or stop to photograph the scenery—but always a welcome sound.

In Kwak'wala, the language of the many Kwakwaka'wakw First Nations of Vancouver Island, marmots are known as papika — the perfect word to describe these cute, fuzzy, chunky monkeys!

KELP FORESTS AND CARBON SINKS

Walk along any rocky beach on the Pacific coast after a storm, and you’ll likely find a treasure trove of kelp washed ashore—long ribbons of glossy brown seaweed, glistening in the sunlight like strands of mermaid hair. 

Some pieces stretch for meters, still tangled with small shells and bits of driftwood, while others hold tight, bulbous floats that once kept them buoyant in the underwater forests just offshore. 

When the tide recedes, the air fills with the unmistakable scent of iodine and salt—an ancient perfume carried by the sea.

Kelp is a brown alga, part of the group Phaeophyceae, which evolved roughly 150 to 200 million years ago. 

While kelp itself doesn’t fossilize easily (it’s soft-bodied and decomposes quickly), its ancient lineage can be traced through molecular and microfossil evidence. The earliest relatives of kelp likely appeared in the Jurassic seas, when dinosaurs ruled the land and the oceans teemed with ammonites. 

Microscopic spores and chemical biomarkers in sedimentary rocks tell scientists that brown algae were already photosynthesizing in shallow coastal waters long before the first mammals appeared.

Giant kelp, Macrocystis pyrifera, holds the title for the fastest-growing marine organism on Earth—it can shoot up more than half a meter a day under ideal conditions! 

These towering underwater forests provide shelter and food for thousands of marine creatures, from tiny snails to sea otters, who wrap themselves in the fronds to sleep without drifting away.

Back when I used to scuba drive a lot around Vancouver Island, they were one of my favourite places to explore as those underwater forests were teeming with life.

If you’re beachcombing in British Columbia, Alaska, or California, you might find bull kelp, Nereocystis luetkeana, recognizable by its long, whip-like stipe and single round float. It’s edible and surprisingly tasty. The blades can be dried and used like seaweed chips, while the bulb can be sliced thin and pickled—an oceanic delicacy with a salty, citrusy crunch. 

Other edible seaweeds you might encounter include sugar kelp, Saccharina latissima, which has a slightly sweet flavor, and ribbon kelp, Alaria marginata, often used in soups and salads.

On the foreshore near where I live on Vancouver Island, we have loads of sea lettuce. Sea lettuce, Ulva spp., is one of the ocean’s most vibrant and inviting greens—a delicate, translucent seaweed that looks like bright green tissue paper fluttering in the tide. 

Sea Otter in a Kelp Bed

When you find it washed ashore or swaying just below the surface, it shines an almost neon hue, catching the sunlight in shimmering waves of jade. 

Its thin, ruffled fronds are only a few cells thick, soft to the touch, and often cling to rocks, shells, or docks in intertidal zones where saltwater and freshwater mingle.

Unlike the giant brown kelps that form towering underwater forests, sea lettuce is part of the green algae group (Chlorophyta), sharing pigments more closely related to land plants. 

It grows worldwide in temperate and tropical waters and thrives wherever nutrient-rich water flows—estuaries, tide pools, and shallow bays. When the tide goes out, you might see it draped over rocks like sheets of emerald silk, drying slightly in the sun and releasing a faint, oceanic scent.

Sea lettuce is entirely edible and a favourite among foragers and coastal chefs. Fresh from the sea, it has a mild, slightly salty flavour with a hint of sweetness—similar to spinach or nori. It can be eaten raw in salads, lightly fried until crisp, or dried into flakes and used as a natural salt substitute. 

In many coastal cultures, from Ireland to Japan, Ulva has long been part of traditional cuisine. It’s also rich in vitamins A, C, and B12, along with iron and calcium—proof that sea greens can be as nutritious as they are beautiful. When my little sister was living in County Cork, she shared pictures of folk bathing in tubs of icy sea water and seaweed as a briny health spa treatment.

From a scientific perspective, sea lettuce plays an important ecological role. It provides shelter for small marine creatures like snails, shrimp, and juvenile fish, and it helps absorb excess nutrients from the water, which can help reduce harmful algal blooms. 

However, when too many nutrients enter the ocean—often from agricultural runoff—sea lettuce can grow explosively, creating dense “green tides” that blanket shorelines.

Its lineage stretches deep into the fossil record as well. While soft-bodied algae like Ulva rarely fossilize, green algal relatives appear in rocks over 1.6 billion years old, making them some of Earth’s earliest photosynthesizers.

Beyond their culinary and ecological roles, kelp forests act as powerful carbon sinks, pulling CO₂ from the atmosphere and storing it in the deep ocean. They also buffer coastlines from storms and provide nurseries for fish populations that support global fisheries.

As you stroll the shoreline and your toes brush against that slippery tangle of golden-brown ribbons, remember—you’re touching the living descendant of an ancient lineage that’s been swaying in Earth’s oceans since the age of dinosaurs—beautiful, ancient and tasty!