[Text: Tomas Borsa. Photos: Jean-Philippe Marquis and Tomas Borsa.]
Kevin Sharman is a backcountry guide, and today, Jean-Philippe and I will be relying on his expertise as we make the journey to the proposed route of the Northern Gateway pipeline, deep within the dense sub-alpine surrounding Monkman Provincial Park. A geologist by trade, Kevin’s understanding of the area’s topography – both as an outdoors enthusiast and as an expert in, well, big rocks – has been honed from decades of exploring this snaking, jagged range. After spending several hours ascending a north-facing ridge, we are provided with a sprawling, unfettered view of the surrounding mountainscape. To the west, Kevin points out Shark’s Fin, a massive, serrated peak that he first conquered in 1990, and which he has made a habit of re-visiting at least once a decade since.
Several hours later, a sharp descent takes us to Imperial Creek, a tributary of the Murray River which contains dozens of rapids and waterfalls that can be heard from half a kilometre away; the proposed route of the Northern Gateway would see the twin pipelines pass several hundred metres from where we stand. Further downstream, we are greeted by Kinuseo Falls – taller than Niagara Falls, and every bit as violent. Positioned on a thin embankment with the falls as our backdrop, we stop for a brief interview with Kevin. Having been employed by many of the area’s large coal operations, Kevin’s sentiments toward the pipeline vacillate between a cautious realism of its economic attractiveness, and a subdued hesitation over the primary motivations for its construction: “The British Columbian economy has always been heavily resource-based; in the short-term, you’d be hard-pressed to find a better alternative than oil. Oil is easy; It’s easy for someone like me to make a living, and it’s easy for the government to collect revenue. It’s just sitting there. I don’t think we can resist; from the first days of humanity, we’ve always gone for the low-hanging fruit.”
Exhausted and more than a little hungry (note to self: pack a lunch), Jean-Philippe and I part ways with Kevin just as dusk is beginning to set in, and quickly begin the perennial search for a suitable camping spot. We settle on a mediocre campsite near a bridge. By now, the moon is shining with such intensity that a deep, navy-black shadow is being cast behind each of us, and it could easily be mistaken for the sun. As the occasional car whizzes past, Jean-Philippe turns and shouts, “What if they think we’re hobos?” I give it some thought. I’m not especially keen on being awoken to the sound of a revving engine for the second time this week. “Well, then I suppose they would be correct. We’re sleeping under the stars, mon garçon.”