Photo above: Fall in the Taku. Photo by W. Tyson.
By Will Tyson
Since 2007, my life has largely revolved around regular trips to the town of Atlin, British Columbia and Taku River Tlingit First Nation (TRTFN) Territory. Whether leading Round River student programs, conducting community interviews, or working on a seemingly endless list of research and stewardship projects, I have spent cumulative years of my life in TRTFN territory. I often joke that I know Atlin and the surrounding landscape better than I know Squamish- the town I live in roughly 1,400 miles to the south. Returning to this place year after year (or month after month, when work gets busy) has shaped my life immeasurably- I met my wife in Atlin, built lifelong friendships with TRTFN citizens and staff, stood next to grizzlies while sampling fish, pack rafted down the Taku, and have had more adventures than any one person could reasonably hope for in a lifetime, let alone just 17 years.
Most recently, I returned from the Inklin Camp- a yearly salmon fishing camp that has become a centerpiece of TRTFN Land Guardian programming. The camp takes place on the confluence of the Inklin and Nakina Rivers- the beginning of the mainstem Taku- and is based out of a cabin owned by Takhu Atlen Conservancy, a Tlingit-led non-profit that supports conservation through cultural initiatives and land stewardship. Every year, TRTFN Land Guardians bring citizens to the Inklin to reconnect with the watershed and fish for salmon in a place that Tlingit have stewarded since time immemorial.
The largest non-road-accessible watershed on the Pacific Coast of North America, the Taku is as wild as it is hard to get to. Every tributary has its own landscape, climate, and wildlife- accessible only by foot, boat, or flight. For many attendees, this programming serves as their first time returning to the Taku in years. For some attendees, it is their first ever visit to the watershed. They could not be in better hands.
“The eyes and ears of the territory,” TRTFN Land Guardians possess a range of skillsets that most people would envy. Running this camp requires the ability to boat a constantly changing river, repair small engines, set nets, fillet salmon, run a smoker, fix propane lines, clear helicopter pads, troubleshoot water pumps, repair an aging cabin, and occasionally hotwire a four-stroke boat motor whose key has gone missing. All while working as a team to keep camp attendees safe and inspire them to vision a future for themselves in their watershed.
Walking into the cabin at Inklin is a visceral experience of what it means to do interdisciplinary work. Engine parts sit next to interview question sets on the dinner table, the walls are covered in decades-old maps that Round River contributed to prior land planning processes, freezers are packed with salmon to return to Atlin, inReaches and sat phones share counter space with the night’s dinner, and wet rain gear hangs from every available hook, waiting for the next time someone heads out to set net. The cultural programming, scientific research, food security projects, youth mentorship, and long-term visioning efforts that office life attempts to place into their own separate buckets coexist in an organic, sometimes dizzying, array of daily tasks or nightly conversations.
The camp has taken years to develop. In 2017, my friend and TRTFN Land Guardian, Shauna Yeomans was working with me to conduct Indigenous Knowledge interviews on salmon ecology and culture in the Taku. Midway through the process, she began to use our interviews as an opportunity to gauge community interest in a new form of salmon programming. Interviewees described a disconnect from the same watershed that TRTFN has fought so hard to protect- difficult access, combined with busy life back in Atlin, the rising cost of living, and the continually unfolding impacts of colonialism have combined to limit people’s ability to practice salmon culture. Interview participants not only expressed the importance of eating Taku salmon, but also explained the need to be back out engaging with salmon- setting nets, sleeping in the bush, watching for bears, running a smoker, and spending time in their watershed.
What followed has been a steady progression towards the current incarnation of the camp. There were local one-day celebrations in Atlin, pilot trips to see if the Inklin would support community harvest, Covid-altered seasons, new boat purchases, and now three consecutive years where we have grown this camp, summer after summer. Helping to build this program from the ground up has been one of the most rewarding parts of my time with Round River. It would not be possible without the countless hours and vision from people like Shauna or fellow Land Guardian, Trevor Williams- whose boating skills and knowledge of the Taku I trust with my life, or Caitlin O’Shea who patiently encourages me as I fillet one salmon for every three that she processes, or Izaiah, or Luke, or Emma, or Hannes, or Mark, or Jason, or all the others who have contributed to building this initiative over the years.
On a personal level, this year’s camp was a difficult one for me to pull off. The same life that Atlin helped me start 17 years ago has gotten busy. I have a two-year-old boy, a house in Squamish, and a seemingly endless pile of reports and funding applications to write. As a result, I squeezed what would usually be six-weeks of work into three, flew up north instead of drove, and was typing out proposals until 20-minutes before my helicopter departed for the Inklin.
Despite the compressed nature of the summer, I am grateful that there was never any questioning as to whether I should go back to Inklin. I am proud to work for an organization that truly values long-term commitment to place and the effort that it requires. I know that my colleagues at Round River have as deep of ties to other places- the Darhad Valley in Mongolia, Patagonian Chile, the Okovango Delta in Botswana, Wyoming, Wisconsin, or North Dakota- as I have to the Taku. I have come to learn that this is more unique than it should be among environmental non-profits, and I consider myself lucky to have landed where I am.
I spend a lot of time talking about the Taku with our Executive Director, Doug Milek. Prior to my time with Round River, it was Doug who was constantly traveling back and forth from the Taku. A lot of the TRTFN folks that I work with are the children, grandchildren, nieces, nephews, or cousins of people that Doug worked with. Some are the same people that he worked with. I was not around for Round River’s early years in the Taku, but Doug tells me that all his time was surrounded by an element of uncertainty- after every visit to Atlin, he would fully pack his bags, unknowing if he would get a chance to return.
While I am proud of how much has remained consistent over the past 20 years, I am happy that this has changed. Every time I leave Atlin, I know I will be back. Maybe it is because traveling in general has gotten easier, maybe it is because there is more available funding for this type of work, maybe it is because my son exclaims “Auntie Shauna!” when he barges in on our Zoom calls, or maybe it is because after more than two decades of working together, Round River and TRTFN have too many shared stories to not work together. Most likely, it is a combination. Regardless, I am confident enough in my regular return to Atlin that I do the opposite of what Doug used to do; I hardly bring any of my stuff home. I have rain gear, tents, notebooks, audio recorders, spare sets of clothes, all scattered about Atlin, waiting for me when I get back up there. Which, as I look at my calendar, turns out to be next week.
So, with that, I better stop writing this and start cranking out some reporting before I fly back north.
Will Tyson is Round River’s Director of Community Programs and a 2007 alum of the Taku River Watershed Program.
Learn more about Round River’s conservation work in the Taku.
