ONCE UPON A TIME…
When I first moved to the Broughton Archipelago and became a “Mainlander,” back in 1980, there were quite a few people living around here, almost exclusively in float houses. There were a few true locals like the Proctors and the Scotts, but the rest of us were a group of eclectic, independent, back to the landers, surrounded by an insatiable logging industry that housed close to one hundred [mostly] men in Scott Cove and another hundred in Shoal Harbor. Of course First Nations lived and have lived here for thousands of years, but they were in bad shape as a result of colonial manipulation and societal exclusion, and so there was very little interaction between First Nations and us settlers other than at school functions and on the Echo Bay dock on mail days. Mail used to be flown in three times a week, now it arrives once a week for just a handful of folks.
In my early days there was a one-room school that was well attended in Echo Bay, where we also had a large community hall beside a covered boat ways owned and operated by Billy Proctor. There were a few buildings owned by the BC Forest Service above where the government dock used to be, but we burned two of them, and helped Billy pull the largest one onto a log float to be towed away to be a home for the Brower family for many years. Pierre Landry operated a school boat that picked up and delivered back home any school kids that lived between Scott Cove and Shoal Harbor. Conventional holiday festivities were celebrated, often with school play presentations, in the Echo Bay community hall, with all attendees arriving by boat. There was a mouse infested hotel that was barely used on the Echo Bay Resort side, with a really cool “woodsy” bar as part of it. I went there a couple times, but basically stayed away partially due to my budget, but largely because the Shoal Harbor loggers went there, and many of them were the aggressive heavy drinking type that are best avoided…the pub ran until the proprietors Bob & Nancy were beaten black and blue one night for attempting to close at closing time. The bar did close as a result of that night, and years later it was torn down along with the hotel.
It has always seemed to me that the term local means that you own a primary residence of any description here, so I never considered most of the two hundred or so loggers as being local and rarely had any interaction with this group. My tribe consisted of the diverse group of folks that chose to live, not just work here and call this place home. There were constant potluck dinners followed by music, with kids everywhere. Most of us were financially poor, but we were surrounded by safety, community, healthy food, (much of it gathered from the sea), and a sense of freedom found in the expansive beauty of the Broughton Archipelago wilderness.
The Echo Bay school was limited to elementary grades, and so it was far from unusual that when people’s kids reached their teen years, families would leave here, most often never to return. This created a steady and predictable decline in our population, coupled by decreasing opportunities to earn a living working in a forestry or fisheries-related job. At one point Josee and I seasonally employed six different families with our silviculture contracting business that had direct award contracts with Interfor, until they asked me to do what we were doing here in Clayoquot Sound, ending my contract here, and the life supporting employment opportunities associated with it. That was a big ouch for all of us.
Eventually almost everyone left, leaving mostly those of us that live ashore and are anchored by land titles. Almost everyone here is on Proctor land, which was subdivided in the early 1990’s and sold to locals only, at super affordable old-timer prices. All but one of those has been resold or is for sale at new age prices! The fully functioning school was burnt down by the school board years ago, and the Echo Bay Resort has changed hands three times in my 46 years here. For about 30 years Bob & Nancy chased away business on a steady trajectory, until Pierre & Tove made it a premier boater’s destination, and then sold to the local First Nation just as covid captivated everyone’s attention. I do not imagine that this property will ever change hands again, as local First Nations reclaim their unceded and functional occupation of their territorial lands here. This will one day include my homestead as well.
In 2025 Billy Proctor passed over. His wife Yvonne preceded him by many years. In my mind this marks the official death of our community. The Proctor family has been pivotal in every single local’s life and existence here, with their homestead being the focal point for community gatherings, especially since our community hall over in Echo Bay collapsed quite a few years ago. There was always an open-door policy at Proctors that will never be duplicated or otherwise be realized here, as social divisions rarely recognize common ground upon which to meet. This is a primary loss here. My home is here on this shoreline only because Billy was prepared to support me in pulling it ashore with his D4 cat tractor. The Proctor property has recently sold to the local First Nation, as this property is clearly their traditional village site. The property now sits oddly vacant, with locks on everything including the museum, and although I am confident that the museum will reopen at some point, when that will be is uncertain. I think it will take 5-10 years for First Nations to figure out and make functional all these newly acquired property assets. It is not easy to go from social degradation to being a resort operator, especially in a remote boat access only location!
I have heard so many times “it must be so hard living way out there,” and I suppose that must be true as there is hardly anyone here anymore. For me living here feels like freedom, and the best way for me to be of service to humanity. For me I can hear the echoes of friends long gone, and kids’ laughter giving way to schooling, hormones, and now all those kids are grown-ups! There are a few of us left here, but the migration outward seems indefatigable, and it is lucky for me that the hermit lifestyle is familial and functional for me. Three months of the year I am busy with guests, and the remaining nine are spent creating the dream I envision for myself, here, mostly by myself, deeply immersed in my seaside wilderness lifestyle. Today my community remains nature and is also found in my First Nations neighbors for whom I am grateful to have a wonderful relationship with.
Life goes on until it does not. The Broughton has seen many communities come and go…
