About 20 forest defenders camped in tents and cars across a logging road in southwest Vancouver Island about 2 months ago, their headlamps cutting through the pre-dawn darkness as a truck approached and then turned around without cutting a single tree. It was a small victory in what's become a desperate battle to save the remnants of ecosystems that once covered the island and now face extinction.
Bill Jones, an 86-year-old First Nations Pacheedaht elder, watched that truck leave and reflected on a lifetime of loss. He started logging at 18, before understanding what he was helping to dismantle. "There's nothing left — it's practically naked, bare," Jones said. "There's few remnants here and there, and so we have to save what we can."
He's not exaggerating. Since industrial logging began more than 100 years ago, most of Vancouver Island's productive old-growth forests have been cut. About 20% of those forests remain, according to the Sierra Club of British Columbia, and most of what remains is still open to logging. The fight isn't just about trees. It's about some of the rarest and most carbon-rich ecosystems on Earth.
What's Being Lost
Coastal temperate rainforests cover barely half a percent of Earth's land surface. Vancouver Island's remaining stands—some home to thousand-year-old trees—store more carbon per hectare than nearly any other forest system, according to the Sierra Club. Old-growth western red cedar, defined by the province as trees 250 years or older, produces wood so durable and rot-resistant that it fetches significantly higher prices than other local species. Despite recent tariffs, the United States remains a major export market.
Once an old-growth forest is logged, it will require millennia before it has the structure, composition and function of the forest that was logged, according to Andy MacKinnon, a forest ecologist in British Columbia. Some coastal old-growth stands on Vancouver Island haven't experienced a major disturbance since the end of the last ice age some 12,000 years ago. Their layered canopies, nurse logs and ancient root systems create habitat for hundreds of species, including threatened marbled murrelet seabirds and salmon.
The Economic Argument vs. Reality
British Columbia's forests minister, Ravi Parmar, argues the transition away from old-growth logging cannot happen overnight. He points to the province's old-growth deferrals and protections, alongside investments in second-growth hemlock milling, as evidence that British Columbia is moving away from dependence on old-growth timber. He said the industry is also under pressure from U.S. tariffs on Canadian softwood lumber, which now top 45%.
"Forestry is the foundation of our economy," Parmar said. "It provides good paying, family supporting jobs — about 100,000 direct and indirect. If we were to shut down harvesting of all old forests here in British Columbia, it would shut down our sector completely on day one."
But critics argue those goals are incompatible. The province says it has deferred or protected 2.4 millions of hectares of old growth since 5 years ago, but most of those measures are temporary and some deferred areas continue to be logged. Meanwhile, British Columbia Premier David Eby's government has pledged to increase timber harvests in an effort to revitalize the forestry sector. The province also says more than 11 million hectares of old growth remain, yet scientists say there's only about 415,000 hectares of productive old growth capable of growing the largest trees.
The forests also drive tourism, which some researchers argue outweighs their value as lumber. Visitors from around the world flock to the island's ancient groves to experience towering, moss-draped cedars and Douglas firs. Veronika Sitar, an outdoor enthusiast from Campbell River, drives and hikes hours into the backcountry most weekends to document old-growth stands before the loggers reach them. On a recent trip into the north island's Prince of Wales range, she reached General Buxton, one of the largest yellow cedars in British Columbia, and found flagging tape just 200 feet away marking the route of a proposed logging road. "I don't want to get too attached knowing what will be logged," she said.
A Pattern of Resistance
The fight isn't unique to British Columbia. During the Timber Wars of about 3 to 4 decades ago, activists occupied giant redwoods, chained themselves to logging equipment and blockaded roads across California, Oregon and Washington. More than 850 people were arrested during the 1993 "War in the Woods" protests at Clayoquot Sound. Nearly 30 years later, more than 1,100 were arrested at Fairy Creek, where blockades won temporary protections now set to expire later this year.
In the Walbran Valley, also on Pacheedaht territory, logging by Tsawak-qin Forestry—a company co-owned by the Huu-ay-aht First Nation and forestry giant Western Forest Products—has exposed tensions over whether forests on traditional territories should be managed for economic development, conservation or both, and who within Indigenous communities can decide. British Columbia's forests minister said that if a long-term agreement with the Pacheedaht Nation isn't reached before the Fairy Creek deferral expires he would seek another extension.
Jones said he was troubled not just by the loss of the forests, but by people's connection to them and, in turn, to themselves. "We're just fighting over the leftovers," he said. Back at the blockade, word spread of a new area where logging was being planned, this time on Ditidaht First Nation territory to the north. They began making calls, hoping to connect with local land defenders.
Why This Matters:
The battle over Vancouver Island's old-growth forests represents a fundamental conflict between short-term economic extraction and long-term ecological and cultural survival. With only 20% of productive old-growth forests remaining and most still open to logging, the window for preservation is closing rapidly. The temporary nature of current protections—like the Fairy Creek deferrals set to expire later this year—leaves these irreplaceable ecosystems vulnerable to reversal. Indigenous communities like the Pacheedaht face the loss of territories that have sustained their peoples for millennia, while the broader public loses carbon-storing ecosystems critical to climate stability. The government's simultaneous commitment to increasing timber harvests while claiming to protect old growth reveals the structural tension between market-driven resource extraction and genuine conservation. If current trajectories continue, future generations will inherit a landscape stripped of the ecological complexity and cultural heritage that took 12,000 years to develop.