Peasant Bread, Bongo Drums, and the Giants of Clayoquot Sound

There’s a deep peace in standing amongst the giants of an old-growth forest as the rains pour down — the smell of wet trees and leaves, mossy trunks glistening, and rivers swelling. Temperate forests require significant amounts of rain. Clayoquot Sound, on the west coast of Vancouver Island, is one of the wettest places in Canada, receiving nearly four metres of rain each year. Yes, FOUR metres! So much so that a well-known company that makes rain gear named a jacket after my little town, an odd badge of honour for many of us who live in this soggy climate year-round. In winter here, one can feel as though they are part mushroom, part human.

A global spotlight was cast on Clayoquot Sound in the early 1990s. As a teenager living in the city, I was captivated by nightly news reports of protesters being removed by law enforcement to make way for logging trucks to enter the forest. A friend and I packed our bags and soon joined what became the largest peaceful blockade in Canadian history. 

We woke up to the worst coffee ever, and went to sleep each night to the sound of off-beat bongo drums. Early each morning, while clutching our mugs of sludgy coffee, we’d trek down the logging road to the then-famous Clayoquot River Bridge, where history was being made. We’d arrive, stand around a fire eating a slice of the Common Loaf Bakery’s famous peasant bread smeared in peanut butter, then move to the road and await the logging trucks.

One early morning, exhausted, standing on the road, in front of the Clayoquot River Bridge, I knew that I wanted to dedicate my life to protecting forests, and just a few years later, that’s what I began doing. I stuffed as many of my belongings into my little car as possible and moved to Tofino. There, I joined a small but mighty environmental organization called the Friends of Clayoquot Sound (FOCS). One of my colleagues, Nicole Rycroft, was piloting a bold new strategy — one focused on transforming markets to reduce the impact of paper on the world’s forests. That idea became the Canopy we know today. Nearly two decades later, I joined the Canopy team, focused on eliminating paper packaging’s impact on the world’s forests.

Decades later, ancient forests continue to be cut down for paper, packaging, lumber, and other commodities. What is widely misunderstood is the complexity of ancient forest ecosystems. Trees that are logged can be replanted or regrown. However, the original ancient forests cannot. Simply put, forests are greater than the sum of their tree parts. These interconnected ecosystems take thousands of years to form. Their spongy floors are built from millennia of fallen trees, leaves, needles, and decomposed plants, providing new nutrient-rich homes for trees and other plants, insects, and animals. Below the surface, mycorrhizal fungi (lovingly deemed the “wood-wide web” by the forest geeks of the world) connect root system networks, sending water and nutrients where they’re needed.

And each fall, these incredible forests receive a boost of nitrogen nutrients. Known as the salmon forest, salmon return to their natal river to spawn and die. They become an essential food source for bears, wolves, and eagles, who drag the salmon into the forest, eat part of it, and leave the rest to decompose, which in turn fertilizes the forest. This process not only brings nutrients from the ocean to the forest, it also creates a salmon signature in the surrounding trees. When examining core samples taken from ancient trees near rivers in Clayoquot Sound, scientists discovered that they could determine the abundance of a salmon run in a given year based on the characteristics of the tree’s rings!  It’s a process to me that feels part science, part magic.

The Indigenous Nuu-chah-nulth nations have a term that describes this interconnectedness:  Hishuk-ish tsawalk, which means "everything is one, everything is interconnected." Ancient forests are a beautiful example of this. 

So, yes, while trees can be replanted, when we cut down an ancient forest, we lose the complex ecosystem that took thousands of years to evolve — homes to wolves, bears, cougars, and marmots, the natural carbon sequestration vaults, and the rain-absorbing floor. 

We don’t need to log the world’s primary forests to make paper, packaging, or textiles like rayon and viscose. The solutions are already here: by tapping into agricultural residues, recycled textiles, and other existing waste streams, we can produce the same high-quality products using what we call Next Gen Solutions. To scale these solutions, we need collective action, and that’s where we all come in.

Next time you have the chance, I hope you’ll stand in the middle of an ancient forest, soaking in the sounds and smells, seeing the light through high-up branches, and the little footsteps of those who were there before you. While there, I hope that you feel the exquisiteness of the complexity around you and take a breath. A breath that connects you to the forest.

At Canopy, our impact is rooted in the forests we protect and in the people who bring that mission to life every day. Voices in the Forest is a series that celebrates the individuals at the heart of our movement: the curious minds, dedicated hearts, and quietly fierce leaders who make our work possible. These stories offer a glimpse into the passion, creativity, and lived experiences that shape Canopy’s global impact.