Page 50 of Her Wild Coast Refuge

“Do you know who’s got the mining tenure?”

“I’m researching the family lineage from the original owner.”

“Good. Maybe there’s a loophole, and you can fight it.”

“Maybe,” I say, trying to keep the conversation light. I don’t want these nice men to worry. Or pity me. My family will find a solution. I know we will.

“Let us know if you need anything,” Mr. Bryson says, taking a long look out the window. The smooth waters of the lake below reflect the forested hills and snowy peaks. “Soren Lake is too precious to be jeopardized by something like this.”

Mr. Little rolls his near-empty cognac glass in a slow circle, as if in thought. “You know, I used to fish Otter Creek back before the disaster.”

The name is familiar, but I can’t recall the details. “Remind me what happened?”

“A gold mine upstream had a tailings dam breach.”

Mr. Bryson folds his weathered hands on the table in front of him and sighs. “Such a damn shame. Best pink salmon run in Westen Canada.”

The men share a somber gaze, then Mr. Bryson’s eyes meet mine. “Hate for something like that to happen here.”

Mr. Little finishes his cognac, and the group stands.

We say our goodbyes, and the four seasoned fishermen shuffle from the dining room, their jovial banter fading as they turn down the hallway.

Though it’s late, after I’ve finished closing, I head upstairs to the office. In the mail cubby on the wall next to the door, mine has a note from Sully with my spare key.

Hope you crushed it out there, he wrote in his slanted print.

I jot him a reply, then settle at one of the computers. My inbox includes replies from Rowan at Alaska Wild, the Nature Conservancy, and two others related to my search for information on Augustus Daly.

But before I read them, I type “Otter Creek Mine Disaster” into the search bar.

A page of links loads, the daunting headlines making my stomach tense. I click on a story from theGuardian. It leads with a picture of a flooded creek where it joins a lake, the water an opaque, pukey green. Ripped up trees float on the lake like little white sticks.

“B.C.'s worst mining disaster at Burke Mountain mine almost destroyed Otter Creek as contaminated mining waste flowed into the lake below.”

I don’t remember this event—when it happened, Evan had entered rehab again and I was a mess worrying. I’m sure that’s one of the reasons why Jared rigged those backstage passes for the Three Rivers Music Fest, and for me to meet my favorite musician, Dawson James.

Plus, because Otter Creek is in Canada, it wasn’t widespread news in the U.S.

My stomach is getting queasy, so I skim the rest of the story for facts.

“An investigation into the cause of the spill revealed mine engineers failed to account for glacial silt underneath the tailings containment pond, leading to structural insufficiencies that caused the dam’s collapse.”

I force a slow breath. Shit.

The story ends with the sad conclusion that the companies involved—Imperial Metals and their operating partners—have yet to clean up their mess.

It’s awful. Mr. Little and Mr. Bryson are right. If something like this happened in Soren Creek, it would destroy everything.

With a heavy sigh, I close the browser window and open my email program, hoping for positive news.

I open Rowan’s message first, and my heart sinks.

Dear Lexie,

The team here has taken a hard look at the Soren Lake threat. I’m sorry to inform you that we don’t feel we have enough resources to take this on. As I’m sure you’re aware, we are mainly volunteer-based, and we’re stretched thin. I spoke with our best attorney, and he agrees this case would drain our organization.

I’ve included some resources at the bottom of this email that you may find useful.

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