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<\/p>\nGrowing up on Vancouver Island, I spent my summers hiking, fishing, and camping. My feet were always filthy from days spent barefoot, and my fingers always stained red from the raspberries in my grandma\u2019s garden.<\/p>\n
My family often reminded me how lucky I was to grow up in a place where mountains were near, oceans were endless, and forests were lush. I wanted to take advantage of this natural beauty, so in the summer of 2023, I applied to be a forester.<\/p>\n
The interview was vague. My boss told me, \u201cIt\u2019s best to let you do the job before I describe it to you.\u201d I was curious and intrigued \u2013 mostly by the money and the notion of being among the trees all day \u2013 so I took the job.<\/p>\n
I packed a bag lunch, put on spiked rubber boots, and headed out. Every morning, I flew in the helicopter, and from above, I saw hundreds of hectares of barren land like I\u2019d never seen before. In my mind, cutblocks were abstract.<\/p>\n
I was one of the good guys.<\/p>\n
I knew logging companies cut down trees, but they did it for a reason: for toilet paper and lumber. Now, something shifted inside me. It was alarming to see diverse and vibrant forests completely devoid of life. But I steadied myself, knowing I wouldn\u2019t be contributing to the destruction of forests; I would be saving them. This job felt too good to be true.<\/p>\n
On my first day, I walked, crawled, and dragged myself 15 kilometres through thick brush and old-growth forest that would be logged by Vancouver Island\u2019s most notorious forest company \u2013 a company that claims to manage the forest responsibly, but logs so much old growth that less than 20% of Vancouver Island\u2019s stands still remain.<\/p>\n
But I was one of the good guys. My job was to catalog streams, map logging roads, and report natural habitats that needed to be protected from clearcutting.<\/p>\n
I loved running my fingertips along the bark of an ancient fir and feeling the sun on my neck as it beamed through the tree canopy. On my first day, as I stepped out of the helicopter and into the forest, it was as close to divine as I had ever been. But it didn\u2019t last long.<\/p>\n
The novelty of being outside all summer was quickly fading.<\/p>\n
My coworkers (all middle-aged men) had done this job for many years. They ran through impenetrable thickets like gazelles in the Serengeti, while I fell so many times my scraped knees matched the red huckleberry bushes. Still, I was determined to do the job well. I asked questions, memorized tree species, and laughed at their unfunny jokes. But the novelty of being outside all summer was quickly fading.<\/p>\n
One day, my coworker and I were surveying an area for old growth when I approached a tree that piqued my interest. I started the process of calculating its age. I inserted an increment borer tool into the tree as far as it could go, then pulled it out and began counting each individual growth ring. Each ring represented a year of the tree\u2019s life. When I reached 252, I knew I had stumbled upon an ancient tree.<\/p>\n
I wound my measuring tape around the tree\u2019s circumference, concluding it was undeniably ancient. I stepped back and surveyed the tree from top to bottom, craning my neck to catch a glimpse of the top. Its branches curved and twisted and offered shelter for birds, while its underground root systems provided nutrients to its offspring. At its base was a bed of bright green moss where banana slugs, wood bugs, and earthworms lived.<\/p>\n
Overflowing streams were transformed before my eyes into dry gulches.<\/p>\n
This tree was a mother. This tree was a home. The value of this giant was greater than I could understand, but I knew I was protecting it by reporting it to my company.<\/p>\n
I told my coworker of my findings, reciting the tree\u2019s measurements. He laughed and told me I was surely mistaken. We walked over to the giant tree and he made his own \u201ccalculations\u201d that were grounded not in facts, but in fabrications. He marked the tree as second growth, which gave it the green light to be clearcut.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Clearcut near Fairy Creek. Photo by Joshua Wright.<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
I was certain of my findings. So, with my cheeks flushing with irritation, I insisted he measure again. He smirked, patted me on the back, and moved on to the next tree, while I stood dumbfounded. I was sick to my stomach. This beautiful, invaluable tree would be cut down, and there was nothing I could do about it.<\/p>\n
I could not save this tree. I was not one of the good guys.<\/p>\n
After this, it became clear my job was not to protect old-growth trees and preserve animal habitats, but to mold my findings to fit what logging companies wanted to hear. Overflowing streams were transformed before my eyes into dry gulches. Peeping birds in their nests turned into nothing but masses of sticks and moss.<\/p>\n
The forest is not protected, but reclassified to fit a for-profit narrative.<\/p>\n
Turning a blind eye took its toll on me. I grew weary and the rose-coloured glasses fell off my face and landed in the mud.<\/p>\n
Old-growth forests are worth more alive than they will ever be cut down. They store carbon, regulate watersheds, prevent landslides, and sustain ecosystems that cannot be replaced by replanted trees or \u201cmanaged\u201d forests. A 250-year-old tree is not timber waiting to be cut down. It gives life and nutrients to its offspring, shelters species, cools streams, and stabilizes a climate that desperately needs a protector. Once it\u2019s gone, no amount of monoculture replanting can replace it.<\/p>\n
Companies like this one claim to practice sustainable forest management, while relying on measurements and assessments that disappear old growth on paper before the ancient trees are cut down in practice. The forest is not protected, but reclassified to fit a for-profit narrative.<\/p>\n
That summer, I became a forester, believing I could protect the forest I loved. I left understanding how naive that belief was. There is no clean conscience in an industry that depends on the destruction of old-growth forests and wildlife habitats while calling it \u201cresponsible management.\u201d I watched as ecosystems were misclassified, streams written off, and ancient trees labeled otherwise so they could be logged. I was hired to participate in that system, and I could no longer pretend I was on the right side of it.<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
Emily Milne is an aspiring educator who grew up on Vancouver Island. In her spare time, she enjoys reading, hiking, and exploring British Columbia\u2019s nature.\u00a0<\/p>\n
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