A multi-disciplinary team surveyed remote sections
of British Columbia's coastline in July to document the existence of
Olympia oyster beds. Credit: Rowan Jacobson
In the early 1990s, a Canadian marine
scientist named Brian Kingzett was engaged in an ecologist’s dream
job. The province of British Columbia wanted to know how much of its
remote and convoluted coastline had the potential for shellfish
aquaculture, and it hired Kingzett to find out. Kingzett was
following a long line of explorers, including James Cook and George
Vancouver, commissioned to mess about in boats along one of the
wildest and most breathtaking coasts in North America. He surveyed
the shore from Victoria all the way to the border with Alaska,
recording the locations and characteristics of the beaches,
surveying the species present, and snapping photographs of the most
promising spots. Camping in the bush for days at a time, he came to
know the coast like few others and saw some amazing things. One
night he navigated by the luminescent seas as waves broke against
reefs. He watched sea otters leave glowing trails like shooting
stars as they dove. On a different trip, he anchored near remote hot
springs every night.
One thing Kingzett saw stuck with him.
He had pulled into a long inlet near Nootka Island at low tide and,
pressed for time, was surveying the pocket beaches as quickly as
possible. Most of the inlet was sheer rock plunging to depths of a
hundred feet just a few yards offshore, but wherever a stream flowed
out of the mountains, a cobbly delta had built up over the
millennia, forming beautiful shellfish habitat. Kingzett would nose
his boat onto each beach, leap ashore, jot down his notes, snap a
photo, and zip on to the next. As soon as he set foot on the first
beach in this particular inlet (name withheld to protect the
innocent), he noticed something unusual. There were a smattering of
mussels and Pacific oysters, plenty of barnacles and clams
underneath, but portions of the beach were absolutely littered with
small, round oysters—Natives. Native oysters (known as Olympias or
‘Olys’ in the U.S.) weren’t one of Kingzett’s specialties and he
wasn’t familiar with their status elsewhere on the Pacific coast,
but it was unusual enough to see them in such abundance that he made
a mental note of it. In his seven years of surveying the coasts, he
found just a handful of beaches burgeoning with Natives.
Fast forward ten years. Kingzett was at
a shellfish conference and met Betsy Peabody. He asked her what she
did. She told him about her Oly restoration efforts with Puget Sound
Restoration Fund (PSRF). He said, “That’s funny, ten years ago I
came across acres of those little guys.” As you can imagine, Betsy
was just a wee bit interested.
In July 2008, I accompanied a
multidisciplinary team, guided by Kingzett himself, into the fjords
of Vancouver Island, not far from Nootka Island. Our goal was to
find these oly populations, if they still existed, and to learn what
we could from them—to use these natural beds, which may have been
around for millennia, as a kind of role model for the habitat
enhancement efforts PSRF is leading in Puget Sound. Team members
such as Joth Davis, lead scientist on PSRF’s native oyster
enhancement projects; Brian Allen, PSRF staff ecologist; Mike Beck,
Senior Scientist for The Nature Conservancy’s Global Marine Team;
Sarah Davies, a biologist with Canada’s Department of Fisheries and
Oceans; Stephanie Richards, master provisioner and Captain with the
Centre for Shellfish Research at Vancouver Island; and David Hyde, a
producer with an NPR affiliate station in Seattle (KUOW), helped put
the “multi” in multidisciplinary. Betsy Peabody supplied the team’s
discipline.
Imagine that somebody in the future
stumbled upon one of the last cars in existence. It was a Ferrari,
scattered in pieces, and wasn’t functioning, but a lot of the pieces
seemed to be in pretty good shape. This future dweller wanted to put
the thing back together, but he’d never seen a working car and
didn’t even have a manual. How would he go about doing it? Well,
he’d start tinkering, using his common sense, and if he was really
handy, maybe he’d get it running and firing on a couple of
cylinders. He’d roll across the land at five miles an hour and
consider it a success, having no idea that there were missing pieces
he’d never seen, and that a car is capable of much, much more.
That’s the situation facing those
working to restore the Puget Sound ecosystem. The system still
works, but decades of poor maintenance and occasional breakdowns
have left it limping along. Few people can even remember that it
used to run differently. But it is capable of doing much more for
us.
If you wanted to restore a vintage
Ferrari and you couldn’t find a manual, the first thing you’d do is
to take a look at another Ferrari of the same model. When Brian
Kingzett met Betsy Peabody, what he was basically telling her was,
“Hey, when I was poking around those fjords, I came across a 308 GT
in excellent condition.” So we went to check it out.
The ecosystem of Vancouver Island’s
west coast is still firing on all cylinders. Its intertidal zone is
a biological hotspot teeming with mussels, barnacles, oysters,
clams, rock scallops, periwinkles, limpets, crabs, sea stars,
sculpins, and seaweeds of all kinds. Black bears camp out on the
beaches, rolling rocks to get at the gunnels beneath. Eagles loiter
in the spruce tops and black crows scoop up clams and shatter them
on the rocks. Offshore, the kelp beds are thick with rockfish and
urchins. Gangs of sea otters cruise the lanes, hustling up pounds of
clams, urchins, and crabs every day. They even excavate geoducks,
leaving bomb craters in the sand.
One of the lynchpins holding all this
together is the oyster beds. Like little rivets bolting the sea to
the land, they are what makes the ecosystem one seamless whole. But
would they still be there? As we boated for hours through the fjords
aboard the MV Atrevida, a research vessel whose name means
audacious and whose namesake was one of the ships Captain Alexandro
Malaspina used to explore these very inlets in 1791, Kingzett
worried about the oysters. It had been fourteen years, after all,
since he’d last seen them.
On our first full day, we arrived too
late to catch the low tide, so Kingzett steered the inflatable near
one of the pocket beaches and we dangled our heads over the side,
noses pressed against the glassy surface. Nothing but clams,
mussels, barnacles, more clams. Then, suddenly, the surface dropped
a foot and there they were: oysters everywhere. The mother beds had
survived. Soon, Joth Davis and Brian Allen were in the water,
snorkeling with their favorite bivalve.
The expedition brought
together journalists, scientists, managers and conservationists to
describe some the best remaining Olympia oyster beds in the
world. Credit: Joth Davis
The next morning, we yanked ourselves
awake early enough to catch the 7 a.m. low tide, concentrating our
efforts at the head of the inlet, where an oyster bed several acres
wide spread in glorious profusion. We set to work taking an oyster
census, keeping a watchful eye on the bears foraging a bit higher on
the beach. We counted oysters, measured beds, and asked some
questions. What were they setting on? Who was living with them? What
were they eating? Who was eating them? Did they prefer intertidal or
subtidal living? We wanted to know why these oysters had persisted
here for so long and whether the same conditions might benefit Puget
Sound’s olys.
Mike Beck, Senior
Scientist with The Nature Conservancy's Global Marine Team, collects
data on Olympia oysters density in a remote pocket beach.
Credit: Brian Kingzett
A few important things we learned or
observed:
-
Unlike Pacific oysters, Native
oysters are not reef builders, per se. Rather, in the Port Eliza
area, they form flat beds, little more than one oyster deep, on
rocky substrate, with a rich layer of clams underneath.
-
Rock seems to be the preferred
substrate in this location, followed closely by native oysters and
native oyster shell.
-
The pocket beaches associated with
drainages in this otherwise steep glaciated fjord seem to have no
shortage of setting substrate (rock in this case), as compared to
places like Puget Sound where setting substrate can sometimes be
the limiting factor.
-
Perhaps most important, we learned
that Native oysters and humans can live well together. This was no
pristine inlet. Logging was heavy on the upland slopes and had
been for decades. According to Vancouver Island’s West
Coast, a history of the area written by George Nicholson in
1962, “Acres of native oyster beds occur at the head of the inlet,
from which thousands of sacks were once shipped to Vancouver and
Seattle…. Now they are free to anyone who wishes to gather them.”
Within certain limits, Olys don’t need to be coddled or walled off
to thrive. They have been and can continue to be an important
source of food and habitat for a variety of creatures in the area,
including Homo sapiens.
In addition to its array of quadrats,
calipers, shellstrings, hobos temperature sensors, fyke-net traps,
plankton pumps, and algae presses, our team used its sophisticated
sensory apparatus to analyze several Olys for qualities such as
salinity, amino acid content, and yumminess. The samples proved to
be high in all three categories. Thus encouraged, we performed the
same analysis on a number of other species in the area. We dug
clams. We shucked pacific oysters. We caught sole. We ate beach
onion and pickleweed. Let it be noted that the high tides gave us
some down time.
When it came to procuring seafood, the
only animal in the vicinity that could give the sea otters a run for
their money was team member Brian Allen. With wetsuit and speargun,
Allen plunged into the kelp beds offshore and emerged with a string
of rockfish. He cut a six-foot strand of kelp so that I could make
miso soup with the fronds and Betsy Peabody could make pickles with
the stalk. He popped limpets off their rocky purchases and grilled
them in their inverted shells for the ultimate beach appetizer.
All this foraging gave us a profound
sense of the abundance of the area, which is perhaps the defining
characteristic of the Pacific Northwest coast. We love the Pacific
Northwest for its drama and its stark, misty beauty, but we
especially love it because for ten thousand years it has been a
really, really good place for people to live. Evidence of that was
all around us on Nootka Island. At Friendly Cove, we spoke with the
descendents of the Nuu-chah-nulth tribe that welcomed Captain James
Cook to these shores in 1778. From our base in the Nuchatlitz
Islands, we could look down a sinuous tidal canal and see a line of
boulders placed as a fish trap by that same tribe centuries ago. And
on one particularly stunning pocket beach of oysters, I worked
around a mysterious semicircle of rock for hours before Brian
Kingzett pointed out that this, too, had been a fish trap. Fish came
in on the high tide, then got trapped as the receding waters
trickled out between the rocks. All you had to do was scoop up the
stragglers. Easy livin’.
That pocket beach proved to be the
prize find of the trip. We didn’t discover it until our last day,
when we fanned out to survey new spots. Mike Beck and I had been
dropped off to check this particular beach, and it took us all of
about three seconds to see that this one was special. The red,
green, and black cobble was gilded with a nearly continuous sheen of
white-gold oysters. We excitedly snapped photos and tossed quadrats.
Densities in some spots exceeded 600 oysters per square meter—a
concentration unheard of in Puget Sound—and gave a hint of how
beautiful and productive a Native oyster bed can be. “Look at this,”
Mike said. “These oysters are the dominant life form on this beach.
They are the structure.” If all you’ve ever seen of olys
are the patchy survivors in Puget Sound, and you’ve wondered how
such critters could have fueled a vast industry from San Francisco
to Vancouver for decades, one look at this bed would make it all
clear. We had only the briefest of chances to learn about this
Ferrari of an oyster bed that goes by the humble name of Pocket
Beach #3, so a return trip is vital for future restoration efforts,
not to mention our newly attuned culinary appreciation for the rich
assortment of coastal offerings.
As the Atrevida pulled away
from shore, Mike Beck posed a question to us—one that has yet to be
answered. “From a conservation perspective,” he asked, “what would
you do about something like this? It probably isn’t the only beach
like this on Vancouver Island, but say there’s three or four, and
maybe another twenty like the one at the head of the inlet. And
that’s it. In the whole world. What would you do to make
sure this ecosystem doesn’t vanish?”
Data from Olympia
oyster beds found along Vancouver's remote coastline may help to
guide future restoration efforts in Puget Sound. Credit: Brian
Kingzett
Rowan Jacobsen is the
author of A Geography of Oysters, a 2008 James Beard Award winner,
and Fruitless Fall: The Collapse of the Honey Bee and the Coming
Agricultural Crisis www.rowanjacobsen.com
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