Mike Willie has always lived among grizzlies. Growing up in Kingcome, an unincorporated settlement with a population of 80 on British Columbia’s central coast, grizzlies would frequently walk through his village in search of food—especially in spring and summer, when the salmon weren’t yet running. Like other children in his Musgamakw Dzawada’enuxw First Nations band, Willie says he was taught from an early age to respect the bears, whether in the village or out playing in the mountains of the Great Bear Rainforest.



“We learned early on, you never really startle a grizzly,” Willie says. “It is a sign of respect to say ‘Yo Bear!’ every few minutes, and let them claim their space. I still use ‘Yo Bear!’ every day when leading guests out to observe these important members of our community.”



After years spent observing guests visiting his nation’s cultural center and noticing how drawn they were to grizzly masks and to other representations of the native bears, Willie founded Seawolf Adventures, through which he provides boat tours through northern Vancouver Island’s wilderness and teaches tourists about the area’s rich First Nations culture. The impetus for becoming an outfitter, Willie says, was two-fold: It would not only allow guests to view his home’s magnificent animals, but it would also provide an opportunity to reconnect his family and other community members with nature.



“You have to remember,” Willie says, “The government was determined to separate us from our culture and land for a long time. They sent us to notorious residential schools and made our potlatches and language use illegal, removing nature from our lives as well. We were a displaced people, and what we lost was the wild world. Now, our ancestral home allows us to generate a revenue stream independent of the federal government.”

“The government was determined to separate us from our culture and land for a long time. They sent us to notorious residential schools, made our potlatches and language use illegal, removing nature from our lives as well. We were a displaced people, and what we lost was the wild world. Now our ancestral home allows us to generate a revenue stream independent of the federal government.”

In extracting the Musgamakw Dzawada’enuxw and other Indigenous people from their land, Willie says, the Canadian government permitted, and even encouraged, an egregious act: the hunting of grizzlies. That’s because for centuries, Willie’s community has only ever hunted for sustenance; the idea of doing so for sport, he says, is a completely foreign concept.



“We have never hunted grizzlies at all, and never will,” he explains. “The grizzly is a powerful and authoritative figure; it is the apex animal. We have grizzly bear dancers in society within our traditional system. They have always acted as police within our potlatch [celebrations] to make sure our people are acting respectfully.”



Willie and his community were deeply relieved last August, when the British Columbia provincial government banned trophy hunting. For months, First Nations members had showed up to public meetings, hoping to demonstrate that grizzly hunting did not align with Indigenous British Columbian values. They celebrated in December, when the government made all non-First Nations grizzly hunting illegal throughout the province. BC’s New Democratic Party, which pushed for the ban, cited meaningful consultations with First Nations and other concerned parties. (In stark stateside contrast, Wyoming last May approved its first grizzly bear hunt in more than four decades, just one year after Yellowstone-area grizzlies were removed from the endangered-species list. Meanwhile, the Trump administration quietly struck rules that forbade “predator” hunting on federal land in Alaska.)



For the past several decades, Willie says, his family and community members have labored to protect the bears that shared their land. He says thge covert bear hunters’ routine had become quite familiar—they would arrive sheepishly, claiming they were headed out to explore the wilderness, that their guns were a mere precaution. “We would then hear a shot, and they would say it was just target practice,” Willie says. "A few days later we would find a bear carcass. Our [First Nation] law [against grizzly hunting] was already established, but we spent a lot of time fighting the trophy hunters.”



Many hunters, Willie says, would try to justify their actions, claiming they served to control the male bear’s patricidal behavior. Willie, however, describes this as a “public relations excuse.” He says, “The government said [non-Native] hunters [had the right] to control, as in kill, as many of the boars [male bears] as possible because they would go after and kill the cubs. Well, we’ve been here for 14,500 years and we have long witnessed nature take its course with no issues. Their argument was just B.S.”



For years, the legally sanctioned hunting of grizzlies was the greatest source of the species’ mortality, with an average of 250 bears taken annually in British Columbia. Despite the recent bans, Willie says, many among his community fear that the relatively low trophy-hunting fines—of less than $500—won’t do enough to discourage the poaching of grizzlies. Willie believes such actions are not only abhorrent but also quite antithetical to the nature of the majestic animals. He adds that he regularly witnesses acts of brotherly love, communication, and protection among grizzlies.



“Brothers Andy and Roy are roughly the same age,” he says, citing recent evidence of such. “Roy has never been good at fishing and was noticeably losing weight. Discouraged, Roy was walking away from the river recently, when I saw Andy corner a fish against a rock. Roy turned suddenly, ran to Andy, grabbed the salmon and disappeared into the woods. Obviously Andy had called out. When visitors see something like this, they realize how bears have feelings, that they are emotional beings. My people have always thought of them like they are part of us. This is why I call them persons—they are our ancestors.”

"Bears have feelings; they are emotional beings. My people have always thought of them like they are part of us. This is why I call them persons—they are our ancestors.”

Seawolf Adventures is the only Indigenous tourism company in the southern Great Bear Rainforest area and has earned status as a Canadian Signature Experience, the highest tourism designation in the country. Willie hires his own family in an attempt to build work opportunities and foster cultural awareness among his community’s youth. Guests typically put in a 10-hour day, viewing wildlife, learning about Indigenous culture and ancient customs, and even stopping off at historic villages. He says guests consistently consider bear viewing the highlight, always departing as “friends and allies” of the bears.



“Our relationship with the bears has kind of come full circle,” Willie reflects. “We worked as their protectors for generations, and now they are providing us with our livelihood. That said, they have always taught us, showing what berries and vegetation we could eat and even how certain pine tar provides protection after getting cut. Like us, they harvest on the beach every spring, helping each other find precious nourishment. They may not stand right beside each other, but the feeling of family is unmistakable.”