by Dave Butler
On the north side of the river, only a dozen pedal strokes from the bridge, Willson passed the blackened skeleton of the wolverine research team’s old office. She remembered that the building had been a private residence for many years before it became the offices of an engineering company for many more. An image flashed in her mind of herself and her friends sitting here along the riverbank, sneaking a beer after a track meet.
Willson turned onto Golden’s main downtown street and found the address she was looking for. She locked her bike to a metal stand on the street side of the sidewalk and climbed up a narrow staircase that creaked and complained with each step. She banged twice on the only door on the second floor.
“Yeah, come in,” said a voice from inside, “door’s open.”
Willson pushed her way in and then paused in surprise. It was a small room, no larger than one might find in a shabby motel, but with considerably less charm. It was dominated by a single wooden desk, behind which Albin Stoffel sat hunched over a MacBook, his fingers motionless on the keyboard. File boxes were piled in one corner.
Stoffel stood when he saw her. “I apologize for the poor manners,” he said. “I get so few visitors that I forget to be more welcoming. I’m Albin Stoffel.” He shook Willson’s hand warmly and gave her a double air kiss, his beard scratching her face. “Didn’t I talk to you at the open house a couple of weeks ago?” he asked as he pulled back, still holding both of her hands in his.
She smiled. “Yes, you did,” she said, “I’m Jenny Willson.”
“Pleased to meet you, Jenny … again. Have a seat.” He pulled a rickety chair from behind the door and placed it in front of the desk. “Would you like a tea or a coffee? I can run downstairs to the café.”
“No, I’m good, but thank you anyway.” Willson put her jacket on the back of the chair and then sat while Stoffel returned to his seat.
“Once again,” she said, “I’m sorry about the fire. Have they confirmed the identity of the … victim yet?”
“No. But I know it was Sue. I haven’t seen or heard from her since that night, and neither has her family. She texted her husband that she would be crashing there for the night, and her car was there when the firefighters arrived. Her husband and parents have been phoning the RCMP and me almost every day to see if we’ve heard from her, or if there’s any news.” A tear rolled down his cheek. “We hadn’t worked together long, but I really liked her. She was a great volunteer who worked hard. And she was passionate about wilderness and wolverines. She didn’t deserve to die. I wish I could have done something …” He stared out the small window. “She chose to stay in the office that night. I could have insisted she come to my place …”
“I understand how you feel,” Willson said, putting her hand on Stoffel’s arm. “But this is not your fault. She made her own decision. Neither of you could have known how it would turn out.”
“I know. That’s easy to say, but not so easy to believe. Maybe we’ll find out it wasn’t her after all …”
To shift the discussion, if even only slightly, Willson pointed to the file boxes in the corner. “Did you lose all your work in the fire, or were you able to salvage some of it?”
“We lost almost everything. All our research papers, written reports, our skis and snowshoes and outdoor gear, cameras, GPS units, two computers, and a bunch of hard drives. Luckily, I always took backups home with me every night. That’s all I have left now, other than the hair samples we got that day in Collie Creek.”
“Has the RCMP kept you posted on its investigation?”
“Corporal Fortier has been filling me in as much as he can. I told him they should be looking at Stafford Austin and Hank Myers. I assume they’re on the list of suspects. And speaking of Austin, I’m sorry you had to see my outburst at the open house. That guy really pushes my buttons. And I let him do it every time I see him.”
“No problem,” said Willson. “I see how committed you are to your research. In fact, that’s why I’m here today. When we met at the open house, I didn’t yet know whether I would be the newest park warden in Yoho. But now I’m confirmed and living here in Golden. I’d like to learn more about your project and the wolverines that live inside and outside the park. And after what happened at the open house, I’d like to understand why you’re so opposed to the ski area.”
Stoffel looked at her with the expression of a man who had just been asked to have sex right there on his desk. Uh oh, this guy doesn’t often get asked about his research. It was too late to take back the question, walk out the door, race down the stairs, and escape on her bike.
For the next two hours, Willson learned more than she’d ever imagined it possible to learn about wolverines, their biology and sexual habits, their teeth and their main prey species, their massive home ranges covering thousands of square kilometres, how Stoffel had used hair traps made of barbed wire to capture DNA samples, and how he could tell individuals apart by the shape of the patches of light hair on their chests. And she learned that wolverines didn’t leap from trees onto unsuspecting passersby, like they were described doing in early literature. Instead, they showed their displeasure by savaging the interiors of cabins and mountain huts. She remembered a warden cabin she’d once visited while on boundary patrol in the upper Red Deer River in Banff Park. Not only had a wolverine torn apart the interior and consumed everything edible, it had also sprayed the bedding and mattresses with a foul-smelling musk. When they realized what had occurred, she and her partner had been tempted to burn the cabin down. Instead, they rode an extra thirteen kilometres to the next one.
Eventually Stoffel began to wind down, as though running out of manic energy.
“Gulo gulo,” he said with a sigh. “The Latin name means “glutton glutton,” and they have earned that name honestly. Members of the Shuswap First Nation call it qwilqen. It’s a mysterious but truly amazing species that few of us know much about. I want to understand them, to learn all I can. I want to see them survive and thrive. And what they need for that to happen is large wild places, places with no humans. Highways and ski areas and settlements don’t work for them.”
“I can see why you’re so passionate. They’re like the proverbial canary in a coal mine.” She rotated her chair around so she was straddling the seat and leaned her chest forward against the chair back, her forearms resting along the top. The talk of wolverines and wilderness had finally wound down. It was safe to stay. “You sound like you were born in Switzerland, Albin. How did you end up in Golden doing wolverine research?”
“You’re right, I was born in a village in Switzerland called Saas-Grund. It’s one valley to the east of Zermatt. My older brother came here twenty years ago to be a heli-ski guide. He and I were always close. After he left, I looked for ways to follow him to Canada. I got my master’s degree at the University of Zurich in ecology while studying the wolves that were moving back into Switzerland from Italy. I decided that getting a Ph.D. would be my ticket to Canada, and I was accepted for doctoral work with a University of Calgary professor who was studying wolverines in the central Rockies. And here I am.”
“How’s your project funded?” Willson asked.
“I’ve got money coming in from a federal science research grant and from Parks Canada. British Columbia and Alberta have also thrown in money because of the wolverine’s species at risk status, and the local environmental group tops it up as best they can.”
“Was it just you and Sue doing the research?”
“No. I have access to grad students when my supervisor can spare them, but most of the legwork is done by volunteers. They’re called citizen scientists. I’ve got a team of twelve, some in the Canmore-Banff area and some here in Golden. They’re the ones who regularly check and re-bait the hair and photo traps so we get a sense of how many different animals we have and where they’re moving. Sue is … was … one of them. She lived in Canmore. I’ve already got twenty camera stations spread out in a grid pattern across the Rockies, with more
to come. One of them is up Collie Creek, where they’re proposing to build the ski area.”
“That’s a lot of work,” said Willson. “With all that, do you see your brother more now?”
“Only when he has days off from guiding,” said Stoffel. “And then we go backcountry skiing together. No chairlifts, no helicopters — just us under our own power. I don’t see him as much as I would like to. But somehow, being in the same country, even if it’s a really big country, feels like we’re closer.”
“I’m happy for you,” said Willson. “Sounds like everything has worked out. If you don’t mind me asking, why did you get into it with Austin at the Senior Centre? You two don’t seem to like each other much.”
“You’re right. I don’t think we’ll ever be pals.”
“Why?”
Stoffel pushed his hands through his hair in a distracted attempt to bring it under control, but it immediately popped back out like a balloon. Willson sensed that he was frustrated, angry, perhaps even a little embarrassed by his earlier outburst.
“I first ran into Austin up the Blaeberry River early last summer,” he said. “He and Hank Myers were stopped on the road near the Mummery Glacier trailhead. They were fixing a flat tire on a rental vehicle that shouldn’t have been up there. I was on my way to Golden after spending a week up the valley doing habitat assessments. I stopped to see if they needed a hand. We started talking. They were pretty cagey about what they were doing up there, but when I told them I was studying wolverines, they started asking questions. At first, I thought they might be prospectors, poking around to see if there was anything up there worth mining. They asked about Collie Creek, and when I said we’d found wolverines there, their questions became increasingly critical and condescending. It was more like an interrogation. And no matter what I said, they thought I was full of shit, I could tell.”
“I know what that kind of conversation is like …” said Willson, thinking about many of the conversations she’d had with senior government officials in Calgary.
“What was troubling,” said Stoffel, “was the gun I saw in the truck. Myers tried to throw a coat over it, but he knew I’d seen it.”
“A gun isn’t unusual in this part of the country,” said Willson. She remembered the conversation with Ben Fortier.
“A pistol sure as hell is,” Stoffel replied. “And having been in the military for two years, I know a 9mm semi-automatic when I see one.”
“Have you encountered him since then? Before the open house, I mean.”
“He came into the old office a couple of times demanding to see my research results. I told him they weren’t ready yet and that he’d have to wait until they went through the university peer review process before they’d be available to the public.”
“How did he respond?”
“Not well. It seems he’s the kind of guy who usually gets what he wants. He threatened to call the university. I encouraged him to do that. The last time he came in, about a month ago, he was angry and aggressive. Myers was with him. Even though he never says much, he’s an intimidating guy.”
“Why was Austin upset?”
“I guess the letters I sent to provincial and federal authorities, and to local politicians, pissed him off.” Stoffel smiled. “All I did was remind them that they had a legal responsibility to protect wolverines under federal species at risk legislation and that approving a ski resort in an area with occupied habitat wasn’t doing that.”
“He took it personally, did he?”
“Did he ever. His face was flushed and he called me every name in the book, most of them ones I’d never even heard before. He said I should stop meddling in something that wasn’t my business.”
“Did you take that as a threat?” asked Willson.
“I did. It made me nervous, especially since he had his goon with him. I had no idea what he’d do.”
“Did you tell the RCMP about it?”
“Yes. I talked to Fortier. That was the first time I met him. He took a statement from me and I told him about the gun. He said he would have a chat with both Myers and Austin.”
“That probably didn’t make Austin dislike you any less,” Willson said, leaning back in her chair. “Tell me why you’re so opposed to the project.”
“For all sorts of reasons,” said Stoffel. “Most of my concern goes back to growing up in Switzerland. Not only did my own home valley have three ski areas, but Zermatt is right next door. There are other resorts in the same area — Brig, Bürchen, Eischoll, Lötschental. It seemed that every valley in the Alps had at least one ski area, each with lifts and roads and hotels and condos, trains and trams, restaurants and huts up on the ridges, trails everywhere. And people, thousands and thousands of people. They ski there in the winter, and they’re there the rest of the year, hiking and mountain biking and trail running and hang gliding. There are few wild places left there anymore, few places where animals can survive without human interference. I don’t want to see Collie Creek turn into another Zermatt. The fact that Austin is using the name Top of the World turns my stomach. And I haven’t even started on the impact a ski resort would have on wolverines and other wildlife. If this project goes ahead, they’ll be pushed out, forced into smaller and smaller chunks of habitat. I think it’s a bad idea in the wrong place.”
“I understand,” said Willson, making notes as he spoke. “Are there wolverines in Switzerland?”
“No. We think there might have been centuries ago. But today, apart from Canada and Alaska, they’re only found in Russia, Norway, Sweden, and Finland.”
“No disrespect, Albin, but why are you so focused on fighting Austin? Why not just do your research?”
“You sound like my supervising professor. He keeps telling me to focus on my work and let the review process run its course,” said Stoffel. “But I can’t. It’s something I feel strongly about. I can’t sit by and let it happen. Even with the threats against me. And with Sue likely dead, I’ll never back down.”
“Do you know who else opposes the project?”
“The Columbia Valley Environmental Society certainly does. They’ve come out strongly and publicly against it. I agreed to work with them, but they’re only getting started. Like many of us, I don’t think they believed this proposal would actually go anywhere.”
“What about the rest of the community?” asked Willson.
“In my view, the project has split the community in half. It’s a real shame. Many people, including most of our local politicians, I think, seem to support it for the jobs and investment. There’s even a local ski society that has formed to support the project. I can’t help but think they’ve been bought off somehow. But many people are opposed, mostly for environmental reasons, or because we already have enough ski areas. Even the local First Nation bands can’t agree. One of them likes it because of the jobs it would create. The other sees Collie Creek as a sacred valley and doesn’t want anything developed in there. But as you saw at the open house, I suspect many locals simply don’t know where they stand.”
With this one visit, Willson had picked up more information than she’d ever hoped for. She stood to leave, picking her coat up off the back of the chair. She’d have to talk more to Ben Fortier about Stafford Austin. But this was a good start. She had some new avenues to pursue, but her first step was simply to learn as much as she could about the ski area application.
“Thanks, Albin,” she said. “I appreciate your time and your patience today. I’ve got a much better understanding of the situation than I did before I came in here. Can I drop in on you from time to time to see how the research is going?”
“Absolutely,” said Stoffel. “There aren’t many people who’re interested in it … and it’s an important story.”
More important than you know, thought Willson.
CHAPTER 8
JANUARY 5
First thing on a Tuesday morning, in a small windowless boardroom at the Parks Canada offices in Yoho National Park, Wil
lson sat across from Tara Summers. Bleary-eyed, Willson clutched her third coffee of the morning as she stared at the table, which was covered in binders. She’d been called out the night before to investigate suspicious activity on the road to Takakkaw Falls. It had turned out to be nothing more than a gaggle of high schoolers from Lake Louise and Field enjoying a premature grad party, but she’d lost three hours of precious sleep.
Summers represented Parks Canada on the interagency team reviewing the Collie Creek proposal. A young redhead with acne-scarred cheeks, she was energetic and full of wide-eyed idealism about saving parks from the marauding hordes outside the ramparts. Willson knew that spending time in government would eventually bleed that enthusiasm out of Summers like a slow leak from a balloon. For now, though, after an hour of listening to Summers describe her education, her background, and her job, Willson saw that Summers excelled at talking … and talking and talking. What she didn’t do was listen. Ever. Because she was always talking …
“Okay, Tara,” Willson interrupted, wanting to bang her forehead against the table, “let’s talk about the ski area project, the so-called Top of the World Resort. My mum talked me into attending the December open house in Golden, so I figured I should learn about the project and what we’re doing. As far as I know, there aren’t any law-enforcement issues with it, so this is just background for me, in case people ask me about it —”
“No problem, Jenny!” said Summers. “It came at us out of the blue. Like I said, I’m getting up to speed, too, so it’s good to talk it through with someone.”
“So, where’s it all at?”
“The proponent, Collie Creek Resorts Limited, submitted its formal proposal to the Province of B.C. and to Parks Canada. Because the project is in these two jurisdictions, we’re trying to sort out the process we’ll use to ensure that both levels of government get what they need. As you can imagine, there’s a long list of regulations, policies, and processes that have to be satisfied.”
