Discovering How to Travel with Purpose in Tla-o-qui-aht Tribal Parks
Like an outboard motor sputtering on damp mornings, this journey has multiple false starts.
This is because on the West Coast of Vancouver Island, our adventures are at the mercy of the unforgiving weather. With the summer months in Tofino, British Columbia, this looks like a stubborn fog cloaking Clayoquot Sound, blurring reefs and rocks and making passage to inlets and offshore islands tricky. When the morning haze finally lifts after numerous cancelled trips, Tla-o-qui-aht Tribal Parks Guardians Tatt Charlie, Randall Atleo and Kadence Tom, photographer Nicole Holman, and I step aboard the Guardian and set out for Grice Bay in search of Pacific eelgrass meadows.
Eelgrass is a marine flowering plant that grows in shallow waters, and despite not being dubbed a “charismatic” species in the media, it plays a powerful role in a flourishing biosphere and stable climate. This flora is also the entry point for our deckside discussions on ethical travel: the guiding star for a reciprocal and regenerative tourism industry in Tla-o-qui-aht haḥuułi (territory).
Clayoquot Sound is home to three First Nations, including Tla-o-qui-aht First Nation, who declared their entire unceded and traditional territory a Tribal Park in 2014—an Indigenous Protected and Conserved Area (IPCA). This area is described as “on the edge” by the people who live here for its remoteness and as one of the most western points in Canada. It’s also the site of some of the richest biodiversity in the country, from old-growth forests to sand dunes to the eelgrass meadows we’re monitoring on our trip.
Over the last 14 years of doing environmental work in this region, I’ve seen how these monumental land and seascapes leave people with a loss of words (and sometimes cell signal). None of this abundance is accidental. It exists because of Tla-o-qui-aht governance and management, which is grounded in Nuu-chah-nulth laws, including respect, reciprocity and Hiishukish ts’awaak (meaning everything is interconnected), enabling the regeneration of this haḥuułi’s ancient gardens.
As we venture into Tla-o-qui-aht waters, the boat reverberates with stories and laughter, from humpback whale gossip to restoration escapades in nearby watersheds. Before long, we arrive at a meadow of healthy eelgrass under the gaze of a scorching sun, swapping our chit-chat to get ready on the deck for our dive.
And, if you know, you know—it’s a comical experience squeezing into a wetsuit or drysuit. Today is no different as we shimmy into our gear, with Nicole’s towel making a revealing slip that has us chuckling until we almost tumble overboard.
Suited up, we splash into the water alongside indifferent moon jellyfish and an emerald expanse of eelgrass. Modern noise—Tofino’s planes, cars, boats—fades. These plants are silent, yet when currents push through their long blades, they ripple against each other in a susurration, like tall grass in the wind. These meadows are a form of “blue carbon,” a term coined in 2009 to describe the carbon stored in marine ecosystems. These ecosystems are among the most prolific climate-stabilizers on Earth; they cover less than 0.5 percent of the seafloor, yet account for more than half of all carbon in ocean sediments. Underwater, we swim above and avoid getting entangled in this unassuming climate champion: algae-draped eelgrass, which continually draws down carbon and roots it in place.
Not all meadows like this one thrive. Globally, eelgrass has declined by roughly 30 percent, making it one of the most rapidly disappearing environments on the planet. In Tla-o-qui-aht territory, meadows have been eroded by boat traffic, polluted waters, industrial activities like logging, and coastal infrastructure. As Tatt explains, restoring this marine grass means rehabilitating watersheds scarred by the logging industry: “Once our 400 rivers are restored, salmon can be placed back in the rivers, which is one of the end games. This will also clear up the muddy, silty water that clouds out the light that eelgrass depends on to grow.”
These meadows are a home for young fish like herring that grow into food for larger animals, who carry their catches into the forest, fertilizing the trees with what’s left behind. It’s a hard-core web of relations, reminding us that stewardship is never about one isolated species—it’s healing entire social and ecological systems.
Coming up for a breath between dives, we surface into the challenging topic of tourism, as Tla-o-qui-aht lands and waters see 600,000 visitors each year. While tourism sustains local economies, it also carries externalities, such as the emissions from the long journeys required to reach this remote locale.
Meanwhile, Tla-o-qui-aht has borne the cost of not exploiting natural resources in their homeland, while gaining only a proportion of the financial benefit from tourism. Their steadfast efforts involve protecting old-growth forests instead of capitalizing on resource extraction. Oh, and footing the bill for a decade-long Supreme Court case to protect Wanachis-hilth-hoo-is island—aka everyone’s water supply here—from being clearcut.
Fortunately, the Tla-o-qui-aht Tribal Parks Allies program offers a way to make tourism benefits more equitable. Businesses can contribute revenue earned in the haḥuułi back to the Nation. Tatt unpacks the impact visitors make by donating directly to Tribal Parks and supporting the Allies program:
“Tourism started so many years ago, so we’re behind on that whole process. As soon as we started implementing the Tribal Park Allies Program, where we take one percent of what’s earned in our traditional territory, we were able to kick it back into programs for our Nation. Like language, culture, building a long-house, watershed restoration, logging road decommissioning, invasive species removal, trail building, ecosystem monitoring, beach clean-ups, derelict vessel removal and forest restoration.”
By participating in the Tribal Park Allies Program, Indigenous rights are honoured, and we chart a path towards achieving ethical tourism. Contributions help make Tla-o-qui-aht beaches, forests, trails and waves extraordinary spots where people forge unforgettable moments. At the same time, this investment sustains blue carbon ecosystems like eelgrass, strengthening climate resilience in ways that go beyond conventional carbon offsets, which are tools of mixed efficacy that should not be mistaken as a cornerstone of climate action.
One of the most powerful climate solutions is IPCAs, like Tribal Parks. On a planet barrelling towards potentially 2.6 to 3.1 degrees of warming by 2100, IPCAs stand among the most effective climate strategies we have, with Indigenous Peoples stewarding about 40 percent of the world’s remaining intact ecosystems. As Tatt explains, “This is something we’ve done for a millennium, it’s like putting the glove on the right hand.”
We clamber out of the water and back into the boat, sopping wet and spirits full. Beneath the surface, eelgrass waves back. Nicole’s shutter clicks, freezing us mid-drip with ocean detritus in our hair, evidence that ecological monitoring is just so darn glamorous. I stare out at our stunning surroundings and take a snapshot in memory, musing on how each encounter with an ecosystem and community offers us the chance to shape a story worth telling.
Steering through crystalline waters on our way back to town, Tatt reflects on the Tla-o-qui-aht Tribal Park’s tale: “Now, we have the chance to reset and be stewards again,” he smiles, gazing out the window, “finally be stewards again in our traditional territory. It’s been a long time coming, but we’re here. It’s one of those hero journeys.”
Travel today cannot be reduced to ticking off new destinations on our list; it’s a call to align our adventures with ambition for a better planet. Whether we’re visiting Tla-o-qui-aht Tribal Parks or any other location, we’re called to shift from just reducing negative impacts toward regenerating the places we visit. Which, if you ask me, is a heck of a lot more exciting, imaginative and fulfilling.
Coming back ashore to chase surfable waves, I consider how humanity is like eelgrass—underestimated, yet capable of healing this Earth. Like anything else we do, our travels can be a force for erosion or restoration. As wanderers, we get to dive in and decide how our voyages will shape the world.
You can learn more and support at tribalparks.com.
