My Sense of Place in the Salish Sea

As I look out onto the San Juan Archipelago and toward the Olympic Mountains from my kayak in Bellingham Bay, I see stories written in the image of each place.

In the Olympics, I see Mount Townsend, where I pedaled my bike from Bellingham in a single day just to climb the mountain. I remember the ride back through beautiful old-growth forest, passing a mama black bear and her cubs along the road. I see Cypress Island and Eagle Cliff, where I sat with a close friend, Gavin, watching the sunset. I see Lummi Island, where I paddled with some of my closest friends, Mitchell and Bruce, years ago now. I remember passing a beautiful waterfall pouring into the sea from one of the island’s coves.

I see Fidalgo Island and recall a kayak trip around the island — exploring, talking with new people, seeing new things, and visiting a clam garden for the first time. Standing there, I realized the spirit that surrounded that place. I see Chuckanut Island, where I have spent dozens of hours hiking with friends and clients on private tours, sharing the cultural history and unique geologic story of this remarkable landscape.

I see Clark’s Point, where I have spent hundreds of hours with friends, gone on dates, and spent time alone with my thoughts.

There is something powerful about having stories for each place. Every time we create a story somewhere, our connection to that place grows deeper. Sharing those stories invites thoughtfulness. It inspires respect. Places become more than scenery — they become meaningful because they have given us lessons, experiences and memories.

For me, a sense of place is directly connected to the stories we carry from the places we’ve been.

I have spent so much time paddling the waters of the Salish Sea and climbing the mountains that surround it. What’s truly marvelous is that they are all connected.

The snow that falls in the mountains melts as the days grow warmer. That water flows into creeks, then rivers, and eventually reaches the Salish Sea, where it mixes with saltwater arriving from the Pacific Ocean. This blending of fresh and salt water creates incredibly productive habitat for juvenile salmon, forage fish and countless other species.

The forage fish feed the salmon. The salmon feed larger predators. Birds feed on the forage fish and the invertebrates that live within estuaries. Great blue herons build their nests along estuary edges and fly out at dawn to forage, returning only after sunset.

I say this as a great blue heron stares me down from twenty feet away.

This coastline — where land meets sea — is incredibly unique. Here, Garry oak ecosystems cling to existence. Garry oaks are a species that evolved with fire, and without it they are slowly pushed out by encroaching forests. Along rocky shorelines, these trees stretch their branches out over the water, creating habitat for warblers, chickadees, nuthatches, tree swallows and countless other creatures.

Around them grow paintbrush, camas, stonecrops, native grasses and so much other life. Entire communities of plants and animals are connected to a single tree species.

The deer gather along the coastline too, browsing on the tender shoots of oak saplings each spring.

This connection between land and sea stretches across an international border — the border between the United States and Canada.

What’s so fascinating is that none of the plants or animals recognize that border. Salmon cross it. Orcas cross it. Birds cross it. The water crosses it. The wind crosses it.

When you really think about it, borders are a construct created by humans to regulate human movement. Yet every other living thing around us exists without recognizing these imaginary lines.

I think this becomes especially apparent when you’re paddling a kayak.

You can cross Haro Strait, Boundary Pass or the Strait of Georgia and never see a physical border. Instead, you simply look up and see land on the other side. We call it Canada, but ecologically it shares so much with the landscapes behind us on the American side.

What if we thought more like ecosystems do?

How might that change the way we approach conservation? How might it influence policies designed to protect species and habitats that move freely across political boundaries?

How might it help us conserve ecosystems threatened by development, fire suppression, invasive species, and habitat loss?

I think there is a lesson here.

Nature reminds us that everything is connected. It reminds us to be inclusive, to recognize relationships, and to understand that nothing exists in isolation. Every species plays a role. Every place matters.

As I paddle into the south bay of Clark’s Point, the water is calm and serene. This is one of my favorite places in the world. In my opinion, it is the most beautiful place in Bellingham.

It is one of the few places where you can paddle through a sheltered cove, see fossils embedded in sandstone, observe incredible plant communities and feel as though you are deep in the wilderness despite being only minutes from town.

The Clark family — Patrice Clark and Bill Wright today — protected this land forever with the support of Whatcom Land Trust. Because of their stewardship, this place will remain here long after all of us are gone.

The legacy of this landscape will endure.

The stories I have created here with friends and loved ones will remain with me for the rest of my life. Hopefully, those stories will be passed on to others as well. Stewardship, exploration and connection all work that way. What we give to a place eventually comes back around.

There is something special about simply getting outside and paying attention.

Listening.

Observing.

Learning.

It sounds simple, but it can have a profound impact on the way we experience life.

You begin to notice the tranquility, the abundance, the beauty, and even the chaos that surrounds us every day.

So many people move through their lives working, staring at screens and rarely connecting with the natural world. Yet nature has the ability to teach us so much about ourselves, our communities and our place within something larger.

I want to be part of changing that.

I want to be an advocate for natural spaces. I want to take action to protect and restore them. And I want to help others learn the stories of these places, because the more you know a place, the more you want to protect it.

And when you truly know a place — when you have stories tied to it — it becomes impossible not to care.

It’s just so beautiful.

Caleb Barville is graduating spring quarter with a bachelor’s degree in environmental sciences. His lifelong passion for the outdoors was shaped by growing up hiking the rainforests of Hawaii and diving in the Pacific Ocean. At Western, Barville served as a student senator in the College of the Environment and founded the WWU Ecological Restoration Club, fostering a community dedicated to environmental stewardship. He actively volunteers with organizations such as Whatcom Land Trust, Whatcom Million Trees, LEAD, the City of Bellingham and the Nooksack Salmon Enhancement Association. This summer, Barville will lead sea kayaking tours in the San Juan Islands before pursuing a graduate degree in outdoor and environmental education at Alaska Pacific University. He wants to see a future where everyone treasures their connection with this beautiful place we’re lucky enough to call home.