On a blustery day, I walked up the ridge behind my house and along the Sunshine Coast Trail to an unnamed creek. Some of the biggest trees on the trail live along this little section.
The closed canopy of mature, mixed forest bathes everything in rich, green light; every branch and twig glittering with drops of rain. Fog drifts in and out of the massive cedar and Douglas fir trees, giving everything an air of a fairytale mystery.
With the heavy rains of a warm winter pounding off the Gwendoline Hills, the little creek was a thundering torrent, and I could hear its cheerful song as I approached. I headed off the trail to the little spot I always go to, where I can walk out on a fallen log, crouch down at the creekside, and scoop sips of the cold, sweet water straight into my mouth.
Friends from the city think I’m crazy to drink straight out of the creek, but I tell them it’s the same water that’s in my well.
Dozens of creeks like this criss-cross Malaspina Peninsula, and on its way down to empty into Okeover Inlet, this particular creek fills up my well and the wells of all my neighbours. In the dry summertime, when we’re counting every drop, I’ll say a little “thank you” to this creek every day.
Nobody really knows how much groundwater we have up here. Except for the harbour and surrounding area, where a community water system takes water from Lund and Thulin lakes to provide for the needs of the village, rain-filled cracks in the peninsula’s granite bones are the only source of drinking water we have.
Everywhere we step, the water we rely on is running like living veins right under our feet. How much it would take to run those veins dry is anybody’s guess, and as our climate swings more and more toward flood winters and drought summers, I think about that every time I drink from this little creek.
It’s easy to think because we live in the rainforest we don’t have to worry about water. But a lot of water in the winter, when we can’t do anything but watch it run into the ocean, doesn’t help us come July when the ground is parched.
The more our climate destabilizes, the more we need to look after the things that keep our water where we need it, when we need it. Forest soils absorb water like a sponge and slowly release it over the dry seasons. The deep roots of mature trees send the water down through the rock to the aquifers where we need it, storing water in a way spindly plantation trees never can.
Water and forests go hand-in-hand, and we have to look after both if we want to have either in the future. I make my daily pilgrimage to this little creek to remind myself that if we don’t protect what is precious, there’s precious little we can do once it’s gone.
