How Canadian families are saving the country’s old-growth forests

On a sloping patch of forest in the eastern Canadian province of New Brunswick, Mike Hickey is on the hunt for red oak. They’re not overly difficult to find on his 156-acre woodlot, even though it’s something of a scavenger hunt: The number of mature oak on this thickly wooded expanse can be counted on one hand. 

Mr. Hickey is dressed for the task with camouflage gloves and a maroon stocking hat. His Santa Claus beard tickles the top of his jacket, which is zipped all the way up against the cold. He walks down a road past a pile of logs cut from red spruce and other species, many of which were harvested from trees blown down during storms. He uses them to produce his own lumber.

Mr. Hickey scans the surroundings as he walks with the practiced eye of someone who knows both the delights and dangers of the woods. Once he surprised a black bear and her cubs in this area. Fortunately, the mother appeared more spooked than he was and scampered off into the woods.

Finally, he arrives at a slope where a slender tree is still hanging on to its auburn leaves despite the winter chill. “One of them is up there,” he says, pointing to a red oak. “One of my projects.”

For the past 10 years, Mr. Hickey has been attempting to restore this woodlot – which has been in his wife’s family for a century – clearing space for long-lived native hardwoods like this oak tree. He’s done this by cutting away competitors, and planting other climate change-tolerant species such as white pine, to restore this land to the forest that would have existed prior to colonization.

In doing so, he’s part of a coalition of woodlot owners, Indigenous groups, and community organizations in the Canadian Maritimes that is attempting to protect a globally rare forest ecosystem from disappearing. 

It’s a long-term vision, to be sure. In his woodlot, for instance, Mr. Hickey estimates it will be decades before the younger red oaks he’s shepherding even begin reproducing, part of a centurieslong rehabilitation timeline that he’s hoping to cut down by a couple hundred years. But there’s urgency here, too. Spurred by concerns about the impact of climate change and a rising tide of discontent around forest practices in the region, an increasing number of organizations and individuals are enacting measures they hope will not only restore the ecosystem, but help build bridges between the communities who depend on it.

If successful, their arboreal resurrection initiative could spur similar grassroots movements across Canada, and in other nations, as the world confronts the twin threats of an increasingly mercurial climate and vanishing forestlands. 

“People are obviously this huge force of change on the planet now, but we can be regenerative and restorative, and there’s actually thousands of years of precedent for that before colonialism,” says Daimen Hardie, executive director of Community Forests International, a group working on the restoration of the Wabanaki-Acadian Forest. “We can get back to that, and we need to get back to that.”

The Wabanaki-Acadian forest – conventionally known as the Acadian Forest, but which more people are calling by its original name, the Wabanaki – spreads across the easternmost edge of North America. It’s a place where the hardwood forests of the United States meet their boreal counterparts farther north. The result is a rare blend of hardwoods, such as red oak, sugar maple, and yellow birch, and coniferous species such as red spruce, white pine, and eastern hemlock – 32 varieties in all. It’s one of the most diverse temperate forests in the world.

“Any time in nature when you have two different ecosystems colliding, that overlap and that edge is particularly vibrant,” says Mr. Hardie. “So we get the full diversity of both of those forests combining in this mixed wood, and that mix doesn’t happen anywhere else on the planet.”

Unlike in Western or boreal forests, the Wabanaki-Acadian Forest’s composition makes it naturally resistant to destruction from forces such as wildfires. Some research estimates that the average size of disturbed areas is just a quarter of an acre. 

But calamities have come for this forest, nonetheless. Less than 1% remains of the pre-settlement ecosystem that once covered much of the three Maritime Provinces, as well as the easternmost edge of Quebec and part of Maine. 

When European settlers arrived in eastern North America, they found a forest that had evolved since the retreat of the glaciers, 12,000 years ago, and had been stewarded by Indigenous people for thousands of years. Colonists displaced Indigenous people and quickly denuded much of the land. For a time, most of the pine used by the British Navy came from New Brunswick, and North America’s first sawmill was built in Nova Scotia. In the 20th century, the trend accelerated, and since the 1980s, 40% of the remaining mature forest in the Maritimes has been lost. 

But just as the Wabanaki-Acadian’s unique composition historically made it resistant to disturbance, some hope that another unique feature of this landscape can be harnessed to help pull it back from the brink. Unlike forests in the rest of Canada, which are largely on government or Indigenous lands, nearly half of the forested acreage in the Maritimes is owned by small woodlot holders, of which there are approximately 80,000 in the region. 

“We think that the working relationship between people and forests is really special,” says Mr. Hardie. “There’s this big opportunity for a more citizen-based, citizen-led change in forestry.”

In Jim and Margaret Drescher’s woodlot in southwest Nova Scotia, stands of eastern hemlock – one of the longest-living species of the Wabanaki-Acadian Forest – spread for acres, painting a deep green canvas even in late December. Stopping on the path between two of these towering hemlocks, Mr. Drescher takes a breath.

“I almost always stop here and say, ‘Where have I been? Where am I going?’” he says of his therapeutic surroundings.

The landscape here is both unusual and typical of the region. It is a rare example of old-growth forest in an area where less than 1% of the trees fall into that category, but has also passed through private hands in a way that mirrors other woodlots. 

Before the Dreschers bought this property, it was owned by a family who’d carefully tended it for generations. But by the 1990s, the owners, who had no children, were aging, and the timber brokers were circling. 

At the time, the Dreschers were living in Halifax, the provincial capital about an hour north, and in the throes of personal bankruptcy. But when the couple – who were always searching for interesting parcels of wooded land, in part because of Mr. Drescher’s forestry background – heard about the impending sale of the property, the decision was obvious. 

“We walked into that forest. There was such an incredible feeling of wealth and peace and abundance,” says Ms. Drescher. “And we walked out of it, and just kind of went, ‘How can this happen? How can this be clear-cut?’”

The Dreschers called a friend who lived in the area to tell them about the sale; two weeks later, the acquaintance offered to loan them the down payment. The Dreschers packed up their lives in the city and have been practicing ecological forestry on the land, which they call Windhorse Farm, ever since. 

That commitment to protecting the forest is not unique to the Dreschers, and research on woodlot owners in the Maritimes shows that most appreciate their forests for more than the timber they generate, says Andy Kekacs, executive director of the Nova Scotia Woodlot Owners and Operators Association and spokesperson for the Family Forest Network. People value their land for the biodiversity it hosts, the intergenerational responsibility it represents, and the recreation or solitude it provides – values that run counter to turning a quick profit from clear-cutting.

But despite these virtues, clear-cutting continues even on private land. Advocates attribute that to several factors. Over generations, forest practices have created a landscape composed of smaller and less valuable trees, driving down the price of timber and encouraging aggressive harvesting. Family woodlot owners are forced to clear their land to make any money at all – or at least they often feel they have to.

This is why, in 2021, the Family Forest Network launched a five-year pilot project of 200 ecological harvests across Nova Scotia. It aims to show woodlot owners and forest contractors that restoring the ecosystem and mimicking the disturbance pattern of the pre-settlement forest – while supporting economic activity – are possible. 

“We want to say that, ‘for those of you who think that the only way you can profitably manage a forest is by clear-cutting, there are other things that you can consider and you can feel good about,’” says Mr. Kekacs.

Figuring out a different economic model is important in a region where a considerable proportion of the population is rural, and where forestry makes up a significant part of the economy. But part of this shift also entails encouraging people who are connected to the forest to unite with each other. This is why organizations like Community Forests International, based in Sackville, New Brunswick, are focused on storytelling. Part of CFI’s work is technical, working with woodlot owners and in the organization’s own forests to store carbon, but much of its emphasis is on changing the narrative around forestry.

“I think one of the biggest elements, that’s often underestimated, is just helping people realize those values that they have are shared by a lot more people than they might realize,” says Mr. Hardie of Community Forests International.

Part of this new story is addressing the injustices that have brought the forests to such a degraded point.

In the late morning twilight of Windhorse’s hemlock forest, the Dreschers make another stop on their hike, this one beside a mossy mound, looking over a brook that hurries past under a thin coating of ice. It’s Ms. Drescher’s favorite sitting spot, a place where early on in their ownership of the forest she looked out and said to her husband, “This isn’t ours.”  

The Wabanaki-Acadian Forest is the ancestral and unceded territory of the Mi’kmaq, Peskotomuhkati, and Wolastoqey nations. And at Windhorse, Ms. Drescher says, they’d always seen themselves as temporary stewards of the land, with an aspiration of returning the forest to the people from whom it had been taken. But for decades, it wasn’t clear how that could happen, until they started working with Ulnooweg, a Mi’kmaq education and economic development organization. In December, the Dreschers closed a deal to transfer stewardship of Windhorse, near the town of Bridgewater, Nova Scotia, to the group – a move they hope will set an example for other woodlot owners in the province. 

Ulnooweg, which was founded to foster self-determination in the face of the lasting impacts of colonization and forced assimilation policies, is planning to use the site as a healing and cultural gathering space, as well as a place to bring elders and youth together to learn about forest ecology and sustainable techniques. “The history of the place, having 500-, 600-year-old forests that existed potentially prior to colonization, is its own classroom,” says Chris Googoo, Ulnooweg’s executive director.

Mr. Googoo is also hoping that Windhorse will serve as a tool of reconciliation, bringing non-Indigenous communities into the forest to learn about the land and Mi’kmaq governance practices. “We want to share that, and hopefully create those relationships that go back to the original intent of the treaties, hundreds of years ago,” he says.

Elsewhere in the region, stewardship practices that have developed over thousands of years are spurring a new way forward in forestry as well. In a stand of trees in central Nova Scotia, Sherilyn Young lays a mittened hand on the flaky bark of a red pine, one of the native trees of the Wabanaki-Acadian Forest, which was nearly wiped off the landscape by European harvesting in the 18th and 19th centuries.

“This tree is 35, 40 years old, tops,” she says. “It’s going to take hundreds of years to be able to bring this [forest] back to the way it was.”

As part of her efforts on the Mi’kmaq Forestry Initiative (MFI), Ms. Young is working to increase the diversity of the forests on the group’s 75,000 acres of land. She plants a range of native species that have declined, while nurturing older trees that still exist here. 

“If we choose to manage our forest only for industrial purposes, we’re going to lose our forest – we won’t have a forest for our children, for our grandchildren,” she says.

In MFI lots, Ms. Young says, she can feel the living connections of roots in the soil, and the air is rich with the calls of songbirds and the sound of other wildlife. She and others manage the forests for their biodiversity and cultural significance, as well as for producing timber. Special attention is given to species such as endangered black ash, for instance, which is used in basketmaking. 

Management of the lands is guided by the Mi’kmaq principle of Netukulimk, or only taking what one needs. The initiative also operates on a seven-generation approach, stewarding the land in ways that will be sustainable for the next 140 years. All this is providing lessons for settler communities. In recent years, Ms. Young has been approached by private woodlot owners looking for guidance. 

“That is an eye opener, to see that Nova Scotians are really willing to learn; they’re really accepting of this approach,” she says. “And they just want to know how they can do it on their lands, how they can respect their land a little bit more.”

One question often raised is how this approach can be profitable. Part of the answer, Ms. Young says, is in appreciating the holistic value of healthy ecosystems. But it’s also in harnessing the land for such things as carbon storage initiatives.

In December, the Medway Community Forest Cooperative in Nova Scotia launched a land trust to allow families to practice ecological forestry in perpetuity, through the sale of carbon offsets. The idea had come from owners who were concerned with how they’d protect their legacies once they were gone, says executive director Mary Jane Rodger. Community easements held by the organization could provide that protection, but covering the costs of monitoring and managing the land long term was another matter. That led the MCFC to adopt the idea of selling credits for the carbon stored in the forest – credits that are designed to include sustainable harvesting.

The key is aggregated pools, Ms. Rodger says. They have only recently become available in Canada and address the challenges small property owners face when trying to access carbon markets. By joining together with other woodlot owners, families can sell credits at a level that covers endowment costs and gives them a payout. 

It’s a collective effort that builds on other work going on in the region. Community Forests International, for instance, started the first forest carbon project in eastern Canada. Mr. Hardie says its approach is to harness the forest as a tool for mitigating climate change, by storing carbon on land that might otherwise be cleared, and maintain a diversity of species in forests as the world shifts around them.

“We know that forests are key to keeping the climate secure – we can’t do without them,” says Mr. Hardie. “We know that people connected to forest are the first and best line of defense, and historically, it’s Indigenous and other collective communities that know how to do that.” 

Back on his woodlot, Mr. Hickey is trying to adapt to that future, by picking up on the lessons of the people who have stewarded this forest before him. He’s planting hardwoods and other climate-resilient species, protecting berry and seed-producing trees, and diversifying stands that might be impacted by invasive insects.

He jokes that in a hundred years, he’ll be able to sit back and see how things are progressing, but already, he’s been heartened by signs of the forest regenerating on its own: After several years, the red oak he liberated has started producing the next generation, and a new crop of seedlings has popped up on a sunny patch of forest floor. 

Ultimately, he hopes that he’ll be able to put some measure of protection in place on this property, to keep it regenerating over the eons. For now, like the thousands of woodlot owners and communities in the region, he’s happy to be a small part of a forest whose story is still being written.

“You take responsibility, you do the best that you can, and you hope that it will make a difference.”