Imposter Syndrome

Leading the snowshoe tour on a fantastically gorgeous February day.

It was early February when I received an email in my inbox inquiring about any volunteers who would be willing to lead a guided forest snowshoe tour at the Nordic Center for the Métis Nation Columbia River Society. Wanting to get involved with a local conservation non-profit (Wildsight), I threw my name into the wind and let them know that I would be willing to lead that tour. Shortly thereafter I was thanked for volunteering to lead the tour, but as an unknown person who would be representing Wildsight, they needed to be sure I was up to the task. 

I “Interviewed” for the position, perhaps not an interview at all really, but a pointed conversation about my relevant background. My background in fire ecology, forestry, and having guided bear tours in Alaska set me up fairly well for the task. After I took that phone call in the blustery winds of a Canadian winter, I was the one chosen to lead the tour. 

A couple of days before the tour I started preparing a more in-depth walking presentation. Reviewing my plant ID books, specifically the trees because they were the primary vegetation visible above the hefty winter snows. As I regathered fun facts and tidbits of information, I began to think of who I would be guiding. The Métis Nation Columbia River Society. Wait…Why am I getting to guide these folks? Should I be the one teaching Métis folks about the ecology of the local landscape? 

For those of you who may not know, the Métis are of mixed European and Indigenous ancestry. 

My thoughts, of course, cascaded and began racing. Do I really have the appropriate knowledge to be teaching Indigenous people about The Land? As a white person, shouldn’t I be learning from Indigenous people about The Land? Self-doubting rhetoric circulated around my mind. 

On the day of the tour, I woke up feeling nervous. The sense of Imposter Syndrome shrouded my mind.

What if what I was taught is wrong? Am I really qualified to be doing this? 

With the tour beginning in a couple of hours, there was no room for escape. I was locked into an agreement. 

While arriving into the small snow-covered parking lot, a group of 8 or so folks could be seen standing around with snowshoes. They were MY group. 8 people, not so bad. Soon enough there were more and by the time we were all circled, a dozen eager learners stood before me. 

We introduced ourselves going around the circle, one by one. I was the last to introduce myself, and at the end of my introduction, squeaked in that I was the guide for the walk. Introductions were followed by a stretch and a smudge, incorporating a prayer in the local Métis dialect. Most people there were locals and simply wanted to go on a snowshoe tour to learn more about the surrounding ecosystem. 

My worries were irrelevant. Produced from nothing but the absence of confidence and the creation of assumptions. 

As an unorganized bunch, we sauntered with our oversized feet to the head of the packed-in snowshoe trail. Before entering the forest in a single file line, I announced and encouraged everyone to ask a question if they had any and that I would do my best to answer. Everyone gave a nod. We were off.

The claw mark of a bear scars the trunk of a Quaking Aspen.

As the tour progressed, I became much more comfortable and relaxed with myself and the group. Eventually, I felt as if I were on any other hike, pointing out the catkins on the red alder, or the galls that punctuated the tips of the spruce. I was enjoying myself. I was also enjoying teaching people about the local ecology, the forest, what I love. 

I lost track of time and distance, pointing out the unique features of various tree species. A quick glance at my watch and we were an hour and a half into a two-hour tour, but in terms of distance, 25% complete. Ensuing a prompt discussion, we took a shortcut, increasing our pace over the undulating terrain. 

The snowshoe tour was complete, we arrived at the hut near the beginning of the trail. A casual afternoon picnic of bannock, smoked trout, and labrador tea in the February sun allowed us to interact as a group once again. People thanked me for being their guide as we discussed my background more in-depth and shared stories. 

A residual birds nest enduring the winter.

I had never felt Imposter Syndrome before this day. I questioned myself, my knowledge, and my abilities. It cast a real doubt over me. I think it may be rooted in the fact that it has been a while since I had given a tour, or brushed up on my botanical knowledge. I was naturally nervous about my qualifications. In the end, everything turned out just fine, in fact, it was a lot of fun! 

The snowshoe tour was followed by another on February 28th which also went very well, in fact, some folks from the first tour came again and brought friends! The best part? Not an inkling of imposter syndrome was about. 

Autumn Lines

Stopped on the high overhead bridge we peered down into the near-tropical blue channel where the creek was deepest, areas with lesser depth ran gin clear. For both of us, it was our first time at this quaint stretch of water, the idea was to familiarize ourselves with the stream. Shortly after stopping at the bridge, perhaps 500 a meter drive, is where we parked. Seeing that it was a weekday, the campground was empty and we shared the stream only with the resident eagles. Excellent. 

Prior to slipping into our wading outfits we took a moment to gather all we could about the stream and our surroundings. The water level here fluctuates vastly with the seasons, cobble and rock banks clear of living vegetation spanned for tens of meters on either side of the now yielding flow. Small pools and rivulets isolated from the mainstream held many kokanee, they appeared dazed as they swam from one side to the other with nowhere else to go. (Kokanee are miniature versions of their ocean-going variant, sockeye salmon (both are Onchorynchus nerka.) Unlike the ocean-going sockeye, kokanee spend their entire lives in freshwater, but still adhere to the spawn-and-die lifestyle.) The kokanee moved like underwater cardinals bright red and beautiful, albeit lacking the tune of the eastern bird. I find the color of the kokanee quite special, just before death they display their brightest red, return to the current of a stream in search of a mate, and for the first and last time they will reproduce. 

The variety of kokanee. The middle fish is barely hanging on and showing signs of rot, which is actually a fungal infection of the category Saprolignia.

The stream wove through the now-dry rock bed, bending, cascading, gurgling along towards the mighty Columbia. The lodgepole pine and black spruce sat away from the stream and composed the majority of the forest save for the odd poplar that brandished golden leaves, soon to drop with the nearing snowline. The day, in terms of weather, was perfect. Blue skies stretched up and down the Columbia Valley and crisp October air, when inhaled deeply, reminded you that you were alive, that the warmth you are now feeling would not last much longer, that this day should be enjoyed with a sense of gratitude before the cold, long winter arrives. 

A beautiful and much appreciated October day.

Fishing holes were strewn about the stream, there was no shortage, riffles would fall into deep swirling pools where the water slowed and the fish could rest with little effort. “I’ll head down to this hole” I said pointing downstream with my rod “you take this one” then pointing perpendicular to the stream “After we give these some casts we can head up stream and leap-frog.” “Okay, sounds good.” Solange replied. 

As I approached the tail water of the riffle the hundreds of kokanee became more clear, there was no way I wasn’t going to catch a fish. Perfect. I hoped Solange was having a similar experience up at her spot. As I had wished, I was unable to not catch a kokanee, on 15 casts I caught 13 kokanee. Their zombie-like state did not induce a fun fishing experience after the first few, so the ten others that followed were more of a nuisance than fun. I even tried to let them off the hook by giving them slack and ending the fight, but to no avail, they couldn’t shake the hook. It was even barbless. 

One of the first kokanee, as I’m still fresh on catching them.

I crossed back over the stream and walked towards Solange, knowing that trying to talk from a distance was utterly hopeless around moving water. “Any luck?” I asked, “No, nothing at all.” she said. Her spot lacked any sign of the small kokanee, which wasn’t all that bad, considering it was more of a cheap thrill than a memorable engagement. We hadn’t come to catch kokanee anyways, we were after bull trout, which, funny enough, aren’t actually trout. They’re char. Bull trout are notorious for being the biggest baddest fish in the stream, weighing up to 14kg (32lbs) and as long as 103cm (40in) (Fishbase.de). Catching a bull trout would be a highlight to either of our fly fishing careers, especially Solange’s, as she is rather new to the addiction….er...sport. 

A sign posted on a nearby stump to remind fisherpeople of their limits.

The riffle dropped more than the others we had seen and tailed out in a short, but deep pool and also featured a sizable eddy where many kokanee were holding. “Can you watch me cast? I’m not doing very well today.” Solange said “Yes, of course, we’ll getcha goin’” I replied. She pulls out ten meters of line and begins to cast. The cast is as she said, not the best, but a quick fix. “Your arm is rotating too much, remember the 10 to 2” I shouted from a distance, being sure to be clear of her back cast. She hears me and shortens the rotation on her cast. Bingo. Her line is now gently whipping to and fro with a soft whistle, perfect. She sends the fly to the far side of the riffle and swings down and into the pool below. “Nice cast!” I say, now closer to her. The line drifts through the pool with no connection. Damn. “Strip it in and give it another go” I say. She begins to strip in the line for another cast when her line stops “I think I’m on a rock” she says, to which I reply “Okay, I’ll get it”. 

As I’m going to unhook her line from the rock her rod starts to quiver and I see a flash in the bottom of the pool. To our surprise, she connected with a fish, and a big one at that...at least bigger than the kokanee I’d been catching downstream. Her rod bends down and down, she’s now using both hands to keep her rod tip up, her reel giving off short quick whines as the fish on the other end refuses the otherworldly pull. Unfortunately, we had managed to lose our net just a couple of weeks prior, so as Solange is contending with this massive fish I am more or less of no use on the shore. I stood back, letting her dance the dance between fisherperson and aqueous partner, providing words of encouragement such as “Keep the rod tip up” “Don’t lose it” “Let the reel do the work”...Perhaps I sounded more like a coach. Oops. The one beneficial choice of words I sprayed out was “We don’t have a net, you’re going to have to walk it to shore.”. She began backing up over the uneven rocks, keeping the rod tip held high as the fish on the other end conceded to shallower waters. Spectacular. When the fatigued competitor was swimming in just a few inches of water, I made my move. Circling around into the deeper water I approached the fish from where it wanted to be and flicked it up onto the rocks. Solange had successfully landed a bull trout and her biggest fish. 

Bystanders had come up during Solanges’ engagement to get a better view, once she had landed the fish they awed in its beauty and size and offered to take a picture. We gladly accepted, kneeling down and holding up the silvery and dotted predator. He snapped our picture. “Thank you!” we said excitedly and simultaneously, then trading a quick glance before we maneuvered to release the catch. The barbless hook slid from its mouth like an earring in a pierced ear, Solange then gently submerged the fish, moving it forward and back in the stream before it wriggled free and swam back with great composure. 

Solange showing off her fresh catch.

To Be Wild

A slate-gray sky filtered out the autumn sun, the frigid breeze off the lake wisped around our skin, telling of the coming winter. We stood among the boulders and stones submerged in the wild river, observing. 

The river forged its path through the forest, along the steep banks and rock outcrops that resisted a millennia of urging. It had created a masterpiece, chiseling out a place that had held on to its wild character. 

A couple of canoes pass us as they head downstream.

Steep northern banks grew crowded shrubbery which foretell of the cold creeping along, infringing on the area. Yellows, oranges and reds weave within the base of the aspen stand, scarred white boles stand tall and straight, wearing the rustling leaves as golden canopies. 

Changing foliage is only half of the story, for a river always has two banks. Contradictory to the north bank, is the coniferous and needled south shore. Cedar, spruce and douglas-fir have grown into a dense shady grove lacking the light received on the opposite bank. Smells of tannins, rotting logs, damp moss waft in the chilled wind, creating a scent which leaves one feeling alive, wild and free. 

Catching fish between the showy banks.

To look down stream is to see the ideal picturesque river cutting through two types of vegetated banks, tall conifers occasionally bowing over the water, and white riffles converge into fishing holes one can only dream of. 

Shadows crossed the river bottom, oscillating in the current. Their source is as red as any color in the natural world, the soon-to-spawn sockeye salmon. Heads and tails a rich olive green, united by a body that is as red as the blood within your veins. Soon these well-travelled salmon, after swimming several hundred miles to this body of water, will spawn, die, and leave only a genetic map for their young to follow. 

We trod along the faintly beaten path, crossing patches of sand and mud. The stories told from footprints tell of a busy shore, not of fishermen, but of varying creatures. Bear prints are familiar tracks I recognize, but several other toed creatures have scampered along this communal trail as well. 

Solange gives a quieted shout to grab my attention over the slight rapids “Tyler, Look! There’s a beaver!”. My gaze wanders around the waters between her and I, but I see no beaver, only partially submerged rocks. I soon realized that a rock had eyes looking right at me. I glanced over the beaver initially because I thought it would be shy, rather than three meters away and still swimming towards me! As quietly as it appeared, Canada’s largest rodent submerged and swam a rods length away from me under the glassy water. 

Dusk was approaching, highlighting the golden aspen tops on the adjacent bank. It was time to go. Returning to the communal trail we trudged up stream, over fallen trees and danced across narrow ledges above the water. 

Now sporting our sweats and sweaters we drove to a nearby lake in search of a campsite. The forestry road carried on and on, through private holdings in the provincial park and fire scars that crested the horizon. Our transportation had all of the sudden metamorphosed into a North American safari. A black bear stood up from the roadside shrubs leaving five meters between our wheeled encapsulated box and itself. Turning a corner we spooked a lynx from the gravel and into the bush, when we inched toward where we had seen the large cat, it remained just off the road, crouched down and stalking some unfortunate critter. We sat for a few minutes watching the rarely seen creature as it would alternate between a stalked crouch or a sit on its haunches. One look back at us and it methodically sauntered into the thicket of devil's club. 

The Lynx Idles. Photo taken from the road, hence the lovely pink ribbon and stake.

Waves lapped the lake shore being pushed by an evening breeze. The moon was full, occasionally shrouded with clouds and slowly rising above the mountain silhouettes. We were warm in our sleeping bags and homemade fleece liners, discussing the day's events and the events that would follow tomorrow. We had decided to call it a night, roll over and get some sleep. As if the scent of our comforts had drifted away and into the meddling minds of canines, a wolf howled into the lonesome night. “Did you hear that?!” I whispered. “Yeah” Solange replied. Our silence was punctuated by another howl, whether a response to the first or repetition of the first, I am unsure, but at that moment we felt as if we were in a truly wild place. 

Full moon rising on Borel Lake, BC.